Nature of Desire 8 - Divine solace

by Hill, Joey W.

  He put her back on the towel, bringing his body down with her, so she was pinned beneath his chest. “Let me just do this.” He put his hand on her thigh, a nonverbal cue to loosen her lock as he adjusted his hips, slid back a little, then back in, an easier angle.

  “How do you know a woman’s body like this?” Her heart and soul…

  “I feel you, Gen. Everything about you is mapped right here.” He held her gaze, telling her he meant her eyes. “Let me give you pleasure. Unless…do you want me to force you to accept it?”

  As she stared up at him, he let his touch shift, slowly, deliberately, to her arms, down to her wrists. He moved them to her sides, held them locked to the sand. When she trembled he saw it, eyes darkening. His abdomen muscles contracted as his hips lifted, then sank back into wetness, her cunt slick and welcoming, now lubricated to take him deep, but instead of ramming in there like a hammer and nail, it was like the Creator bringing together two body parts, joint to ball socket. Something meant to fit together, move easily, capable of power, speed, flexibility. Control. Utter, blissful control. She’d given it to him.

  Her clit spasmed, her inner muscles clutching him. “Noah…”

  “There’s some of it in you, what you see in me,” he said. She appreciated the catch in his voice, since she was unraveling. “It’s different, but there. Lyda really brings it out in you. It makes me crazy hard, watching you two. Listening to her make you come the other night just about killed me.”

  She writhed against his hold, and his grip tightened, underscoring his strength. He could make her helpless, and that turned things in her lower body to molasses, but she also wanted to explore, to experiment. Lyda had offered her that opportunity, and she wanted to start now.

  “Let go of me, Noah. I want to touch you.”

  Her voice was hoarse. As he cocked his head, not immediately complying, she saw the challenging light in his eyes. He wasn’t an automatic pleaser. He understood when not being so accommodating could be a huge turn-on. The man was an endless puzzle.

  “Now,” she said softly. “Don’t make me get rough with you.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, and her eyes sparked in answer. He let go of her but curled his arm beneath her again to cradle her upper body against him, half off the sand as he slid in deeper, more firmly, making her gasp.

  “You may have noticed I like it rough.” His eyes were much closer now, his mouth. “Do your worst.”

  She kissed him, and his lips opened, welcoming her into heat and demand both. She lashed at his tongue, the surge of hot, needy lust translating into her sliding her hands up over his shoulders to rake his back again as he thrust into her, setting off a rhythm she matched with the movement of her hips. The towel was rough beneath her bare buttocks, her ankles crossed over the bend of his knees, pressed into the soft sand, their mattress beneath the terry cloth. His hand tangled in her hair to tip her head back and he bit her throat, suckling. She pulled loose and returned the favor, biting his shoulder when he plunged deeper.

  “God…” She shoved at him, levered herself up. She couldn’t hold against his physical strength, but when she made it clear she was going to insist, he gave way, letting her roll and reverse their positions so she straddled him. He stared up at her, eyes dark with desire. She felt powerful, beautiful, dangerous. Those bikini-clad girls couldn’t give him this. Noah wanted the goddess inside a woman. He hungered for that power, wanted to worship it, be lost in that wave. A woman had to have known bittersweet pain and loss, to give him that. She had to understand what love and surrender, sacrifice and pain, were all about.

  Testing herself and him, Gen slid a hand up his chest, trailing over his nipple. His expression and body went still, a powerful, combustible force, as he realized her destination. She closed her hand over his throat, the pulse hammering against her grip. When he tilted his chin up, accepting the hold, her body hummed in fierce, pleased response.

  “Stay still,” she whispered. “Don’t move.”

  She rose and fell. Up, tightening all along his sizeable shaft, then down, enjoying every delicious inch of friction. Her pussy was so lubricated, she heard the sucking noise on each downward stroke impact. His breath rasped in his throat.

  “Fuck…Gen.”

  “Don’t come,” she said. “I want to see you fight it until I finish.”

  “Anything for you.”

