by C. M. Albert
Her rhythm slowed and she turned her head, looking at Asher over her shoulder. “Turn me around. I want your lips on my nipples when you take me, jockey.”
Asher slowly turned Vironica onto her back, her hands still secured above her head. He picked up the feather and ran it from her throat, down between her breasts, over her nipples, along the ridges of her slightly curved stomach, and back to her pussy. He ran the feathery tip over her clitoris, her body shaking from the aftershocks of her orgasm and the delicate, teasing sensation of the feather.
“Do you have any idea how beautiful you look when you come?” he asked. He set the feather aside, leaning down and trailing warm kisses over her abdomen and up her chest. Her pearls had settled between her small breasts, and he pushed them aside with his chin as he found her hard, eager nipple once again. He drew it in, gripping it with his teeth as he rolled his tongue over her soft skin.
He didn’t know what drove him so insane about older women, but there was something so liberating and freeing about being with them. Asher lifted his body over hers, her eyes molten with lust as he met her gaze. “Whatever has you running in your real life, Wendy, promise me you’ll face it—you’ll stop hiding. You are far too perfect to dull your shine.” He watched her eyes widen as he slid slowly inside of her, one inch at a time.
She spread her legs farther, wrapping them around his waist to pull him all the way in. He almost lost it when he was able to settle all the way inside her. It suddenly dawned on him how intimate and connected they truly were in this moment. So vulnerable to each other, so trusting. How had two people who were running, hiding from their real lives, come to find this safety in one another in the most unexpected of settings.
Yet they had. They were trusting each other to meet their most intimate, shared desires—without judgment.
Instead of moving fast and driving into her as he normally would, he loosened the tie that connected her hands, surprising her. He pushed slowly inside of her as she worked her hands free.
Asher lowered his head and met her lips, drawing her plump bottom one into his mouth and sucking slowly. Her hips danced beneath his, allowing him to fill her but ride her at a slow and steady pace. Their pelvises met as he ground agonizingly slow, cupping her breast and massaging it in rhythm.
His mouth covered hers now and his tongue explored, meeting and matching her strokes with softness and desire. Asher grew even harder when she sucked on his tongue, her hands wrapping around the back of his neck and pulling his head closer, even as her heels dug into the backside of his waist.
He increased his tempo, her heels urging him on as he bounced against her torso, their abdomens now slick with sweat from their shared pleasure. He pulled back, holding himself up with his strong arms as he looked down at her. No words were spoken as he drove even deeper, touching the farthest reaches of her core.
This. This transcended the differences in their age. As he looked at Vironica, all he saw was a woman who needed. Who was reaching out and wasn’t giving up. Despite all she’d been through with the loss of her husband, her heart was still open, and she was giving it to him in this moment. He buried his head in the crook of her neck and pumped harder, faster, ready to cross the finish line and give her—and himself—that final release and shared intimacy they needed.
When her body arched into his, and her teeth sank into the soft flesh of his shoulder, he drove harder one last time, feeling his body shudder. Her insides gripped him as he came, as if pulling every last ounce of his desire from him, demanding just a little bit more. Her own soft cries of release died against the skin she still had clenched in her teeth.
He’d taken women in every way possible in the White Room. It was at their pleasure and his. But he’d never made love to a woman in this room—until now. And the thought terrified him.
He pulled out and lay next to Vironica, his hand tracing the long red braid that lay against the stark white pillow. Her eyes were closed and a small smile played across her wide mouth. “Oh, man . . . you certainly do know how to please.”
His heart constricted. Suddenly, it wasn’t enough. He realized he didn’t want to move across the country. He was fucking done listening to his father’s “advice” about what was good for him, for his future. He’d been lost for a long time without ever realizing it, fulfilling his father’s dreams instead of living his own.
Even coming to the White Room was his father’s idea of what a man did. And, yeah, Asher enjoyed it and had discovered and matured his greatest pleasures there. It was in this room that he learned his boundaries, his deepest desires, his passion. He learned control and how to give and receive pleasures beyond his wildest dreams.
