I didn't need a test drive.
I knew somewhere in my soul that he was going to be the best lay I'd ever had.
But, God, was I looking forward to it regardless...
ELEVEN
Reagan
"What's the matter?" I asked when he strode into my bedroom only to stop suddenly, staring at something over my shoulder.
"I'm supposed to fuck you with that fucking thing sneering down at me?" he asked, making a weird snorting sound escape me as I craned my head over my shoulder to follow his gaze.
"That's my first piece of grown-up art I ever bought," I told him. "It's supposed to be subjective. Everyone sees something different in it."
"Yeah, well, I see a creepy fucking demonic goat thing sneering down at me."
A laugh escaped me at that. "I think my shrink would say that is very interesting."
His gaze slid back to me, a brow quirking up. "You want to psychoanalyze me, or you want me to get these clothes off of you, and bury my face in your pussy?" he asked, making my belly flip-flop in anticipation.
"I pick the second option," I told him, having to swallow hard to get the words out, suddenly feeling like it was hard to breathe.
"Figured," he agreed, moving toward the bed, lowering me down onto my back, his body pressing me into the mattress, a weight I had needed so badly.
His lips shifted, moving up my neck, teeth snagging my earlobe, before he moved back downward.
His tongue was tracing my clavicle when he suddenly pulled against my hold, pressed upward, stared down at me.
He waited to speak until my heavy eyelids fluttered open. "What do you see?" he asked.
"What? What do I see what?"
"In the picture," he clarified. "What do you see?"
"I, ah, I see a dark wood scene. Nothing specific," I told him. "Should I be worried that you're more interested in discussing art than having sex with me?" I asked, smile curving upward until my cheeks hurt at the strange, borderline horrified look on his face as he stared at the painting again.
He pulled fully away, standing, stomping across my bedroom. I turned my head on the mattress, watching him as he walked over to the wall, grabbed the frame, jiggling it a bit to get it off the nail it was attached to, then pulling it down. He carried it over to my closet, opened the door, practically tossed it in, then shut the door before turning back to me.
"There. Fixed it," he told me, giving me an uncharacteristically boyish grin as he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "Now," he added, eyes roaming over me on the bed, gaze getting heated again, "back to your pussy," he said, grin turning more into a smirk. A devilish one at that. "I gotta find out if it tastes like peaches like the rest of you," he told me, easing over my body once again, sealing his lips to mine.
The contact sent off a ricochet of need from my lips to every nerve ending of my body, pinging from one place to the next simultaneously, each sensation begging to be felt first, to be felt to the fullest.
My body warmed as my legs wrapped around his lower back, holding on with arms and legs as he nipped my lower lip, as his tongue slipped between.
My hands clawed at his shirt, hungry for the feel of his skin on mine. He broke away just long enough to reach behind his neck, pulling his shirt forward and off, then tossing it to the side of the bed. My hungry hands dug into the firm muscles on his shoulders as my hips ground upward into him, dragging a ragged moan out of me as his cock pressed up against where I needed him most.
"Nixon, please," I begged, grabbing at the waistband of his pants, shameless in my need for more. For everything.
Frustrated when he didn't move to lift up, to rip off his pants, then mine, to bury deep inside, I planted my hands on his shoulders, pushed.
Caught off guard, he rolled onto his back, grabbing me just quickly enough to take me with him, leaving me straddling him, in control.
My lips ripped from his, and I lifted my body up, looking down at him, feeling a delicious tightening in my sex as my gaze moved over his perfect skin, stretched over tight muscle.
His fingertips slipped up the sides of my thighs, settling low on my hips, his thumbs slipping dangerously close to where I needed his touch most.
My hands moved upward, grabbing the bodice of my romper, sliding it down and off my body, leaving me bare, save for my little swatch of pink panties. His breath hissed out of him, his eyes going small as his gaze roamed over my breasts for a long moment before his hands raised, slipping up my sides, closing over my breasts, thumbs rolling over the hardened buds of my nipples.