  Her heart tore free a few mooring lines at that, rising higher in her chest, the thumping painful. “Don’t…” she said. It wasn’t an admonishment. He hadn’t done anything wrong. She just couldn’t do this, couldn’t hold the reins if he broke her heart wide open.

  He didn’t disturb her hand on his throat, but he laid one hand over her wrist, coiled his strong fingers around it, his thumb rubbing her pulse, an erogenous zone that leaped at the caress. “Ride me however you want, Mistress.”

  She returned to that up and down movement, the pure pleasure of it. God, there was a lot of pleasure to fucking Noah. He moved with her, anticipated when she needed him to lift his hips to help her impale herself deeper. He was hard and thick, and he met her demand, the muscles of his face tightening, then all along his body. His eyes had that feral, desperate light that told her how close he was.

  She pushed herself to hold out. It felt too damn good. She didn’t want it to end, but more than that, she was feeding on his self-restraint, his obvious desire to please her on every level, even the deeper ones most men weren’t even aware were there, let alone expended the effort to try to satisfy. She was around some of the rarities like Tyler and Brendan, but until now that had sometimes been as torturous as being stabbed daily with a dull knife. Why did Chloe and Marguerite have what had eluded her?

  No, don’t go there. This was about pleasure, a sun-filled day with an exciting man.

  Fuck, it had caught her. She’d faltered, despite being so close to the knife-edge of release. Her body was quivering, fighting her.

  “Gen.” He cradled her face, drawing her attention back to him. Her hand had shifted from his throat, the heel pressed against his heart, fingers curved into a claw over his collarbone. “Stay right here. You aren’t lost. I have you.”

  Noah pushed himself into a sitting position, adjusting her so her legs were curled around his hips and she was cinched in closer to him, his mouth near her breast, his head pressed into her neck. He had his arms banded around her, one hand curving over her buttock. He took over, working his cock into her from that more limited movement position, making the sensation overwhelming. He nuzzled her breast, her nipples pressed high against his chest.

  “Lay your head back like you did when we were sailing. Close your eyes, feel the sun and wind. Feel me.”

  Though she was on top, the power balance had shifted back to him, easy as the flow of water. She’d needed him to be the one in charge of the boat for this to work. He’d figured it out, accepted that responsibility without a pause.

  He rocked her, such that she could imagine the lift and fall of the boat on the water. As he began to do it faster, he set those delicate tissues on fire, driving everything else away. Now he unleashed his male strength, holding her, pounding into her, stroking her clit with the motion. She sealed her mouth over his again, teasing his tongue stud with her own tongue, kissing him with frenetic passion as the climax surged up. She didn’t want to break the connection, so as the orgasm swept through her, she dug her claws into him once more, holding on, screaming into his mouth as he kept driving into her. She felt the impact all the way deep inside where he was rubbing against her. He sent her soaring to the freaking moon.

  His hand coiled in her hair, holding her tight, fused to his mouth, his other hand spread over her back, his thumb in the valley of her spine. He held her so tight, almost bruising. He was hanging on by a determined thread. Waiting on her to release him.

  She stared at him through glazed eyes. Marguerite and Tyler both loved sculpture and possessed an impressive collection. Some of it was erotic, becaus
e several of Tyler’s friends specialized in that area, but she wondered if any of them had ever captured a man when he looked like this. Almost like she imagined he’d look in battle, eyes fierce, muscles rigid, cock hard. A state where killing rage and lustful need were so close, and a woman felt a thrilling desire seeing either demonstrated on her behalf.

  She slid trembling fingers down his jaw, to his throat, over his shoulder. Taking her time with it as he quivered, chest rising and falling, and that look became even more dangerous.

  She reached back, bracing her palms against his knees, lodging herself deeper on his cock, the angle tilting up her breasts. She loved the frustration in his expression, but also the fact he complied with her nonverbal cue to keep holding.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking right now. Uncensored.”

  “That I’d kill to fuck your cunt. That’s all there is. The desire to fuck.”

  She trembled at the growling response. “I want to watch you come. Come for me, Noah. Don’t look away.” Then she braced herself.

