King Size

by Lexi Whitlow

  He pulls away, a boyish smile on his face, looking down into my eyes. He looks like he wants to say something, but he remains quiet.

  “What?” I ask, threading my fingers through his short chestnut hair.

  He shakes his head. “Nothing.” Then he dips down and lifts me up into his arms like I’m weightless, and hauls me into the bedroom.

  He takes his time teasing me, as he undresses me, layer by layer. His kisses and bites are strategically placed and timed to elicit just enough pain and pleasure to build my anticipation. His tongue has a way of finding my most sensitive spots – like behind my knees and that odd dimple at the base of my spine. He licks and nips the tender flesh of my inner thighs, making my clit swell and my pussy ache for him.

  “You’re dripping wet.” He observes. “Let me take care of that.” And then he moves in between my legs, slurping gently, caressing my clit between his tongue and lips, circling and sucking just so. I feel his fingers enter me, but that’s not enough. I want more.

  “Oh, Maddox. Please… inside me… I want you.” I beg him, almost whining.

  “Come for me this way first.” He demands, thrusting his fingers into me.

  His whiskers scrape my inner thighs deliciously, and his teeth scrape my clit while he continues to suck and lap. I take his head between my hands and pull him in closer, pressing his face into my snatch while I rock with the rhythm of his finger thrusts.

  It doesn’t take much of this before I feel the heat start to build, drawing down deep in my belly like a coiling electric current looking for an outlet. He shoves his fingers inside me and then slowly, almost cruelly draws them out, repeating the motion over and over again while his tongue plays my clit. The first rippling shudder of my rising orgasm grips his fingers tight. My hands grip his head tighter. I buck into his face, rocking with every wave of pleasure that rolls out of my pussy, rocketing through my body, making me cry out, completely dumbstruck by the sensation.

  When it subsides I start giggling, just like I always do. I can’t help it. It just happens, like the hiccups. My head rolls back and my glazed eyes can’t focus. I laugh.

  “Good girl,” Maddox says, rising, wiping the glistening moisture away from his face, licking his lips and fingers. He wraps his hands around my ankles and pulls me down the bed. His fingers trace the contours of my nakedness, while I reach down to his waist and undo his slacks, pushing them down, off his hips.

  “Inside me.” I insist, running my fingers over the tight bulge trapped behind the cloth of his jeans.

  Maddox takes a breath and sits up on his heels just long enough to strip, kicking his slacks and underwear to the side. He grips himself in his right hand, stroking firmly. I’m tempted to help him with that, but before I can suggest it, he shoves my knees far apart and plunges himself into me without hesitating.

  I cry out. He fills me up swiftly, his cock so hard and so big inside me, it almost hurts.

  “You okay?” Maddox asks breathless, his eyes on mine, rocking into me. His expression is a cross of absolutely bliss and pausing concern.

  I love the way he hangs over me so we can see one another, the way his shoulders and arms flex and expand with the effort of it. I love the way he punches into me hard, then pulls out slow, forcing me to feel every inch of him as he withdraws.

  I nod, ‘yes’. I can’t speak. His dick inside me and our belly’s locked together down to the hip has me distracted to blissful oblivion. All I ever wanted in my whole life was to feel this with someone who felt the same. All I ever wanted was to love and be loved, completely.

  “You’re fucking perfect.” Maddox half-groans, punching in deeper, slowing a little. “You feel so good.”

  I feel his breath catch and his cock twitch. His jaw clenches hard. I know he’s close. I can see it in his eye, and that just fucking turns me on. I grab his ass and push him into me, wrapping my legs around his ass. That’s all it takes to draw my next wave of shudders forth. I’m grinding into him, my pussy gripping his cock and releasing in spasms.

  Maddox stiffens above me, every muscle in his body hardens and then he cries out. He hammers hard as we climax simultaneously, our bodies clashing together in perfect time, then slowly, almost regretfully, coasting to a rest.

