by Beverly Rae
The exquisite feel of my lips wrapped around his manhood shook me to the core. I’d never liked giving head before, but with Kaine, it was different. His scent, his taste were more than sweet. In rapid strokes, I licked his lollipop for all its yumminess. With each of my pulls, I drew him in, holding him longer than the pull before. My breasts rubbed against him, sending bursts of pleasure through me and, hopefully, through him.
He ran his hands down my back, then squeezed my butt cheeks, spreading them, kneading them, making me wish he’d take me doggy-style. Yet I couldn’t, wouldn’t let go. Not yet.
I tracked my fingers through the dark patch of curly hair and dipped lower into the crevice between his crotch and leg. I found the soft balls below and fondled them, earning a low moan from Kaine. He shuddered and bumped his hips higher, thrusting his cock deeper into my mouth.
But Kaine wasn’t one to sit, er, lie by and do nothing. Sliding his hand from my ass and over my leg, he opened my folds and pressured my swollen clit with his thumb. “You drive me crazy, Chrissy-doll. I love the smell of you. The taste of you. The feel of you.”
I mewed a soft sweet sound of gratitude and rubbed my tits against his abdomen as much for my benefit as his. Wanting to tease him, I took my mouth off him, then ran my tongue over and around his dick.
He continued his finger-work on my clit and fondled my breast with his other hand. “Chrissy-doll.”
Hearing my name said with such emotion, such lust, sent a fresh burst of juice out of me. I wanted to take him into my mouth again, but I had to admit, I wanted something else more. “I need you inside me.”
“That would most definitely be my pleasure.” Releasing a low rumbling sound, he pushed me off him and positioned me on my side. Flinging his body on top of me, he paused and sought my eyes.
“Ready?”
I made a face at him. “Are you freakin’ kidding me?”
He laughed and bent his head to my breast. He bit and tugged on each nipple and I wrapped my legs around him. He swirled his tongue around my tit, unleashing a ring of fire in my womb. Moving to the other bud, he lazily swirled his tongue around this one, until at last he sealed his mouth over it, clamped his teeth gently at its base, and sucked.
I gritted my teeth against screaming his name. Whether from the delight at the sensations rippling through my tit or from the vexation of his not plunging into me, I didn’t know. Finally, he slid his cock over my pussy.
Too bad it wasn’t what I was hoping for.
“Kaine, I swear to God if you don’t fuck me, I’m gonna rip off your dick and feed it to the white tigers at the Mirage.”
He cocked his head at me, a bemused expression on his face. “You never told me you were so…”
“Be careful what you say, Kaine.” I reached down to take his hand. Although I didn’t make him stop his methodical rake over my clit, I still craved more.
“…ferocious.” He hiked an eyebrow at me. “I like it.”
With an animal-like growl, he plunged into me. I gasped, then cried out.
Kaine pushed my legs over his arms—thank goodness for my Pilates classes—giving him better room to do his job. He stroked me from the inside, rubbing his cock along the sensitive nerves within my sex. I squeezed my muscles, determined to keep him within me for as long as possible.
Panting, I met every one of his thrusts with one of my own. Hot juicy warmth rushed from me, covering him. Closing his mouth over mine in a frenzied heated kiss, he roared his climax, mixing his breath with mine. I held him to me, drinking in both of his releases and let loose with yet another one of my own.
Kaine collapsed on top of me, his weight pressing down, but I didn’t mind. With a satisfied smile, I ran my hands over his back, massaging him as he lay unable to move, awakening not only the nerves in his skin, but the fantasy of what lay ahead. “Umm. You feel good on top of me.”
His low chuckle warmed my neck. “Umm. You feel good under me.”
“Then it’s official. We feel good together.”
He rewarded my humor with another chuckle to tickle my neck.
“You know, we might want to leave this room at some point. Maybe gamble, see some shows.” He slid off me and came to rest at my side. Unable to bear not having his skin touching mine, I took his arm and slung it over my body. “Then again, maybe not.”
Kaine smiled at me, then nibbled my shoulder. “Your wish is my desire. Tell me if you want to see a show, go out to dine, go shopping, go for a swim…whatever you want. You only need to ask. I don’t want you to think I’m holding you prisoner.”
