I screamed as his tip crushed into my g-spot like a sledgehammer, aware even as the sensations ripped through me that the sweet, sweet torment was only just beginning. He pulled back down out of me, and instantly heaved himself back in again, striking me twice as hard this time, and making me scream twice as loud.
Vigorously, brutally, almost violently, in the best of ways, he fucked my lights out against the wall, his body convulsing, slamming up into mine, hitting me in places I didn't know existed, fulfilling desires I'd never even know I had. I felt light, insubstantial, and amazing in his arms, perfectly claimed, perfectly surrendered to the sheer physical force of his desires, and more importantly, to my own.
He pounded me with a hard, steady, inexhaustible repetition, his rock hard body moving into mine, his roars of pleasure like music to my ears as he drilled me to my core. Somewhere in the very back of my mind, I mused that, for a handyman, the tool between his legs was by far the one he used most capably.
“Oh yes! Yes!” I cried, as he pummeled me into such sweet oblivion. “Oh yes! Yes! Fuck! Fuck!”
The sensations rose and fell, ebbed and flowed, crescendos of pleasure driving me right up to the precipice of what I could stand, easing back off again at the very last moment, only to come crashing back to those same heights moments later, to the point that I didn't know whether I could take this clear to the end.
And that, at that crucial moment, was precisely when I did.
With a mighty roar, the cry of an alpha male, Derek slammed every ounce of his weight up into me, stuffing me tight with his cock, packing me with so damn much of himself that I thought I might collapse from the impact. My g-spot rang, and my limbs shook, and as he snarled with pleasure through his clenched teeth, I felt the hot, delectable fountain of his cum being pushed up into me. God, how I loved being filled by that man, his essence filling me, coating me, driving me insane with pleasure as his shaft continued to pulse and to erupt between my trembling legs, well beyond the point that I thought he'd given me all that he had to give me.
And that, at last, was when I felt something giving way inside me.
The steady accumulation, the gradual buildup of so much pleasure, finally burst into the sheer euphoria that had been escalating until now. I screamed. I gripped Derek's rugged body, my nails sinking into the flesh of his back, my legs wrapping tighter and tighter around him, forcing his still-pulsing cock even deeper up into me, in a way that left me head over heels with pleasure.
A devastating orgasm came tearing through me like wildfire, exploding between my legs, rushing down my thighs, up my belly and to the tips of my breast, finally spreading over every trembling inch of me, and leaving me in ruins.
The whole world spun dizzily out of control, and I had to keep holding on tighter and tighter to the man inside me, desperate not to let go, desperate not to let a single blessed moment of these unbearable sensations go to waste.
And then, at long, long last, everything came to an abrupt halt.
I gasped, my eyes wide, and felt my body come back down to earth- metaphorically, anyway. In reality, I was still hanging limply in Derek's massive arms, feeling even less substantial than I had a moment before, my entire being diminished by the pure, delirious excess of such pleasure.
Derek stood there panting, still inside me, and God how I didn't want him to leave. It was a long time before either of us said anything, and I had a momentary worry- what if things suddenly dissipated between us now that the heat of the moment was gone, and we'd both gotten that out of our systems? What if the sex had sobered both of us up, and we suddenly awoke to the realization that it had all been a huge mistake?
But then I looked up and saw the smile I'd suddenly come to love reappearing across his handsome face, and a playful glint shining in his dark eyes.
“I hope you aren't still worried about disturbing the neighbors,” he said. “Because I'm pretty sure what we just did was loud enough to wake the dead.”
Drunk in the afterglow of our love and feeling almost tipsy on one another, we both burst out in a fit of laughter.
It was far too soon to tell what the future would hold between me and the man still inside me. We were a mismatched pair by any stretch of the imagination. Maybe this had all just been a one-time thing. Maybe he would decide I was “too old” for him, or, just as likely, I would wise up and decide that he was too immature for me. The possibility that this could turn into something more, other than the potential of an ongoing sexual relationship with one another, felt close to absurd to me. But then again, it had seemed absurd that this whole episode had even taken place, to begin with until it had- and then, it suddenly began to feel like the most natural thing in the world.
All I knew, as Derek sat me down on the bed, and decorated my body with the most delicate of kisses from head to toe, was that I had really, really needed this, more than I had even begun to realize going into it. And all I could really do going forward was to keep an open mind and accept whatever it was the future held. After all, it had gotten me this far. It felt better not to complicate things, and just appreciate the whole thing for what it was- whatever the hell that might turn out to be.
I didn’t know if the girls would believe me when I told them this story, but I had a feeling they’d understand…
The End.
2
FREE SAMPLE: Ex Con’s Captive
PROLOGUE
Tyra barely knew her father. She knew that he was wealthy and that he'd knocked up her mother by accident. He'd taken responsibility for her, but Tyra had never forgiven him for what he'd done to the woman who held her down all these years.