  He tightened his grip, lifted her, thrust upward. She gasped at the deep penetration, and then she had to hold onto his legs as he started pumping himself into her with that singular focus. The desire to fuck. She clung to his expression, to his eyes which never left hers as he hammered his cock into her, over and over, such that her post-climactic tissues clutched him, sending sweet aftershocks through her that made her moan. He devoured every reaction, and then he was coming, his face creasing with the effort, harsh grunts breaking free. His gaze shifted only once, to her breasts, quivering with erotic movement because of the power of his thrusts, but she’d forgive him that since his heated attention sent waves of pleasure over the nerve endings.

  “Yes…” She encouraged him with sighing pleasure. “Yes…”

  When he finally began to slow down, rather than flopping back to the sand like a grounded trout as she expected, he slid his arm around her waist, brought her to him once more. Capturing her right breast with his mouth, he sealed wet friction over her nipple, flicking her with the tongue stud. Arousal feathered through her as she coiled her arms around his shoulders. She held him to her as he nursed each breast to aching, pleasurable response again, rubbing a jaw with that afternoon sandpaper texture against her tender flesh.

  At length, he laid his head there, his damp breath on her tight nipple. She kept holding him, stroking his hair, loving the feel of her arms around him, his around her.

  She’d touched him how she’d desired, learning to trust herself to command him. And he’d provided her the guidance to do it.

  “So…” She cleared the frogs out of her throat. “I realize it’s a really convenient time to ask, but you did say Lyda was okay with this, right?”

  He smiled against her breast. “Yes. Lyda commands my pleasure, Gen. She told me I was to provide you anything you desired. And before you piss me off by asking, yes, it worked out pretty well for me as well.”

  Now he did do the fish thing, flopping back with drama, as if she’d completely drained him. “I guess capsizing will have to wait for another day,” she chuckled.

  “Nope. Just give me a minute to recharge. A couple more of those cookies would help, if we still have any.”

  “I could learn to hate you,” she said, eying the hard body beneath her.

  He grinned. “Does that mean we still have cookies?”

  With a sigh, she began to slide off him. When her muscles contracted on him, a reluctant farewell, he caught her hips. Bringing his mouth to hers, hand cradling her face, he captured her lips in one more kiss, this one deep and long, a promise of the same passion, but something more tender too.

  When he drew back, she had her hand around his wrist. “What was that?”

  “I just felt like you needed it. Or maybe I did. I wanted it.”

  With a pensive look that puzzled her, he let her slide away. He discouraged further discussion of it, helping her to her feet and then pulling on his swimsuit while she did the same with her suit and shorts. The silence was weighted, but comfortable, so she left it undisturbed as she brought the extra cookies back to the towel. They shared one and then he ate another as they passed a water bottle back and forth. A line of pelicans passed over and she closed her eyes, enjoying the sun on her still tingling skin. When Noah brushed a finger along her cheek, taking some cookie crumbs or a few grains of sand away—she wasn’t sure which—she opened her eyes.

  “The cage at Lyda’s, there’s a freedom to it,” he said. “You understand?”

  Her brow knit at the unexpected topic. “I didn’t feel comfortable with that. For me.”

  “I know. But a part of you knows why it works, right? The real cage for most people is the one memories put around us.” A lot of things moved behind those dark eyes. “If you were in a car crash tomorrow, every reservation or doubt you felt with me today, it would have been a waste, right? You look down the road to the future, and it paralyzes you, because you think you’ll find you’re still in that prison of memories, that you never left, and this is just more of the same. If there’s no future for the past to mess up, there’s just this moment, right?”

  Whether or not it was his intention, the simple logic helped with her own doubts. But applying the words to that shadow in his makeup she kept detecting, it reminded her of a bird who’d finally escaped a cage. The bird soared, feeding on the pleasures of the air, but he refused to touch the earth for fear of that prison closing around him again. Living in the moment could also be an act of desperation.

  She slid her knuckles along his sculpted cheekbone, the firm jaw, feathered a fingertip over the lashes a woman would kill to have. “I think we are who we are because of those memories. They can help us make good decisions, better decisions, for ourselves.”