“Ooh. Does that mean you’ll put me in handcuffs?”
“If that’s your fondest desire.”
The man did have an old-fashioned way with words at times, but I liked it. I cuddled into him, deciding to give my “fondest desire” some thought. Instead, my mind wandered to the day we’d first met. It may have been Thad’s birthday, but I’m the one who had received the best present.
I’d had him pegged as having old family money. You know the type of man I’m talking about—the kind who has enough moolah in the bank so that he never has to worry about working to pay his mortgage, but not enough dough to retire early.
But, boy, was I wrong. This dude had a lot of money. I’m talking about Bill Gates or Oprah kind of money. When he’d proposed, however, I hadn’t known the full extent of his wealth because it hadn’t mattered to me. Seriously. I would’ve said yes if he’d been a janitor or even unemployed. I mean, love is the most important thing, right? (Yeah, I know. I would’ve scoffed at such a statement a few days ago, but now it seemed undeniably true.)
But I have to admit something else. As the old saying goes, it’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is a man with no pennies. Or however the saying goes. Yep, at the risk of sounding like a money-hungry gold-digger, I was damn glad I’d fallen for a rich one.
I grew up with lower-middle-class parents who had, due to a tragic car accident, left me orphaned and living with an unmarried, barely-making-ends-meet aunt. I had, inadvertently, dropped myself into the lower-lower-middle-class by way of my rather unique and non-lucrative occupation. Not that I’d cared before, but now that I’d seen what money could buy, I wasn’t about to play the poor snob enough to snub my nose—or my wallet—at my fortunate turn of circumstances. Besides, Kaine loved spending money on me, er, us.
Kaine rented a beautiful wedding chapel in the marriage-happy desert town, booting all the other couples ahead of us in line out of the pristine white house. They didn’t mind, however, once he handed them a thousand-dollar poker chip for their inconvenience. Then he arranged to stay at the best accommodation, including private butler and maid service, in a fancy hotel. In blissful wedded happiness, we hopped into the waiting stretch limousine and glided down the Strip.
You got it. I was living the champagne-and-roses life, lying next to the man I loved. And even though I know it’s kind of rude to say so, I can’t help but go there.
Eat your heart out, ladies.
“Chrissy-doll…”
I batted my eyelids at him. I couldn’t believe it. Batting eyelids was so not the type of thing I’d do. Or at least it wasn’t until I met Kaine. “What’s up, big guy?” I grinned, knowing he’d understand what I really meant by big guy.
“We didn’t discuss this, but—”
I laughed. “We didn’t have time to discuss a lot of things.” I wiggled my eyebrows in a so-so imitation of Grouch Marx. “Especially since coming in Vegas.” I winked at him, hoping he’d catch my innuendo. Again, not something I would normally do, but a girl in love does silly things.
He quirked an eyebrow, mimicking my eyebrow play. “Very, very true.”
I reached down to grab his Big Guy and was shocked when Kaine took my hand away. Wow, talk about a short honeymoon. Headache already? However, I decided to keep my thoughts to myself—for once. Instead I cocked my eyebrow at him (ahem!) with a pointed (like he should be) look. This eyebrow-ve
rsus-eyebrow thing might have to go to the mat. Preferably the mattress. (I’m on a roll.)
“I’d like to talk about children.”
I froze as though someone had dumped a bucket of ice on me. First, Big Guy was off limits and now he’d brought up the ultimate libido-buster: children. Was he trying to kill the attraction between us?
“Chrissy-doll, are you all right?”
Somewhere deep inside me, a molecular army of child-bearing DNA lit an emergency flame, thawed me out, and went into hiding. Was the man insane? Did he expect me to give up my pursuit of the magical miraculous butt-buster already? Talk about humps! I immediately envisioned my body with not only my little hump on the rump, but a bigger bump in the front.
“Children? Tell me you’re about to say you’ve had a vasectomy. Because if you have, it’s totally cool with me.” I waited—hell, prayed—to see him confirm a little snip-snip to his dick-dick. But it seemed my luck had run out. “Holy crap, are you seriously talking about rug rats? Seriously? What happened to the honeymoon? What happened to just you and me having fun for a while? And I’m talking a long while.”