The shock of pleasure moved outward from the touch, moving down my stomach, pooling between my thighs.
When his thumbs and forefingers grabbed and rolled, I damn near came right then and there, a loud moan escaping me as my head tipped back, as my eyes pressed closed.
Without looking, I missed his intention until I felt my panties being dragged roughly down, forcing me to tilt to one side, freeing one leg, then the other.
I barely got a chance to settle once again when Nixon's hands were snagging me behind my knees, yanking up and up and up.
My breath caught when I realized his intention, as his hands grabbed my hips, pulled downward, as his tongue traced up my cleft.
His tongue found and worked my clit. Perfect pressure, perfect speed, driving me up hard and fast, making my legs shake, my breath catch in my throat, my upper half fold forward a bit so my hands could plant on the headboard--I held on as his tongue did another swipe, sending me crashing through an orgasm that stole my breath, made the world go white, dragged a choked, unfamiliar sound from somewhere deep inside as the waves crashed through my system.
My body collapsed down on the mattress, my chest tight as I tried to draw in some breath.
Nixon had no mercy for the airless, the limbless.
He turned, snagging me at the ankles, yanking me back to the middle of the bed, sealing his lips over mine before pressing up, settling back on his heels, his hands moving downward toward his button and zip as his eyes stayed on me.
My gaze, however, roamed.
Down the strong muscles of his chest, the indents of his abdominal muscles, the deep V of his Adonis belt.
I sucked a slow, deep breath in as my gaze moved lower. A garbled, mewling noise escaped me as his pants lowered, as his hand moved to close around his straining cock.
My body folded upward, my hands moving his out of the way, closing around him, stroking him to the hilt as my head dipped, as my lips parted, as he slipped inside my mouth.
"Fuck," he hissed, his hand moving to the back of my neck.
He wouldn't let me work him long, though, his hand sifting into my hair, turning, curling, yanking until I moved back, looked up at him.
His other hand lifted, thumb brushing over my swollen lower lip as he took a breath so deep his chest shook.
There was a tight sensation in my chest at the look in his eyes. Something deep and warm. Something close to--dare I even think it--affection.
Affection from a man like Nixon.
That sure sounded a lot like a gift to me.
One I felt really honored to receive.
"Baby," he murmured, head shaking like he couldn't quite figure out what he wanted to say.
Uncertainty and its cousin tension started to thicken the air.
"Are you still thinking about goat Satan?" I asked, making a chuckle burst out of him before he shucked off his pants, fetching a condom out of the wallet before tossing them aside, then dropped down beside me, pulling me onto my side as well, yanking my knee up over his hip, hand gliding down to squeeze my ass.
"Well... I was thinking about you," he admitted with a snort, glancing over toward the closet. "Now..."
"Well," I said my hand sliding down his chest, reaching between us, grabbing his cock, "let's see if we can get your focus back on me," I said, gliding his cock up my cleft, sucking in my breath when the thick pressure of it pressed against my clit.
"That'll w
ork," he told me, voice getting rough, his breathing turning shallow.
His hand grabbed my ass harder, used it to guide my body to slide against his, making his cock slick, driving me back upward with the friction.
"Nixon, please," I begged, my nails digging crescents into his shoulder, my body rocking wildly against him.
His hand left my ass, both slipping between our bodies for a moment, handling protection, before grabbing my ass again, using it to guide my body closer.
This time, when his cock slid down, it pressed, pausing there, teasing at fulfillment for a long moment, until the need was a clawing thing, until I couldn't take the torment anymore. I clamped my leg around his ass, and slid my hips down, feeling his cock press deep, filling me completely.
"Fuck," he hissed, his forehead resting on mine for a long second as he took a few deep breaths.
His restraint, meticulously controlled before, disappeared.
He hooked an arm around my lower back as he rolled, pinning me beneath him as his arms planted, pushing up to look down on me as he withdrew, then buried deep again.
Not fast, but deep, making me aware of every inch, my muscles tightening around him.