Jerome Jackson had always been a mysterious absentee figure. To Tyra, he was "daddy", the person who paid for her education, send her Tiffanys gifts for graduation. He'd sent her on trips to Disney Land, Banff and Bangkok, but he'd never been there for her.
Tyra could count on her hands the number of times she'd seen him in person.
Tyra stood next to her two half-sisters looking down at the body of the man she barely knew. Jerome Jackson — born June 11th, 1958, died February 14th, 2017.
Dinah was the one who had found him. As she told it, he’d been sitting in his study with his hand clasped around a glass of whiskey.
Gigi stood next to the sister that she barely knew and slipped her hand into hers. Dinah was crying, but neither Gigi nor their third sister Tyra could muster up tears yet. Neither of them knew Jerome quite the way that Dinah did. Dinah was the only one who had grown up with him.
The funeral would start in forty-five minutes. Strangers would fill this room and gawk at her father’s body. Most of them would probably know Jerome better than Tyra, Dinah or Gigi ever had. Her father, the stranger.
Even if he had been a stranger, Jerome had ensured Tyra had the best of the best. She’d attended the best private day schools in Los Angeles and an expensive university.
Tyra and her momma had always been judged for the lifestyle they had not "matching up" with what was expected. Tyra's mother had a dark past and the whispers were that she'd "sold her body" to afford Tyra's education.
The truth had been kept a secret but the shame of other folks assumptions followed Tyra most of her life. Despite her expensive education, she had grown up in a small one-bedroom apartment in Los Angeles. Her mother's real job barely paid the rent. Tyra had to work as soon as she turned sixteen and without her, her mother would have spiraled into an unending pit of addiction.
Tyra had only met and hung out with her sisters three times in the past. When Gigi was eighteen years old — Tyra, sixteen, Dinah, fifteen — Jerome persuaded their mothers to allow them all on a special summer vacation. He thought it was important for all his daughters to know each other. After much pleading, Gigi remembered her mother reluctantly allowing her to go. Tyra's mother had been eager to get her out of the house as long as Jerome paid her enough money to get by without her daughter.
Tyra remembered being sixteen years old and s
tanding in line at JFK, ready to meet her father in person for only the tenth time in her life. She remembered the image she had constructed of him from his letters alone and filled in by her active imagination. She remembered picturing her sisters in her head; she imagined they would all be perfect copies of her, the best friends she’d been searching for her whole life.
Gigi cracked a smile as she recalled that vacation. It had been far from perfect. Tyra and Dinah were nothing like her and they were used to being “only children”.
Jerome hadn’t been the perfect father either on that vacation. Instead of spending time with them, he’d given them each a credit card and sent them off on their own. Gigi and her two sisters had an insane month in Paris together followed by a month in London. There had been laughter, shopping... and more fighting than ever.
Those were some of the best and worst memories Gigi had of Jerome. She reached out and touched his stiff hand in the coffin. Those tears finally found their way out of her eyes. Dinah squeezed her hand tightly and rested her head on Gigi’s shoulders.
“I don’t know if I can do this today,” Tyra whispered.
“Well. We have to.”
“I know,” Tyra replied, “But I think I’ll need a drink.”
“Don’t drink too much,” Gigi warned.
“Easy for you to say,” mumbled Tyra.
“I think I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
They walked into the other room. It felt strange having the funeral out of Jerome’s house, but that was what he requested. He'd been specific too. He wanted the viewing, the repast, and funeral in the foyer downstairs and then he’d be cremated later that week. Each of his daughters would get 1/3 of his ashes and 1/3 of his assets.
He might have been more absent than not, but he’d always provided financially, even in death.
Dinah had hired an event coordinator to manage the entire affair. They approached Jerome’s bar and each ordered a drink. Tyra ordered a stiff whiskey on the rocks (Jim Beam, just like her father drank).
Dinah ordered a glass of white wine. Gigi ordered cranberry juice with a splash of vodka in it. She wanted the presence of mind throughout this entire affair. She wanted to remember — even if remembering would hurt like hell.
She felt sad that Jerome had died but not from missing him. Heck, she’d grown used to missing him her own life. What really gnawed at Gigi’s heart was all the time she didn’t get to spend with her father. She realized all the things she didn’t know about him. She knew that he’d made millions of dollars in investment banking and investing in technology. She knew that he was a renowned womanizer who hadn’t just dated their mothers but a number of celebrities.
But Gigi didn’t know how he liked his coffee. She didn’t know what her father liked to do in his downtime. All she knew was that he’d worked, provided and then died. His personality would always be a mystery to her. His death was so painfully final. She downed as much of her drink as she could manage, her racing mind causing her to rethink her abstinence from alcohol.
“What happens next Dinah?” Tyra asked.