As in a lifetime.
He pulled away—oh, no he did-n’t!—and I gaped at him. My hope that he was joking vanished along with the sparkle in his eye.
“Yes, I’m serious. I’d like to have a child as soon as possible.”
As soon as possible? Now I was the one pulling away. Away and straight out of the bed. “Are you frickin’ kidding me?” I wrapped the sheet around me, scanned the room and searched for a hidden camera. “Tell me you’re punking me.” I laughed—or at least I tried to—but the noise sounded more like a croak. “This is a joke, right?”
But his expression left no doubt. The man wanted a baby-mamma and he wanted her now. My legs suddenly lost their strength, and I barely managed to sink into one of the cushy armchairs near the bed.
Kaine was up and moving toward me. “Chrissy-doll, I had no idea you’d react this way. Don’t you like kids?”
I tilted my head and peered at him, hoping a different angle would make me see the upward turn of his lips signaling his mirth. I held on to the dying dream that this was a bad joke, but knew that particular funeral had my beloved dream lying four feet under and sinking straight to Hell. “Uh, sure I do.” As long as they were someone else’s. A tickle of apprehension latched onto the back of my neck. No. Don’t go there. Don’t think about it.
He visibly sighed in relief. Uh-oh. Time to nix his dream in the butt. Or however the saying goes.
“Hold on, sport. Let me clarify. I like kids in television commercials, on billboards hawking cereal, and in someone else’s arms, far, far away in a whole different universe than mine. But real kids screaming, pooping and getting dirty within a hundred yards of me? Not a chance.”
The pained expression on his face threw me for a loop and, so help me, I relented a little bit. “Are you like dead-set on having one? And definitely only one?” An inner voice screamed at me, warning me not to go down this path. I suddenly wished I could take back my questions.
I prayed he’d say no—to the first question, that is. Failing help from above, I hoped he would want just one. The thought of two or more children clinging to my shirttail was simply too unbelievable to imagine.
“I must have a child. And soon.” His gaze bore into me and I knew, without a doubt, we had hit a deal breaker. If this man didn’t get a baby from me, he’d go elsewhere.
And, frankly, that just pissed me off.
“You must? What does that mean? And isn’t this something you should’ve mentioned before we got hitched?” Never mind that I’d never brought up the subject either. He started to open his mouth, but I didn’t want to hear anything like baby or pregnant or any other word not in my vocabulary. “You’d better start taking hormone treatments because if anyone in this marriage is getting knocked up, it ain’t gonna be me!” I didn’t give him time to retort. Instead, with a dramatic whirl of my sheet, I stomped toward the combination bathroom and dressing room.
“Chrissy, come back here!”
Not Chrissy-doll. Just Chrissy. Figures. I glanced back at him and scowled as hard as I could, then renewed my trek to safety. Yeah, right. Not a chance, dude. I’ll be damned before I let you command me like some antiquated housewife from the 1950s Me-Man-You-Wifey era. “Not on your life.”
“We need to talk about this.”
I hurried through the bathroom door and whirled to face him again. Putting all my anger behind my glare, I stuck out my chin and took the enraged woman stance; one hand on a hip and a look that could wither flowers right off their stems. A momentary silence rested uneasily between us until I slowly raised my hand, palm out. “See this? Learn how to use yours. Because until this baby talk ends, that’s all the sex you’re getting.”
With a harrumph, I stepped back, never taking my eyes off him, and slammed the door.
Two hours later I knew I’d gone overboard. Yeah, I can be a bit of a drama queen. Couple that with a big mouth and trouble usually isn’t far behind. How was my sweet new hubby supposed to know that kids scared the crap out of me? That’s right. I’m afraid of kids. Bring on the haunted houses and spooky graveyards, but keep those precious little tykes on the playground and out of my sight. Why? Hey, I have good reasons. The first reason being named Desmond Donaldson.
