by Tina Donahue
Chapter Seven
Van Gogh guzzled his beer.
Clover sipped hers. Too much booze and she might never shut up. Talk about offering too much information and another outrageous invite. Without even trying, she’d fallen into the same trap, leaving him speechless and possibly afraid. Unlike the parlor, she had nowhere to run and hide in this place unless she locked herself in her john. Since Van Gogh wasn’t on the clock here, he could easily get dressed and flee.
When would she learn to take it slow and easy? Guys needed time to consider stuff and conclude a decision had been their idea from the get go. A trick most females had discovered in childhood, learned as they wrapped their daddies around their little fingers. With that accomplished, they honed their skills on other males until they became experts at playing the opposite sex. Damn her for having grown up in a family that prided itself on being straightforward, no BS, which made her hopelessly blunt. “These look great.”
She popped a bocadito into her mouth. At any other time, the creamy cheese and flaky pastry would have pulled a delighted moan from her. Right now, the food stuck in her throat. She forced the lump down and grabbed a wedge with ham peeking out. “These are awesome. Here, you have to try one.”
He came up for air, his lips damp from the brew, his mouth trembling slightly.
She put their beers on the nightstand. Her hands shook. Hopefully, she and Van Gogh would get better at this game or become totally honest with each other and make their relationship simple and relaxed.
She ran the appetizer across his lips. “Open up.”
He snaked out his tongue and licked her finger.
Could be he’d miscalculated and missed the food, or he’d hit his target the first time.
Their gazes locked. Breathing came hard. His face turned as red as hers felt, though not from embarrassment. Passion thickened the air. He curled his fingers around her wrist and directed the treat into his mouth.
Her pulse pounded. “More?”
He chewed and nodded.
She pulled over the container with the jellyroll. Her maternal grandmother always served one when Clover and her parents visited. Given the orange filling in this baby, it had to be the mango thing Lauren had mentioned. Clover scooped marmalade on her finger and smeared it over Van Gogh’s rod. His cock went from flaccid to semi-erect in two seconds. Faster than an adult film star’s.
She slathered the fruit spread on his plump crown. “This is where you wish me bon appétit.”
He nodded so quickly his hair jumped.
Precisely the encouragement a woman in lust needed. She licked him.
He fell against the pillows and spread his legs.
Settled between them, she got down to business, one hand supporting his lightly furred balls, the other guiding his cock into her mouth. He groaned wantonly and squirmed. She followed, giving him no chance at escape. The marmalade was good, a sweet-tart combination, but couldn’t match his natural flavor. Slightly salty with a unique taste no other man owned.
Enthralled, she slipped him deeper and opened her throat, her tongue sweeping his length.
He shuddered. “Fuck.”
They would in time. That was a given. First this. Gently, she massaged his balls and dipped her mouth lower, stopping only when her nose touched his thick curls and she had nearly every blessed inch of his cock inside.
A strangled sound tore from him. He pushed closer.
Clover accommodated his desire, taking more of his length within her mouth.
She stroked his sac and worked his shaft between her lips, her licks and suckling adding a dimension to the act her pussy never could.
He moaned loudly and panted. “This is too good.”
Only for a masochist who preferred pain, not her guy. Wanting him to be hers, she gave her all, increasing her pace then slowing, doing to him what he’d done to her. Making him want. Demanding he wait for relief.
He swore. “You’re driving me fucking nuts. Give me a minute.”
Not even half a sec. She explored the furrow between his cheeks and circled his anus.
He pummeled the mattress.
He’d have to set fire to the damn thing to stop her. She swirled her tongue on the bumpy skin behind his crown, determined to give him the best head he’d ever had.
His shout filled the room. He clawed the comforter and ripped off a bow. “Shit.” He put the poor thing back and patted it. “Sorry.”
No biggie for her. This was what mattered. She probed his tight entrance and eased her little finger inside.
He twisted his shoulders and strained to keep his legs still.
She leaned on the left one and let his cock slip from her mouth.
“What are you doing?” He beat the bed. “Why’d you stop?”
“I didn’t.” She tongued his right ball inside.
Stiff as a corpse, he grunted and groaned, the sounds tortured, but he didn’t tell her to quit. Whether she could or not was debatable. She enjoyed him as she never had another guy, loving his hair-roughened flesh, the beefy contours, his incredible scent.
He growled. “I’m gonna come. Crap. I gotta be inside you. Please. If you don’t mind.”
She released his ball. “I’m with you all the way. Hang on.” She slid her mouth down his thick column.
“Faster.” He cupped her head and guided her back up. “Lick that one spot—not there—no, farther up—to the—fuck yeah.”
Given his firm directions and her slavish obedience, he came hard. His cum gushed into her mouth, its texture thick and creamy. Enchanted, she swallowed his offering, licked his rod clean, and released him.
His mouth hung open, his chest heaved, and his legs sprawled. Totally wasted.
She’d done good. “Hungry?” She grabbed a wet wipe from the takeout bag and cleaned her hands. “I’ll feed you, all right?”
“Give me a sec.” He puffed out a breath and took in more air. His maroon color faded to bronze.