He kept that pace until I was writhing beneath him, then went harder, faster.
Just when I was sure I was going to tumble over, he jerked away, sitting back on his heels, grabbing my legs, pushing them into my chest, then cocking them to the side, pressing them tightly together as he pinned them to the bed at my side.
When he slammed back inside me, the new position--and the pressure it created--had my whimpers becoming moans, then turning into something else entirely, some ragged, airless sound as his hand slid between our bodies, pressing into my clit, working me up and through.
I soared through the orgasm, feeling suspended in air for a long moment before the pulsations started, hard and deep and overwhelming, making his name cry out of me as my hand reaching for his wrist, holding on for dear life as I kept getting pulled under.
I was just surfacing when I heard him hiss out my name as he planted deep, his body tensing as he came.
"Fuck," he hissed, dropping down behind my body, yanking my hips into him, my ass nestled into his crotch.
His face buried in my neck, his lips pressing in once as his heartbeat hammered into my back, as he tried to slow his ragged breathing.
My heartbeat hammered too, hummingbird wings against my ribcage, as other sensations flooded my body at the same time.
A strange disconnected, floating feeling that somehow existed at the same time as the one where I had never felt more in tune with myself before.
I could feel the rush of air as it filled my chest and belly, the prickling of goosebumps as sweat dried and cooled my skin, the flush over my chest, up my neck, over my cheeks, the heaviness of lifeless limbs, the satisfaction that seemed to course over every nerve ending.
A few moments later, Nixon's breath was even, his heartbeat back to normal. His lips brushed my neck again before he rolled away. "Be right back," he told me, hopping up, the bed bouncing a bit in his departure.
Alone, I took a deep breath, willing some life into my arms so I could pull myself further up on the bed, situating myself on the pillows, slipping under the covers as the air from the fan sent shivers across my skin.
I'd been right.
He was good.
Amazing, even.
And, in my experience, things only got better as you got to know each other, as your comfort level grew, as you learned little hot spots on each other's bodies.
Better would be, well, unfathomable.
But highly anticipated.
My hand moved to my chest, feeling a lightness there that I hadn't experienced in a long time. At least not for more than a fleeting second or two when life distracted me just well enough.
This wasn't a distraction, though. This was something new entirely, something I don't know if I had ever experienced, ever gotten in life.
Someone who truly saw me.
Someone who believed in me.
Someone who wanted me even after seeing the ghosts and skeletons, and, well, the occasional mental breakdowns.
Someone who could fuck me like I wasn't sure I ever had been before, to complete body and soul satisfaction.
That was something worth feeling light and happy about.
God, happy.
It sounded so foreign, but there was no denying that it was accurate.
The door to the bathroom opened, drawing my attention over. To Nixon's gloriously naked form.
I wasn't sure it was possible to get sick of seeing him in my space looking like he looked right then.
But he wasn't looking at me like I was looking at him.
Oh, no.
His focus was on the damn closet.
My smile curved up, a laugh bubbling up. "It's not going to come to life, burst out of the closet, and demand your soul, Nixon," I told him, watching as his gaze slid to mine, eyes bright, smile of the warm variety.
"You can't know that for sure," he said, moving toward the bed, climbing under the covers, moving in at my side, pulling me close.
Invited to do so, I rested my head on his chest, taking a deep breath, breathing him in. It wasn't a scent I had a name for. A hint of soap, maybe a little deodorant of the spicy sort, but mostly just... him. I wished I could bottle it, spray it on one of those aromatherapy necklaces, wear it around day and night.
Nixon's fingers sifted absentmindedly through my hair as we enjoyed the silence for a long moment. It was only interrupted by the thump of Mal jumping from one of his catwalks, sensing the coast was clear, then leaping onto the bed.
"Watch your exposed parts," I warned. "He doesn't need an excuse to strike. You have to be vigilant at all times."
A laugh rumbled through Nixon's chest, but I didn't miss the way he slid his thigh all the way under the blankets.