But now . . . looking down at Vironica, he knew he needed more. He was tired of living without the love of a real family. Without the love of an amazing woman by his side.
One amazing woman.
He wasn’t foolish enough to believe it was Vironica, but she’d sparked a rebellion inside that he wasn’t ready to let go of now.
He kissed her closed eyelids. “Thank you,” he murmured.
She looked up at him, her green eyes bright with the remnants of satisfied lust. “For what, my dear?” she asked, trailing her hand along the hard line of his jaw, her fingers finding their way into his messy hair.
“For helping me find Neverland,” Asher said, laughing. “I was honored to be your jockey today at the races. But more than that, you helped me realize that even lost boys like me can be free.”
Her hand paused, and her mouth pressed into a serious line as their eyes met. “Asher, I promise you this—you are no boy, no matter what your age. You may have heard an answer to your heart’s unspoken question today, but trust me—I’ve known many men and many boys in my lifetime. Yours is the heart of a man.” She smiled up at him, still stroking his hair. “If I were twenty years younger . . .”
“I know, Mrs. Mason,” he said, leaning down and kissing her lips one last time.
The bell chimed and Vironica rose, sliding into her silky coral sundress, her wide-brimmed hat in her hand. She slid her sunglasses on and covered her eyes again. Asher’s heart sank for the briefest moment.
She wasn’t his to have—but she’d set a new bar for what he wanted.
She blew him a kiss and turned to walk out of the room. At the last moment, she turned and lifted her glasses, placing them on top of her head. “You definitely earned your crown of roses tonight. I’ve never met a jockey with as much heart and conviction as you. You’re not done racing, you hear me? You still need to run for the roses.”
With that, she fingered her pearl necklace, winked, and dropped her glasses back into place. “But if you ever get discouraged along the way, and need a reminder of the champion you are, you know where to find me.”
Asher smiled. He knew she wasn’t his forever—of that he was sure. But he had a feeling he had a lot more to learn about love, and the only way he’d find it was to look beyond these walls. Though they’d shaped him into the passionate man he was, they now felt confining.
He quickly dressed, tossing his dark navy sports jacket over his shoulder as he looked around what had once seemed as familiar as home to him. He grinned as he shut the door to the White Room, closing it behind him for the last time. He’d run his last race there, and it was one for the record books; but he was confident now that his real glory days were still ahead, and love was the only race worth running for.
4
Simon
SIMON ELLISON SAT behind the executive-style desk he had brought in just for this occasion. It was the desk he really used at his campus office, and he wanted the smell of the woman he’d be fucking today to be all over it—something to remember her by. It was a traditional desk and the only thing in the room that wasn’t white. The dark mahogany wood glistened almost black, not a scratch to be seen. The scratches that were unseen to most people were beneath the desk, where his legs nestled as he worked at his dream job as a tenured literature professo
r. Every woman he’d ever fucked after his college days had, at some point, carved their name under his desk as a token.
Even if they knew their affairs weren’t permanent, each and every woman loved the power his position held. Enough so that they were willing to be one of many to etch their names into the dark wood with pride. It was a badge of honor for them. For him? Nothing more than fond memories. He liked being in control, but he wasn’t completely heartless. He remembered each and every conquest, down to the last dimple, swollen lips, or the sound of a woman’s cries during passion. He was one for details.
There was a hesitant knock at the wide double doors to the White Room. “Yes?” Simon said, pretending to be interested in the stack of papers that littered his desk. He didn’t look up as the door cracked open; it was a power play, a way to show who was in charge.
“Professor Browning? I’m here for our three o’clock. Sorry I’m a few minutes late. May I come in?”
Simon cleared his throat, looking up for the first time. The woman looked to be in her mid-twenties and was clean-cut. Just how he liked them. Girl next door.
“I’m sorry. Your name is?” Simon asked, sounding bored. He knew his unaffected demeanor drove his female students insane. He was a challenge they all wanted to conquer. He only ever allowed a few of his real students that honor.