  When we finally separate, Maddox rolls on his back and pulls me up to his chest, cradling me in the safest embrace I’ve ever known. He kisses the top of my head and smooths my hair lovingly, then he says the one thing I can’t bear to hear,

  “If you’d let me, I’d take care of you forever.”

  This declaration sends my brain swimming. We could have a future together. We could be happy. Except my parents would do everything in their power to destroy it. And could I ever make him happy? Everything I know about relationships has shown me that heat and passion like Maddox and I have never lasts. It burns up, and if there’s nothing more substantial underpinning it, then it just drifts away like so much smoke after the flame has extinguished.

  I try to push these thoughts out of my head. It’s too much. The confusion makes me feel queasy. Part of me just wants to run away from all of this; escape the suffocating demands of my parents, escape from my crushing sense of responsibility toward Maddox. Just run and never look back.

  That’s the last thought that crosses my mind before I close my eyes. When I open them again, Maddox is gone, the morning sun is streaming into my room; I’m all alone and the silence of my apartment is deafening.

  I need to get used to it. I need to get used to the idea of being on my own, being an adult, responsible for myself and to myself, alone.

  Ella’s cousin is in Vancouver. She’s like an older, wiser version of Ella; a real sage. We stayed with her for two weeks last year when I had to escape Evelyn for a break, and she was just wonderful. She said if I ever wanted to get away from it all, I was welcome back anytime. I can go there and crash long enough to get my head straight and put a plan together.

  It’s an idea. Not a great one, but it’s something to think on.

  Chapter 20

  Maddox

  I wake up the morning after the Scarlet Huntington fundraiser with a mission; to see if the Fairmont still has security footage of the Thomas’ event from last week, and to figure out how to get hold of Avery’s cell phone.

  I call the Fairmont and explain to the head of security what I’m looking for and why. I’m completely straight with him. I tell him that my principal has a stalker. She’s received death-threats with photos taken in their ballroom, but that the Thomas’ want the matter handled privately to keep it from leaking to the press. He is remarkably cooperative.

  “I’ve got everything from every camera in the entire property going back two months,” he says proudly. “Let me have one of my techs pull the digital files from the ballroom for that night. It’ll be a pain to go through all of it, but if you know what you’re looking for, you’re welcome to it. I can upload it to a cloud drive. I’ll send you the link.”

  That was easy.

  The situation with Avery’s phone poses more of a challenge. I learn after asking Avery it, that while she and her mother were out shopping for power-pantsuits and screwing up Avery’s hair, Evelyn suggested they get a new phone to replace the old one the police were holding for evidence.

  I don’t tell Avery I know any different, but the revelation that Evelyn Thomas has lied to her daughter has my alarm bells peeling like a cathedral on Easter morning.

  They even changed her phone number. Allegedly – Evelyn tells Avery – so that the stalker can’t harass her anymore, as if that ever worked against any determined stalker.

  It occurs to me as I’m puzzling on this problem, that I don’t actually need the physical phone to do a trace. All I need is the number and someone with access to the network, who’s willing to go a little outside the lines of the law for a good cause.

  I call one of the only people I’d trust with my life — my lieutenant, Lucas Salvatore.

  After exchanging a few pleasa
ntries, I get right to business. “You remember the guy we worked with on the thing in Dubai two years ago? The NSA contractor who helped us with cell phone surveillance and intel?”

  “I do.” Salvatore says, a little hedge in his voice. “What’s going on?”

  I explain my situation, indicating that I think the stalker might be working inside the Thomas campaign. “There’s a reason they didn’t give the phone to the police,” I say. “They’re trying to cover something up. But the fact that she got hurt, and the guy is still out there, maybe very close by, it’s keeping me up at night.”

  “It’s illegal.” Salvatore warns. “I’ll put you in touch with him, but Bryant, guys like him don’t work for free – especially not dark ops.”

  “I know,” I say. “I can pay.”

  What the hell else am I supposed to use this ridiculous salary for?

  “His name is Jones — David Jones. I don’t even know if that’s his real name. I’ll send you his number, but let me call him first to make the introduction. Give it a few days. He’s not the easiest guy to get up with.”