Mal stood at the edge of the bed, tail twitching, eyes moving between us, likely judging us for our activities while simultaneously pissed at me for having his boy bits chopped off, so he couldn't prowl for some hot kitties and could enjoy a little carnal love too.
"Watch out; he's on the move," I warned as he started taking freakishly slow steps forward, moving up between Nixon's slightly parted legs.
Then he did something I never could have expected.
He laid down on Nixon's lap.
"You bastard!" I said, mouth gaping at the sight. Mal never willingly sat on or near me. Ever. Not even when he was all doped up from the anesthesia from aforementioned ball-removal.
Mal's gaze slid to me for a long, stony moment, before he turned back to Nixon, rubbing his head against his stomach, and letting out a low, rumbling purr.
"What!" I hissed, mouth going even wider. "He has never purred before. I thought his purr box was broken."
"His purr box?" Nixon asked, brow raising, shooting me one of those smirks of his.
"Sorry I am not up with my cat anatomy," I shot back, rolling my eyes. "I guess he's had a bit of a change of heart," I said, smiling as my hand reached out toward him for a little scratch. "Ow!" I yelped when his sharp little cat teeth sank into my finger.
"Guess he just likes me," Nixon said, shrugging, reaching out to rub Mal's head. Which was allowed. And even enjoyed.
It was like watching a dog snuggle a squirrel instead of killing it.
"He hasn't done anything for you, you know," I told Mal, irrationally annoyed at a cat. "I spend a fortune on that raw food of yours. I made a whole kitty playground of my home. And what do I get? Bloodshed."
"Maybe he is pissed that you named him Fuckwad," Nixon suggested, rubbing his fingers all over Mal's soft coat.
"I named him Malicious Little Fuckwad after he tried to tear my throat out when I gave him a flea bath. Shame on me for stopping the itching, right?" I asked, small-eyeing the cat who was in seventh heaven, his entire body vibrating with his seemingly never-ending purr.
With a sigh, I shifted cl
oser to Nixon, getting an evil glare from Mal in doing so. "You're going to have to share him, you jerk," I told the cat like he could understand me. "And just so you know, he likes me better," I added, wrinkling up my nose.
"I dunno, babe, this purring thing is relaxing as fuck. He's starting to gain some on you."
"Yeah?" I asked, smile going wicked. "I can think of other very effective ways of relaxing you," I told him, my fingers working spiders over his chest and belly, going dangerously low. But not so low that Mal could swipe at me.
His eyes went as heated as I intended. "Yeah?" he asked, voice husky. "Maybe after you feed me," he declared.
"I, ah, have... peaches," I admitted, knowing my cabinets and fridge were woefully, embarrassingly empty.
"Yeah, babe, I know," he agreed, his tongue peeking out to trace the corner of his lips suggestively, making a little shiver course through my sex at the memory of that tongue. "You got any take-out menus?" he asked.
"That I have," I agreed. "And some really good whiskey," I added, sliding away from him, getting out of the bed, not bothering to reach for a shirt or a robe, liking the way his eyes roved over me too much to cover up.
I fetched the menus from a drawer, grabbed my phone, poured the whiskey, and headed back, glad when his gaze followed me every step of the way back to the bed, as he lifted the blankets for me to slide under, as he pulled me back into his side, settled me on his chest as he looked through the menus, hemming and hawing the options.
The whiskey sat untouched until we settled on comfort dishes from a local take-out-only place. Fried chicken with mac & cheese for Nixon. Minestrone soup for me.
"All these options, and you pick vegetable soup?" he asked, face screwing up like I made no sense.
"We were raised to eat healthy. I don't have any attachment to macaroni & cheese like most people do."
"Have you actually had any?"
"I had it in college. It's good. It's no minestrone soup, but it's good."
"You're a fucking freak, babe," he declared, shaking his head as he accepted the glass of amber liquid I handed to him. He took a sip, then held the glass against his belly as he stared off at the wall.
Lock You Down Page 14
