Muscle

by Lexi Whitlow

  “I’m sure.” I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. His scent in my head is intoxicating. His hands—everywhere—make me wet.

  Once upstairs it’s chaos. He’s kissing me, dragging me toward his bed while fumbling in a drawer for years-old condoms.

  “Don’t,” I say, tugging at his shirt tail. “No need. I’m on the shot.” I fumble with his belt, anxious to free the swollen package imprisoned behind leather, denim, and a damned inconvenient brass zipper.

  “The shot?” Camden asks, hot breath escaping, warming my neck and breasts as he shoves my shirt back, bathing me with urgent, wet kisses.

  He doesn’t wait for a reply.

  He muscles me onto the bed then crawls over me, covering me.

  His eyes have gone liquid and dark. He plunges his face between my ample tits, his fingers finding soft nipples, tugging roughly until they peak, hardening. I feel his attentions deep in my belly, stirring my clit.

  His hands aren’t soft like Mark’s. They’re calloused and strong, persistent rather than tentative.

  He follows his fingers with lips and tongue, drawing the suppressed heat out of me in precise increments.

  My fingers trace the supple lines and ripple of muscle on his chest and shoulders, rounding down along his torso to his hips. He’s still half dressed as he peels my jeans off me, casting them aside. The bulge behind his zipper is intimidating, but my fingers probe, reaching.

  Camden moans in my ear. “Honey, have a little patience. We’ll get there.”

  With his broad chest pressed against mine, he slips his thumbs around the band of my panties, tugging them down, roughly pulling them off.

  “I want to taste you,” he growls. “Every drop.”

  Mark never did this. Mark was too timid to do this. Too squeamish.

  Camden begins sampling the flesh behind my knees with his tongue and lips, then works up from there. My fingers find the tightly trimmed locks atop his head, threading into them, feeling the razor edge of the barber’s clippers while his tongue and sucking lips discover places in my anatomy that I hadn’t known existed.

  “Oh, God…” I moan, losing myself in his grip.

  “Shush,” he whispers, his tongue circumnavigating my clit. “We need to be quiet.”

  We do. We need to be quiet. Emma.

  Fingers. Fingers slipping in, going deep. Spreading me. Sliding back.

  “Oh…”

  Camden laughs, his tongue flicking my clit, sucking; his hands doing things to me I don’t comprehend.

  No one has ever made me feel this good.

  His strong fingers dive in while his lips and tongue draw me forward. He’s steady and patient.

  A shudder emanates from deep inside. It’s electric. It won’t be contained.

  “Oh God damn.” I don’t mean to cry out, but I do. My fingers into Camden’s scalp.

  Mark could never do this. He didn’t know how.

  Oh fuck.

  My body explodes in response to Camden’s skilled efforts. Every nerve in me releases in one stunning jolt. The waves quake me, reverberating down to my toes.

  He comes up laughing when the last tremor has passed, a grin painting his lathered face.

  “Fuck yeah,” he boasts grinning, hauling over me, dipping his tongue into my mouth, letting me taste the salty heat of my own pleasure.

  He reaches down, opening the brass button on his jeans. “I want inside you.”

  It’s a statement, not a question, but he pauses for a response.

  My fingers find his, leading them.

  “Yeah,” I say, slipping the zipper on his Levi’s down, shoving the waistband back, below the curve of his solidly perfect ass. His heavy silver buckle falls cool on the soft flesh of my hips.

  The tight muscle of his cock presses, teasing against my slit, begging entrance. Without hesitating, I tip my hips up, spreading wide to receive him.

  “This isn’t gonna last long,” Camden warns me, purring in my ear. “It’s been a long time. I’ll be good for a second round.”

  Then, with a deft athleticism I hadn’t anticipated, he pushes up, shoving my knees apart urgently, his entire body hovering over me. We’re eye to eye. In an instant he finds the spot and dives inside—hard.

  It’s been a long time for me too. I cry out, my fingers digging deep into his shoulders. In a moment the pain subsides, giving way to the pleasure of Camden’s thrusting strokes.

  “You feel so good,” he states in halting, clipped breaths. He moves in deeper, harder, dropping his weight onto me, pinning me to the bed, helpless against his bulk and his strength.

  “Oh… God… You’re so… fucking… perfect…” he moans into my ear, his trembling voice, almost a whine.

  The current between us crackles again, shuddering me from my depths. But I’m not fast enough. Camden comes first, bucking, driving into me over and again slowly, growling low in his throat as I feel his orgasm fill me, spilling out of the seal between us.

  But he doesn’t stop fucking me. He slows down and keeps going.

  “Now I’m warned up,” he coos a few minutes later, hitching up on his elbows. His entire body is engaged in this event, rocking me. He shoves in, then draws back slowly, his lips and teeth nipping and nibbling at my nape and earlobes, kissing me, watching me.

  The depths he reaches, and the deliberation of his strokes, touch some dormant, uncharted part of my soul. I feel it in the tips of my toes all the way to my eyelashes. It builds and then like some heaving leviathan, it trembles, quaking inside of me, demanding release.