  Fair enough. While I wait to hear from Salvatore, I fill my time with the usual work routine — escorting Avery to functions, trying to keep the press at bay, and trying to keep Evelyn Thomas from escalating her demands on Avery’s every waking moment. The last part is difficult, as the woman is the walking, talking, fire-breathing definition of ‘give her an inch, she takes a mile’.

  Between all these responsibilities, I steal a few hours here and there to review the security footage from the Fairmont. It takes me several days of studying the video to zero in on the exact angle and time that the photos sent to Avery’s phone were taken. I’m working from memory, so it isn’t easy, but when I finally isolate the scene, I see the answer plain as day.

  In the frozen image on my laptop, I see a guy standing just three feet from Avery holding his phone, his finger tapping the screen. The phone is at waist level and close to his body. He’s trying to be discreet. I pull up the scene recorded from the opposite angle and I zoom in.

  The face I see is that of the casually dressed guy who was in conversation with General Thomas at the Scarlet Huntington fundraiser. There’s no mistaking him.

  Who is he? What’s his connection to the Mr. and Mrs. Thomas? Is he a campaign employee or just a casual acquaintance? Or something else?

  Could they actually be involved some way in the assault on Avery? Would they?

  * * *

  “So here’s how this works.” David Jones – or whatever his actual name is – says to me. “You’re going to give me your laptop’s private IP address, and I’m gonna set up a VPN. That’s the only way you and I will communicate. Once you’re logged on, then we’ll discuss the project and payment. Okay?”

  I agree as he talks me through the steps necessary to locate the private IP address he needs. Once he’s got it, he says, “Alright. Don’t freak out. I’m gonna drive for awhile. Just don’t touch anything while I work.”

  In the blink of an eye, without really understanding what I’ve done, I’ve just given a perfect stranger – and an acknowledged criminal hacker – complete access to my computer and everything on it. He downloads an application and installs it, then goes to my network settings and makes changes I don’t quite follow. Once he’s done there, he downloads another application and opens a chat window.

  David Jones: We’re on. Hang up the phone and tell me what you need.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Type it. Don’t say it. Hang up.” He orders tersely.

  I swipe to end the call, put the phone down, and begin typing. I try to explain what I’m hoping to find. Mr. “Jones” replies.

  David Jones: You understand that anything I find is discovered under an illegal search and can never be used by Law Enforcement?

  Client 2934: I understand.

  David Jones: What do you intend to do with the info, assuming I find anything?

  Client 2934: I dunno yet. Depends on what you find and who it is.

  David Jones: Just don’t implicate me if you do any violence. 0006459927 / 32564898. That’s the account and routing number. $5000 and I get to work. When the work is complete, I’ll send you a detailed report with all the cited documents attached. I have access to all the comms networks in the western hemisphere, most of Europe, as well as all the U.S. Federal LE databases, social security, credit reporting agencies, etc. I should be able to send you something useful. Prompt payment is appreciated. I’ll upload everything two weeks after payment is received.

  And just that quick, he logs off.

  “Damn,” I say right out loud to no one.

  I hope this guys isn’t working for the Russians. I expected to pay three times that amount.

  * * *

  Avery has the stomach flu. It’s been coming on for days and she looks absolutely green — a lovely shade of green, but green nonetheless. I think she’s lost weight too. She throws-up every time she even gets a whiff of food. She can’t keep anything down except saltines and club soda. And yet – here we are at the San Francisco Civic Center in the Graham Auditorium, in a room behind the main stage. She’s waiting for her turn on the podium where she’s scheduled to give a speech on ‘The Essential Contribution of Young Women’s Voices in Emerging Policy Development’. The event is hosted by the League of Women Voters of Northern California – who won’t endorse Evelyn Thomas – but invited her to attend their annual convention just for the ‘fair and balanced’ bonus points.