“What would you like first?” She gestured. “Another appetizer, the jellyroll, rice, beans, beef, a nap?”
He stifled his yawn. “I’m not tired.”
“Your eyes are closed.”
“I’m blinking.” He forced his lids open and got them only to half-mast. “The beef smells good. But you first. I’ll feed you.”
“We’ll do each other.”
“You’re still first.” He grabbed a hunk of jellyroll and offered her the sorry mess.
Diamonds wouldn’t have thrilled her as much. “Thanks.”
Once she’d eaten the glob, she licked crumbs and goop from his fingers then kissed his palm.
He caressed her cheek.
This was the best meal ever. “Now you.” She speared a sizeable portion of beef and slipped her hand beneath his chin. “Enjoy.”
“Gladly.” He licked her bottom lip then frowned. “Wait. You meant the meat, not the crumbs on your mouth, right?”
She could spend a lifetime with him teasing her. No praise could have made her feel more special than she did now. “I did. Better eat up. You need carbs and protein badly.”
He accepted the beef. “Why?”
After licking au jus from his mouth, she dug a spoon into the beans. “So you don’t fall behind.”
“Behind what? You? I outweigh you by eighty pounds or more. Want to feel my muscles?” He made a fist, showing off his biceps. Dark hair peeked from his pit.
Loveliest sight in the universe, except for his cock. She stroked it. “I’ll indulge later. Your bulk is awesome, but I need far more to satisfy my appetite.” The one only he could generate.
“We’re not talking about food anymore, are we?”
She shook her head, hesitated, then had to press forward. The way she always wanted them to behave with each other, being direct rather than dancing around subjects, exploring new things together, indulging in every freaking thing life offered. “Have you ever tried kink?”
“Huh?”
Third time today
she’d shocked him. Too late to turn back. “You know, bondage, discipline, you tying me up and punishing me so I’ll be a good slave? With my full consent, of course, and nothing hardcore. No real pain. I freak out at paper cuts. Just roleplaying and spanking for arousal. BDSM-lite, if you will. It could be wicked fun.”
His eyebrows kept rising.
Her stomach fell. “Have I disgusted you?”
“What? No. I never thought… You don’t look like… You’re so…”
“Hey, I may seem like a ninety-pound weakling but I have my fantasies like everyone else. I read erotic romances. I’ve watched triple X-rated films. Don’t you ever picture doing things you never have?”
Red patches stained his cheeks. “Well, yeah.”
“When?”
His face turned scarlet.
From what Lauren and Jasmina had said, Clover knew he hadn’t been tight with anyone in the recent past. Buoyed, she went for the gold. “Is it safe for me to say you’ve fantasied those things lately? With me? Us doing the ultimate nasty?”
He pulled a container over and lifted a mottled brown block that could have been a pastry. “What’s this?”
“Beats me. Would you prefer to eat rather than talk? Am I too blunt? Want me to shut up?”
“Of course I fantasized about you. Who else?” He tossed the block back. Flakes broke off, showering the Styrofoam. “I imagined you were at the parlor on my convertible chair.”
“What’s that?”
“The thing in my station that looks like a massage table. It’s actually a chair that folds out so I can ink clients.”
She scooted closer. “In your fantasy did you tie me to it?”
He groaned. “What else?”
“Can we try it? I’ll bring the rope or handcuffs.”
“You have some? You’ve done this before?”
“No.” Her cheeks burned. “But I do want to try it with you. I want to do everything we can and then some. Do you mind?”
He looked at her as if she were the only woman in the universe. “God no.”
“Great.” She kissed his knuckles. “I’ll handle the restraints. I’m sure I can buy them somewhere, unless you want to.”
His stomach growled. He shoveled beef, beans, and rice into his mouth. His cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk’s. “Not tonight.”
“Well, no. It’s too late. I doubt there’d be a law enforcement supply store open at this hour.”
“I meant it’s too late to go to the parlor.” He swallowed then worked his tongue around his mouth. “I’m too beat to walk back there even for a partial fantasy.”
She rubbed his thigh. “Want to rest a bit? I’ll join you.”
“A pity sleep? No thanks.” He slumped. “Women are so lucky. You never get tired.”
“Sure we do. Try having a baby and taking care of it and a house while working full-time. If you can stay awake for that, you can manage anything. My guess is nature planned it that way.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“I don’t have any kids. Never been married or engaged. I haven’t even gone steady. During high school, I was invisible to guys.”
“They were fools.” He played with her nipple.
Liking that, she sagged into him. “Was that what you wanted to ask?”
“No. Was it weird growing up in a nudist camp?”
She was surprised he hadn’t asked earlier, since most people would have. As always, she’d talked too much, not letting him get a word in. “I didn’t know anything else. Seemed natural to me. Took a while to get used to clothes, though. I’m more or less good with them now.”
“You don’t wear underwear.” He didn’t look disappointed. “Don’t you like it?”
“I didn’t have any clean. When I do, I put on my Victoria’s Secret push-up bras and thongs.”
“Black ones?”
“Red, too.”
He smiled then lost it. “What about the old people?”
“I haven’t seen any in the Victoria’s Secret where I shop. I think they go to Sears or Penney’s for their granny panties.”