When I was a teenager babysitting for mall-cruising cash, I landed a job sitting with the Donaldson family. No one, including my aunt, however, bothered to tell me Desmond’s nickname. Having gone through twenty-two sitters, angelic-looking Desmond had been dubbed Dessy the Demon. Oh, he wasn’t an actual demon—at least, I didn’t think so at the time—but I’d have bet he could make a real demon run screaming home to Papa Satan. My one and only night with that little baby-faced horror made me swear off kids forever.
Picture this. I’m sitting on the sofa watching a movie after getting the cute, lovable Dessy to bed. At that point, I couldn’t believe my luck. What other parents were willing to chuck out fifty dollars for three hours of babysitting? Being an intelligent girl, I wasn’t about to question their generosity—at least not until I heard a loud boom.
I raced down the hallway toward little Dessy’s bedroom, but when I shoved at it, the door wouldn’t open. What could’ve exploded in his room? I shouted for Dessy, terror twisting my heart. His calls for help cut through me. Imagining him trapped inside, body brutally torn apart by the mysterious blast, I did the only thing I could to do. I rushed to the living room and called nine-one-one. Smart move, right?
Not so much.
To say the demon child had set me up to embarrass the hell out of me is an understatement. With neighbors watching, a television crew filming and his parents wringing their hands next to the ambulance, I made my way out of the house, intent on nothing more than going home and never having anything to do with another child. An unhurt Desmond followed behind me, grinning from ear to ear, his hand firmly clasped in a firefighter’s. Another firefighter walked behind them, holding what was left of the box of fireworks Dessy had set off in his room.
Need I say more?
Actually, I guess I should. To be honest, the Dessy the Demon story was what I told people who were either brave enough or rude enough to ask about my possible fertility. The real reason, the one that tore at my gut every time I thought about having a baby, wasn’t something I was ready to think about, let alone share with anyone else.
How was poor Kaine to know about my tormented past? He’d tried to cajole me out of the bathroom but, after an hour of waiting for me to reappear, he’d apparently decided to let me cool my jets in privacy. I heard the door slam signaling his departure. At first, this made me even madder. How dare he leave me to stew all by myself?
Eventually, however, I realized I was acting like an overgrown child. So the man had wanted to have the Baby Talk. Big deal, right? True, I hadn’t expected the talk to come during our honeymoon, but I should’ve known the subject was bound to come up a
t some point. I mean, he’s a virile young man. Why wouldn’t he want kiddos? I had to ask myself, had his request warranted my reaction? I cringed inwardly and knew the answer. Nope. But what should I do now?
I sat on the toilet with the sheet wrapped around me and stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror on the opposite wall. Damn how I hated it when I screwed up. Especially when I screwed up big time like this and looked like a crazy bitch in the process. I eyed the telephone next to the toilet and reached out for the receiver. Should I call him, blare the all-clear signal, and tell him Hurricane Chrissy had blown herself out? Should I tell him I’d like to discuss getting pregnant?
Uh, definitely not. Just because I’d gone ballistic when he’d mentioned having a child didn’t mean I wanted to push out a baby. I was ready to call a truce, but not ready to wave the white flag. Sighing, I hung up the telephone.
I needed help with this problem. Unfortunately, Aunt Flo (yes, I’ve heard all the jokes) had passed away two years earlier and most of my friends weren’t very good at doling out advice. Most that is, except Thad, my own personal gay Dear Abby. Again I reached for the phone, then stopped. Getting Thad on the line never worked. Between writing, acting and directing his own theatre productions, he was harder to reach than Oprah’s Stedman. Tracking him down was easier done in person, but I was in no position to do so sitting on a toilet thousands of miles away. Instead, I did the next best thing.
I admit it. It’s a bit wacky to have conversations with someone who isn’t really there, but let’s face it, sometimes wacky works. Closing my eyes, I imagined how the conversation would go. Within seconds, I heard the sing-song tones of my friend ringing through me.
“Hel-looo! This is Thad. How may I help you make my day?”
“Thad, it’s Chrissy. I need some advice, Oh Wise One.”
“No problem, sweet-cheeks. Let Thaddy come to your rescue. Do exactly what I tell you to do. Open your mouth and make an O shape with your lips. Now pull his dick out of his boxers, bend over and—”