  Thomas’ polling numbers have dropped over the last few weeks as media coverage on the campaign has shifted to focus more on issues and less on personalities and rumors. Because her numbers are down, Evelyn is leaning that much harder on Avery to deliver younger voters — especially young women who might relate to someone like her. Evelyn has the same constituents who voted her into office, but she needs to cast her net wider. She’s using Avery as the bait and the hook.

  Right now Avery is looking at Gerard Heath, Evelyn’s campaign manager, with a deer in the headlights expression. On top of being sick, she’s also got stage fright. The event is being televised live via C-Span, live streamed over the net, covered by the major cable news networks, and carried on a dozen major-market NPR stations statewide.

  “You look awful.” Heath says. “Good lord Avery, sit down.”

  Instead she crouches over a nearby trashcan and dry heaves.

  “Avery. This is ridiculous. Let me take you home.” I urge her, slipping one hand around her waist, holding her hair back with the other. “You need to rest, or you’re gonna get really sick.”

  “Oh Good Lord, Maddox, stop babying her.” Evelyn Thomas snaps, stepping up behind me. “She’s being overly dramatic – as usual. Avery stand up.”

  Avery does as she’s told – with my help. She’s wobbly and I’m angry that she’s expected to perform like a trained monkey, even when she’s puking her guts up.

  “Mrs. Thomas. She barely slept last night. She’s sick. Can’t you see...”

  “How do you know how much sleep she got?” She fires back before I can finish my sentence. She looks daggers at me, and I return the favor.

  “It’s okay,” Avery says, squeezing my hand. “It’s passed. I’ll be fine.”

  “See.” Evelyn Thomas quips. “She’s fine.” She glares at Avery. “Straighten your jacket, comb your hair, and fix your lipstick. You’re on in three minutes.”

  I have serious doubts whether she will make it up the rickety metal steps to the podium, much less endure a twenty minute speech under searing hot lights with an audience of several thousand women – most of whom hate her mother – gaping at her. She never ceases to amaze me, how she’s able to step up to any situation. Tonight is no different.

  I can’t see her from the green room where I wait with the campaign staff, but I can sure hear her over the auditorium PA. I watch on the flat screen monitor while she speaks, and I can see that she has the attendees in the palm of her hand. To spe
ak with such clarity, authenticity, and eloquence – given how wretched I know she feels – I’m certain she’s calling up something deep inside herself that few of us have in reserve. I’ve seen men call that same thing up on the battlefield — they may be wounded and bleeding, and yet they perform superhuman acts in order to carry out their duty.

  Her speech, the substance of which causes Evelyn’s eyes to roll multiple times throughout, resonates profoundly with the audience. I know she’s absolutely crushed it when the room rises to its feet to give her a standing ovation – the first one of the day. I can’t help but grin proudly.

  That’s my girl. Brains, beauty, and a big heart to match. And they love her.

  “Wipe that grin off your face.” Evelyn hisses at me. “She’s not doing this for your entertainment.”

  I smirk at the old witch. “Apparently, she’s not doing it for yours either.” I turn back to the monitor, watching Avery give a final bow, offering a warm wave before she surrenders the stage. “It’s gotta just kill you to know they like her better than they’ll ever like you.”

  For once, Evelyn Thomas is speechless.

  Bursting with pride, I bound toward the stage to meet Avery so I can tell her myself just how radiant she was up there, and just how much I love her. I’m going to say it. I’ve been holding back because I felt like she wanted me to, but I can’t hold back any more. I’m too damn proud to keep it a secret. I want to shout it from the microphone up on that stage so everyone in the world knows.

  When I get to the steps I see Heath walking Avery down, hanging onto her arm. I meet her at the bottom and take her hand. It’s too hot.

  “How’d I do?” She asks, all the fire gone from her voice. She’s pale as death.

  “You’re remarkable. You did beautifully – as always.” I slip my arms around her and scoop her up to me, pressing my lips to hers and kiss her – hard – in front of everyone. She kisses me back, then starts laughing. Hearing her laugh does me good. “I love you,” I whisper in her ear. “I love you so much Avery Thomas.”