  “Oh, Cam… Oh…” I call out, hearing my own voice as if it’s coming from some parallel dimension

  Camden slips a hand over my mouth. “C’mon, honey,” he encourages, pumping me, priming me with generous, even strokes. “Quietly.”

  My body implodes underneath him. What it is, defies description. I’m engulfed in wave after wave of ecstasy. I tremble, shuddering beneath this creature who feels built for no other purpose than to inflict his torturous pleasure on me.

  I’m left breathless, gasping, heaving for air while his hand remains clasp tight over my mouth.

  “Shush,” he reminds, kissing me, pumping gently, sucking the last remnants of reflexive orgasm from my body. “Fucking hell, this is great.”

  It is. Never in my entire life….

  Yeah. We may be on the down-low, but we’re in this. And this is too good to be missed.

  Chapter 10

  Camden

  Her heels—one of them wrapped in an Ace bandage—are dug into my ass cheeks so hard it’s damn near distracting. Not as distracting as the way her pussy shudders, gripping me, sucking me in as she comes over and again, beneath me. When Grace comes, her face is the prettiest face I’ve ever seen. It softens by degrees, going slack, like some angel has slipped inside her and taken away all her doubt, replacing it with contentment, or maybe even joy.

  I’d like to do this all night if she’d keep coming like that. I wish it was possible, but it’s been a long time, and she feels too good, she looks too good with my dick buried deep inside her for me to last much longer. It started quick and it’s going to wrap up quicker than I want it to. That’s okay, we’ll have time to get better at this. I want to take my time with her.

  She said something about a shot. I don’t know what that is. I already came inside her once, not meaning to. I just couldn’t stop or pull out fast enough.

  Feeling my balls tighten, knowing I’m close, I slow down, ease back, and make Grace look at me.

  “I’m gonna come,” I huff, between clenched teeth. “Should I pull out?”

  She grins wickedly, squeezing my dick tight with her hot walls. Her hands round my shoulders, pulling up with my strokes.

  “I’ll be mad if you do,” she teases, nipping my lip. “It’s okay.” She blinks, her eyes dark with absent pleasure. “I’m on birth control.”

  Outstanding.

  Does she have any idea how good she feels, her s
oft skin, naked to me? The way her breasts feel, hot and firm against my chest? Her pussy tight, wrapping me in a grip so snug that every movement makes my gut quiver and my balls twitch?

  My hands fall to her ample, dimpled ass. I pull it nearer, lifting her so I’m driving in at the perfect angle. I dig in, feeling every inch of her slip over me.

  “Come on,” Grace encourages, her tone low, soothing, heated. “Do it.”

  That’s it.

  “Oh… fuck…”

  The crushing pressure I’ve controlled for too long explodes with force, flooding me, dulling my mind, darkening all my senses. It’s just pleasure now. Pounding, penetrating pleasure, gushing from me in torrents, erasing any other concern in my world. The only awareness I know is Grace’s body receiving me, open to me, sucking my strength from me, milking me dry until I’m soft like a fish out of water, half dead, heavy and limp on top of her, whining like a cat.

  Moments pass before I can move or begin to catch my breath. I’m spinning, dizzy, delirious. Drained.

  Never in my entire life….

  When my senses finally begin to return, I push up and slowly roll off Grace, leaving her drenched in my sweat, slick with my scent.

  I’m slick with her scent too; herbs, springtime, lemon peel. I want to rub that scent all over me, so I can carry it around on me during the day.

  Never in my entire life….

  She stirs beside me, drawing the covers up close, shielding her nakedness—or maybe for warmth.

  I roll to face her, propped on an elbow, reaching up, tugging the blanket down to reveal the arching globe of her breasts, her nipples peeking just at the trim of the sheet.

  “Don’t hide from me,” I whisper, leaning in, kissing her. “I want to see you.”

  I let my fingers trace her bare skin, slowly running the turn of her shoulder, skipping down, dipping under the covers, my hand grazing the curve of her belly, the rise of her hip. Her body is my idea of perfection. Soft, generous curves. Full hips and breasts. Skin the color of ivory, with the feel of silk.

  Grace takes me in, watching me study her. Her expression is implacable, but I know there’s something going on behind those smart, secretive eyes.

  “What?” I ask. “You’re thinking. Tell me.”

  She shakes her head, smiling a little. “Not much,” she says. “Just thinking that was nice, and… you’re good at that.” She laughs a little as she says this, like she didn’t expect it.

  “Am I?” I ask. Nice? It was nice?

  She makes it easy. It isn’t always easy or nice.

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  I reach my arm forward, circling her shoulders, drawing her into me so I can cradle her. She doesn’t object, but she seems surprised that I want her close.

  I want her as close to me as I can get her.