“Not those people.” He squished his face. “The ones in the nudist camp.”
Clover couldn’t blame him for his unease. “It’s not what you think. People don’t strut their stuff like they’re in a skin flick. Everyone accepts one another for who they are. No BS. Granted, there are dicks there—personality wise. People are people, right? But for the most part, they’re no different from anyone else, just ultra-liberated. Even old folks need love. When I’m that age, I will. You, too. A naturist’s hope is that the other person can see beyond the outside package to the individual inside. That’s what counts.” She shrugged. “At least, that’s what I told myself in school when the guys treated me like a leper.”
“Were they nuts?”
“Judgmental.”
He cradled her face. “They knew about your living conditions?”
“I didn’t broadcast the fact, so no. They ignored me because I wasn’t a babe.”
“What?” He made a face. “Impossible. They must have been blind or too dumb to recognize real beauty.”
She laughed. “Where were you when I needed a hero?”
“Living my own fucked-up life. Thank God those days are over…for the most part.” He pushed the containers aside. “I need to rest for a sec. Join me?”
She melted into his arms, loving that he smelled like her now, she like him, their combined fragrances heaven-sent. He held her gently, tempering his strength. Clover gave in to her basest desires and clung to him.
To her surprise, her lids grew heavy. Warm and relaxed, she drifted, her mind going blank.
Chapter Eight
Van Gogh woke alone in bed, one hand on the jelly thing, the other resting on the brownish block. Tasted like honey and almonds. Not bad. The orange goo in the other dessert needed more sugar. He licked it from his knuckles then craned his neck, guessing Clover was in the bathroom. Nope. The door was open, light off.
Something pinged.
Still nude, she leaned across the table, grabbed a hammer, and pulverized a silver metal square, her taps surprisingly gentle.
In his next life, he was coming back as a woman with energy to spare. Scratching his ass, he padded across the room. “What are you making?” Unless she was destroying the poor thing.
She twisted her mouth. “Nothing. Damn thing won’t come out like I want.” She hurled the square. It sailed into the front door and clattered on the floor.
“Works good as a Frisbee.” He retrieved the sheet and turned it over. To his untrained eye for jewelry design, it didn’t look like much. “Wasn’t that what you were going for?”
“I want to make a breastplate that matches your tat.”
He held the silver to his chest. “It’s too small.”
“That’s a prototype, until I work out the kinks. Do you mind that I’m making it?”
“Why would I? Are you worried your hammering woke me up?”
“No.” She looked surprised. “I didn’t even think about that. I should have, but when I get an idea I have to indulge it no matter what else is going on. Sorry.”
“No need to be as far as the noise is concerned. Why would you think I’d mind you making a breastplate? You’re the jewelry expert.”
“Will it bother you if I take your idea and turn it into my vision in metal, beads, or other stuff? I can give you a commission as the initial creator.”
He leaned against the table. “If that’s your plan, you’d have to pay off tons of other people, too. My tat’s unique, to a point, but I didn’t invent 3-D images or skin ripped away to show guts. Done all the time. I simply changed it to match my own tastes. So have at it. As far as a commission, I’ll give you one if you put on the AC before we melt.” He fingered perspiration from her temple.
She kissed his thumb. “On it, and you don’t have to pay me.” She glanced at the bed. “I’ll take it out in trade.”
“Wait.
” He grasped her wrist before she could get too far away. “Better put something on before you close the windows. Don’t want cops storming this place.” He tossed her his tank top.
The hem reached mid-thigh on her. The rounded neck skimmed her nipples. Van Gogh had never seen anything nicer. “Looks better on you than me.”
Laughing, she closed up the place, ditched his top, and turned on the window unit. “It’s not great, but it’s something.” She hugged the rectangular box, hogging the air.
He didn’t mind. After wiping his sweaty forehead and eyes, he explored the items on the table, stopping at a silver piece two feet long or more. It resembled a stave, the five lines in sheet music. A treble clef and notes decorated it. As a kid, he’d gotten into music before art consumed him. “Is this Beethoven’s 5th?”
“Yeah. It was either that or Adele’s ‘Rolling in the Deep.’ Old Ludwig’s composition looked better to me.”
Van Gogh twisted the surprisingly supple piece. “Do you hang this on the wall?”
“You wear it. Or rather, a woman does.” She wound the thing around her left arm, wrist to biceps, then laid the next part across her collarbone and wrapped the last inches around her throat. “Voilà. It moves with you, too, but doesn’t fall off.” She did several jumping jacks, her boobs wiggling prettily, the jewelry staying in place.
He grinned. “That is seriously cool. I can picture it on one of the beautiful people at a funky club.”
“Point her out and the place where she boogies, please.” Clover dropped her arms and pulled off the piece. “I’ve made three of these suckers. Haven’t sold one. Not even to the bands I deal with. And they’re my best customers so far.”
She kept surprising him. “You have band members for clients?”
“Not the Stones or Maroon 5. My people aren’t super famous, at least not yet. They’re still local but doing really well. I planned these pieces for them. They said they were too tame. Even their groupies passed them up. Maybe if I had added skulls or daggers…”