  “It pulls you down, though,” he said. “It makes you sad. Hurts you.”

  So he was talking about her, the near miss on the climax because she’d gotten mired in old pain. She shook her head, laying her hand on him in reassurance. “What you and Lyda unlock inside of me, I don’t yet know how to reconcile that with old wounds, but so far, I’m willing to keep going down that road and figure it out. You made it easier to do that today. Let that be enough.”

  She thought he might say more, but she put her fingers on his lips, a mute request not to do so. He kissed them. Reassured, she pushed away to retrieve a hidden cache of cookies she’d prudently packed, anticipating his male appetite and sweet tooth. Though she could feel him watching her intently, he said nothing further about it.

  That was good. It had been a wonderful day, one that made her all for living in the moment. At least until tomorrow.

  Chapter Eight

  Gen had never been in a relationship that was like a force of nature, so beyond her control, yet so irresistibly powerful she couldn’t help but want to run wild in the storm. Interacting with these two complicated people had so far been exciting, passionate, pleasurable, scary and thought provoking. Disturbing. She was doing things she’d never contemplated doing.

  “New blend?” Marguerite inquired, pausing at her elbow.

  Gen was preparing the order for a couple at Table Two. The man wanted coffee, the woman, the chai tea special of the day. With a start, Gen realized she’d poured them into the same cup. “Oh good grief.”

  Giving her an amused look, Marguerite lifted it to her lips, took an experimental sip. Grimaced. “We won’t be starting a chai-coffee offering with that blend anytime soon.” Dumping it down the sink, she set out a clean mug next to the one that was intended to take the tea. “I’ll handle this order. Why don’t you make it an early day?”

  “I’m fine, M. I’m not sick, just distracted. I’ll do better.”

  “You’re doing fine, Gen. I thought you might like extra time to prepare for your evening plans.”

  She’d mentioned it to Chloe, so of course M knew about it. Before Gen could think of a response, Marguerite nodded toward the door. “Speaking of which.”

>   Gen glanced over her shoulder to see Lyda coming in. Her jeans were stained with dirt, showing she’d already had a busy day. Because the heat index was in the hundreds today, her T-shirt was dark with sweat, her pale face flushed.

  “Iced tea,” Marguerite said, unnecessarily. Gen was already reaching for it. “Unsweetened. Lyda doesn’t do sugar. Put some of that herbal energy blend in it I’ve been using in the sweet tea order for Todd’s group,” she added, referring to the construction foreman who came in regularly to get sweetened tea for his crew. “Add some raspberry to cut the bitter.”

  “Christ, why do I live in Florida?” Lyda grimaced, sliding onto a stool at the counter. She stripped off her gloves, tucked them into her belt.

  “Because there isn’t a huge demand for nursery stock and perennials in Alaska,” Marguerite offered.

  “I’d go up there and change that, except Noah hates the cold. That skinny boy would freeze to death the first day.”

  “Why isn’t he or one of the others with you, helping with the deliveries?” Gen now knew Lyda had four employees other than Noah. Lyda’s neck and arms were dry. Though she could have mopped them off with a towel in her truck, a lack of perspiration was precursor to heat stroke.

  When Lyda raised a brow, Gen realized how sharp she’d sounded. Gen put the tea in front of her, hoping it distracted from the color now in her own cheeks. “Here, drink this. You’ll dehydrate fast in this heat.”

  “I didn’t realize,” Lyda said dryly. But she laid her hand on Gen’s forearm, keeping it there to run a caressing finger over her skin, oddly playful. “I’m fine, rabbit. You need to come to my fitness class to see a real workout.”

  “Do I have to participate?”

  Lyda gave her a feral smile. “Not the first time. As I told you, I like your soft places, Gen. Keep them soft.” Her gaze swept over Gen’s upper body, pointedly lingering on her breasts and the nip of her waist. Unlike the first time Lyda had visited, today Gen was wearing a fitted shirt that hugged her curves over a nice pair of stressed jeans that had a white stencil of a faded rose down one thigh. She’d always dressed appropriately for work, but her choices were now being driven by new feelings. Cue the Jon Berry song about Rosie.