  I think we’re both surprised. Maybe stunned is a better word. Whichever it is, it’s something we feel, knowing that we’re here and that this has happened. As surprised as I am, I’m damned happy about it. She seems happy about it too. She’s lighter now, not so armored up. A wall has come down.

  Grace thinks of something, then lets a little laugh escape her. Her eyes meet mine.

  “You know, I thought you were going to fire me,” she says, and I could not be more astonished with the information. “I spent all afternoon psyching myself up for it, for telling Emma goodbye. For heading out to destinations unknown with a sprained ankle and a car load of books.”

  How did she ever come to that conclusion?

  “You have a pretty grim view of people,” I observe.

  After reading some of her web page posts, I suppose I understand where that grim view comes from, but I never meant to contribute to it.

  “That never crossed my mind,” I assure her. “It bothered me that you called me ‘Bossman.’ That term has some real negative implications. I sure don’t want you – or anybody – to see me that way.”

  Tyler says I’m hard to work for, but I don’t want anyone to see me as a tyrant. Or worse.

  “I’m sorry,” Grace says. “I didn’t quite mean it the way you read it. You’re my boss, and you’re bossy.” She grins at me. “At least when you talk. Which you don’t, usually.”

  I don’t talk?

  “I’m talking now,” I say. I slip my hand up, pushing her bangs back, away from her brow. “I’ll talk about anything. You don’t talk either. You’ve got all kinds of secrets.”

  “What secrets?” she challenges me, a smirk brightening her pretty, hazel eyes. “I don’t have any.”

  I can think of a few. If I ask, I’ll reveal to her that I was eavesdropping earlier.

  “Who’s Mark?” I ask, risking her ire. “I heard you on the phone with your friend. I only lingered a minute. But long enough to hear the name.”

  Grace’s breath catches. She fixes her eyes on mine.

  “You were listening to my phone call?” she asks.

  I nod. “I’m a nosy bastard,” I say smiling at her, undeterred. “Who just made you come three times. Who is Mark?”

  She rolls her eyes. I love that. Next, she shakes her head, as if trying to make light of it.

  “An ex,” she says. “From college. We’ve known one another since middle school. Best friends. We were a couple through college. He went his way, I went mine. That’s it.”

  Jesus. Since middle school? Okay.

  “Did he break your heart?” I ask her. “Or was it a mutual thing? Or just what?”

  Again, she shakes her head.

  “No. No broken hearts. We just kind of… grew apart. He had ambitions. I have different ones. He moved to California. I came here. I knew a long time ago it wasn’t going to go anywhere.”

  I wonder what kind of simpleton let’s a woman like Grace slip through his fingers. He’s got to be a special piece of light work to let that happen.

  “Well,” I say. “Whoever Mark is, he’s got his priorities all messed up for letting you get away. But I’m glad he did.” I hug her tighter. “His loss. My gain.”

  We continue talking until the early hours of the morning. She tells me about her dream to be a real journalist or writer, and I tell her about my ambitions for the ranch, and my hope that one day, Emma will take it over, keeping it going, raising another generation here on this land with the horses.

  Grace listens. She listens better than anyone I’ve ever known.

  Maybe that’s the journalist in her. She’s inclined to listen, to observe, more than tell her own story.

  “What about you?” I ask her, after revealing to her my hopes for the Kicking Horse Ranch and its future. “What is it you want to do in the long run?”

  She gives me a vacant smile. “Right now, all I want is to sleep,” she says, deflecting. “Emma’s got to be at pre-school by eight, and Bossman wants me in the ring by nine. I need to go to bed.”

  I want her to sleep with me, but she balks at the idea.

  “How many times have you woken up in the morning to find Emma in bed with you?”

  She’s got a point.

  Grace gathers her clothes and after a lingering kiss she goes, leaving me alone and lonely. She wants to keep this thing quiet. I guess I can do that if it’s what she prefers, but it doesn’t feel natural.

  I want her in bed with me. I want to hold her. I want to dream beside her.

  I don’t always get what I want. Sometimes I have to settle for what I can get.

  * * *

  I’m not a big talker; I keep to myself unless I have something useful to contribute to a conversation. But I don’t do well at keeping secrets. I guess I’ve spent so much time around my horses that I’ve become like them. They tell you who they are and what’s going on with them with looks and gestures. I do that too. It’s just how I am.

  On Christmas Eve, with a house full of people and kids running around everywhere, I see Grace leaning in a corner by herself, just watching the whirlwind like she’s studying a problem she doesn’t understand. To
anyone else observing her, she probably appears perfectly contented, holding a cup of hot chocolate, smiling at the children. But I know that expression she gets when she’s feeling lost, when she’s outside the window, looking in.

  She gets that look sometimes after we’ve made love, looking at me like she can’t really believe we’re real. We’re real. We’re just keeping it a secret. She insists it’s for Emma’s sake, but I’m starting to dislike it. I like being with her, talking with her. I like making her laugh. I like coming up behind her when she’s working in the kitchen, slipping my arms around her and pulling her close to me, nuzzling her neck, breathing her scent into my lungs.