“Brooklyn,” she said, walking forward. Her intoxicating brown eyes never left his. She was haughty, sure of herself. She pulled her straight blond hair to one side, over her shoulder. It fell past the bottom of her firm, perky breast.
“Brooklyn, you said? I’m sorry. Which class of mine are you in?”
“Poetry—101,” she said, arching a brow.
“Lovely,” Simon said, pushing the bridge of his glasses back up his nose. His tortoiseshell frames made his gray-blue eyes look darker, more dangerous. He sat back in his tall leather chair and ran his gaze up and down the woman’s body. She’d purposefully dressed younger for their “meeting,” as he’d requested. “Well, Brooklyn, how may I help you today?”
Simon ran a hand through his wavy brown hair, thick like Dr. McDreamy’s. He was often compared to Patrick Dempsey, though the actor had a few years on him, and Simon wasn’t graying as much yet. He waived his hand toward the guest chair he’d staged in front of his desk. “Take a seat.”
“Thank you,” she said, dropping her composition notebook onto his desk and shrugging off her tan leather backpack. As she did, her breasts pushed forward, straining the tight Ole Miss T-shirt she was wearing—his alma mater. Damn. The girls he’d gone to college with had never been that naturally sexy.
Her hair was long and thick, flowing as if kissed by the salt air she rode in on. She looked fresh off the pages of a surfer magazine with her glowing tan skin, white puka shell necklace, and Rainbow flip flops that were truly worn in. He hadn’t given instructions for a specific outfit to be worn; he just asked for college student attire. He’d been thinking along the lines of a short skirt and tight sweater, but this sexy beach vibe was getting him harder than knee-highs ever could. He adjusted himself through his pants, eager to get on with this meeting so he could pull her onto the desk and lick her five ways to Sunday.
“I don’t have a lot of time, Brooklyn. I have a meeting with the dean in”—he looked at his watch—“thirty minutes. So tell me what I can do for you.” He took off his reading glasses and set them in his desk drawer as he inspected the woman more closely.
Brooklyn’s lips were full and sloped slightly down at the corners, giving her a naturally sexy pout. Her makeup was minimal and flesh colored, keeping her fresh and youthful as if she’d strolled right in from campus.
He ran a hand over the five o’clock shadow on his face as he watched Brooklyn play with the ends of her hair as if she were nervous. He grinned. Simon loved being in a position of power, both in the real world and in this fantasy suite.
“Well, I was wondering if you could further explain the balance in that poem that we read in class yesterday. The one by Frost?” She opened her notebook and flipped through the pages until she found what she was looking for. “Nature’s first green is gold . . . ” she read aloud, her pace slow, her tone deliberately husky.
“You mentioned this poem was a great example between the balance of—hang on.” She pretended to look over her notes. “Here it is. Between ‘paradisiacal good and the paradoxically more fruitful human good.’” She took a deep breath and shrugged her shoulders, looking up at Simon. “What does that mean?”
Simon stood up and walked around the desk, leaning against it as he faced Brooklyn in the chair. “May I?” he asked, nodding to her notebook. Her mouth slid into an easy smile as she held it out to him. Their fingers brushed as he took the book from her hands. Real sparks shot through his fingers, slamming him right in the gut.
His eyes swung up in shock, meeting Brooklyn’s heated gaze. He swallowed hard and looked back down at the notebook. Fuck! That wasn’t supposed to happen. He reread the poem, laughing because it was, indeed, one he used when he taught his intro-level poetry course. She was a smart woman beneath that simple, beachy exterior.
“Well, Brooklyn, the idea is primal, really. The poem captures both the precise perfection of a transitional moment, while also suggesting that the Eden-like ideal must eventually give way to earthly dying beauty,” Simon said, reaching out to brush the sun-kissed tresses that had fallen over Brooklyn’s eyes as she looked down at the pages of the notebook. Electricity shot up his arm again, and this time his cock tightened. He heard Brooklyn take in a little breath of air, shocked, too, by their instant and real chemistry.