Dinah morosely took a sip of her wine before answering. By some cruel fate, the youngest of them had been completely responsible for putting all of this together. She was the only one of them who really knew Jerome. She’d grown up in this very mansion and ultimately, she’d been the one to find her father’s body. It was like Dinah was suffering just for being the only one of Jerome’s children he’d paid any mind.
“I meet with the estate lawyer and the accountant. You guys don’t have to stay here. Once you send me your banking information and addresses, I should be able to sort it all out.”
“Jesus,” Tyra mumbled.
“It’s a lot of money,” Gigi confirmed.
Dinah smiled, “I guess it is. I’m just so used to all this, you know?”
Tyra nodded, “Lucky you. I grew up in East L.A. Daddy provided for me but mama would have never let any of this get to my head.”
Dinah furrowed her brow a bit.
“Don’t mean any offense.”
“None taken. It’s just… Sometimes I wonder how daddy could have left y’all across the country. Why me?”
Gigi shrugged, “My mama had me at nineteen. It was a long time ago. Maybe with you he just wanted things to be different.”
“I guess. But it still bothers me. Doesn’t it bother you? That we didn’t grow up together?”
Tyra and Gigi exchanged glances. Yes, it did bother them. Of course, it did. Their father was internationally renowned and incredibly wealthy but for a reason, neither of them knew, he’d only picked the youngest of them to take care of properly.
To them, Jerome was a more of an idea than a person. Dinah was the only one of her sisters who had grown up with a real father.
“I guess it bothers me,” Tyra mumbled.
“Well, we have a chance to get to know each other now,” Gigi offered.
Dinah sighed, “But how? After this… you’ll head east and Tyra’s going to head west.”
“And then you’ll be the baddest bitch left in Costa Rica,” Tyra replied.
The three of them laughed. It was the first time that the three of them had shared a proper laugh since they’d arrived at Jerome Jackson’s tropical mansion. This was the country that Dinah had grown up in while Gigi was away at boarding school and while Tyra had attended a private day school in California.
“Well, since we only have a few minutes, why don’t we just have another drink,” Dinah said.
They were starting to realize that like it or not, they would have an emotionally exhausting day. They ordered second rounds of their drinks as time ticked towards the start of the funeral service.
“Do you remember Paris?” Gigi asked.
Dinah cracked a smile.
“Yes, I remember Paris. It was insane… The drinks, the shopping…”
“The fighting…” Tyra finished.
“What did we even fight over?”
“Everything,” Gigi smiled.
“It all seems so silly and so far away,” Tyra replied.
Her green eyes shimmered with tears. That vacation had been some of the best times of her life. She'd never let her sisters know how much it pained her to have to go back to "the struggle" after their trip.
Dinah nodded, “Daddy barely even spent any time with us that vacation. We had no clue about anything but we ran around the streets of Paris like little African princesses.”
Gigi had never really thought of herself as African, but Dinah wasn’t wrong to refer to them as such. Their father, Jerome Jackson was an African immigrant who changed his name when he was eighteen years old to the alliterative, Americanized name Jerome Jackson.
Gigi had no clue who her father had been before he’d changed his name. Growing up in Brooklyn, she was utterly cut off from her Nigerian heritage. She never even thought about it. As far as she was concerned she was just a regular African American girl. Tyra felt the same way.
“Have you been to Nigeria?” Tyra asked Dinah, letting Gigi know that they were probably thinking the same thing.
Dinah pushed the hair from her wig out of her face and she nodded.
“Yeah. I went last year to daddy’s mansion in Maitama. It’s beautiful out there.”
“I can’t believe I’ve never gone.”
Dinah shrugged, “Maybe we should go there sometime. After the funeral.”
“If I can get time off work,” Tyra answered.
Gigi wondered if Tyra was serious.
They would each be inheriting something to the tune of $42 million dollars each. They would co-own his mansion in Costa Rica, his apartment complex in Chicago and the mansion in Maitama.
For the rest of their lives, they could sit back and relax. With a team of investors to manage their portfolios, accountants, and lawyers, they would never have to work again. Gigi always knew her father had money, but she didn't realize it was this much until he'd passed.
Onc
e learning about the inheritance, she struggled to imagine working again and heading back to the daily grind.
She’d struggled in her adulthood since graduating from college and she didn’t feel ashamed about putting an end to that struggle, whether or not she earned the money to do it. Tyra was different.
Maybe things are easier out in California, Gigi thought to herself.
They sat back and they reminisced about Paris. They reminisced about the boy that Gigi had fallen for in France — a black twenty-year-old Parisian named Christophe. They reminisced about the time Dinah drank so much they had to sneak her into the apartment through the back entrance. They reminisced about how Tyra had almost had them kicked out of a nightclub because she tried to fight a loud-mouthed bully on Dinah’s behalf.
The Builder: BWWM Romance Series (The Handyman Series Book 5) Page 3