“So, it’s like a paradox,” she breathed out, sitting up taller. She pointed at the poem. “Green is gold; leaf is flower; Eden is grief.”
“Yes. But by the order and flow of the poem, we see that it’s a very natural process by which the cycle of life is completed. The subsidence, the sinking, the going down is—by the poem’s logic—a blessed increase if we are to follow the cycle of flower, leaf, bud, fruit, into a full life that includes loss, grief, and change. Does that make sense?” Simon asked, closing the notebook and setting it onto his desk.
Brooklyn looked up at him through thick brown lashes. “Professor Browning?” she asked, her chest rising and falling quickly.
“You can call me Grant,” Simon said, using his White Room name.
“Grant,” she said, testing the sound of it. “I love hearing you talk about poetry. It’s my favorite subject. I know I shouldn’t say this, you being my professor and all, but”—she leaned in and pressed her hands against his chest—“it turns me on when you read out loud in class. I’ve gone back to the dorm many days and touched myself to the memory of your voice, your smile.”
She blushed, but Simon knew it was part of the “game.”
He touched both sides of her face, daring her to meet his eyes. “Brooklyn,” Simon whispered, “look at me.”
She dragged her eyes up slowly, first over his chest, then to his hard, stubbled jawline. She took her time on his soft lips, and by the time she met his eyes, she was nearly pressed against him. “Yes?”
“I can show you poetry better than I can ever read it to you. Will you explore another poem with me? Do you trust me?”
She nodded, standing on her toes as she drew closer to Simon’s mouth. “Teach me,” she said just before he dropped his mouth to hers.
Consumption. That’s the only word that came to mind as he took her. She tasted like strawberries and her hair smelled of sunshine. His mouth raked over hers, pulling in the delicate flesh of her lips. The moan that escaped her mouth brought his hands to her ass as he pulled her closer. She nearly climbed on top of him, trying to get as close as she could while Simon leaned back against his desk.
Brooklyn hiked a leg up and he grabbed onto it, grinding into her as their tongues explored, tasted, learned one another. Simon adjusted, pulling her all the way up onto his hips as he stood. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and her
lips found the curve of his neck, her hands losing themselves in his hair. He carried her around to the front of his desk, setting Brooklyn on its top and kissing her hard, his hands still cupping her ass. She frantically pushed everything from the desk’s surface as she inched toward him, pressing her warm center into his abdomen as he stood nestled between her legs.
Brooklyn raised her arms when Simon eased her Ole Miss T-shirt over her head. She shook her full mane of hair free as he threw the shirt onto the floor. He looked down at Brooklyn’s bare chest and inhaled sharply. It wasn’t as if breasts were new to him, but hers were exquisite. They were high and perky, but round and full. Small, dark nipples stared up at him, begging to be worshiped. He ran his hands slowly down her slender torso, watching as her skin pebbled from the light touch.
“Jesus,” Simon said, “you’re almost too perfect.”
Brooklyn laughed, pulling his head in for another kiss. This time it was slow, torturous. She sucked his tongue, hard and deep, as her hand lowered and found his hard-on straining tight against his jeans. She ran her hand along the length of it as Simon groaned, pushing back from the kiss.
He bent his head and gently took one of her nipples between his teeth, sucking it slowly before pulling the entire areola into his mouth. He bit softly before shifting to the other side and doing the same. Brooklyn lifted her hips, encouraging Simon to remove her jeans. He yanked them down her long, tan legs, along with her miniscule thong. Her legs were nothing short of perfection. Simon ran his hands up muscled calves and over her full, strong thighs. She looked like she rode the waves daily with those.
He reached back to grab his chair, pulling it closer so he could sit down. He rolled forward, spreading her legs open with his hands. Damn! She was completely bare. Not a single hair stood in the way of his tongue. She put one foot on either side of him, borrowing the armrests. She was confident and didn’t seem to mind being on display for him. He leaned forward, blowing on the opening between her legs.
