by Lexi Whitlow
“You’re fucking amazing. Seeing you like this. Every morning. A man could get used to this sort of thing.” He kisses my neck, and the sultry, shivering feeling seems to pass into every cell in my body.
I can’t help but put my hands over his, pushing them down into my panties, to my aching sex. My body is pulsing with need, and it’s rushing through my blood like an unstoppable, powerful wave.
“Liam—” I start. I always start what I mean to stay, and he stops me. Or I stop myself. It’s not really that clear.
“Don’t say a damn thing, woman. You’re mine, aren’t you?”
“For now,” I whisper.
“For now, what?”
“For now, yes. I am yours.” I lean my head back against his shoulder, and his fingers find my clit, circling it, pulling the wetness over and around it. I moan softly.
“Good. I’m going to show you what that means. Again. Because you’re fucking made for it.” He whips me around and pushes me against the dresser. His words are raspy with lust, echoing in my ear and sending vibrations into my core. Heat rises in my center, igniting me from the inside with a need as wide as the ocean.
Liam pulls my shirt off over my head and brings his mouth to my breasts, biting gently with his teeth. A whimper escapes my lips.
His eyes are serious when he looks at me, distant and cool. At times, I feel like there are so many things he’s not telling me, that there are secrets bigger than the two of us. But I push the thought aside, letting gooseflesh overtake my skin, giving myself over to the sensation and longing.
The need becomes urgent, pressing. I open my mouth to speak but he raises a finger to my lips.
“Like I said, you’re mine. And I get to use you like I please. Isn’t that right?”
A stormy tempest of arousal rises in my body. “Yes, that’s right.”
My love.
Surrender. Give in.
I close my eyes. There are no declarations of love, no talks about our relationship past the hearing, no mention of a future beyond today. But my heart longs for it. It’s what I wanted, and being married to Liam is tricking my mind into wanting it again.
I want to say this, but my words are gone. Liam’s hand is between my legs again, his fingers slipping inside of me, the base of his palm rocking against my clit. I suck in a sharp breath, and need winds its way through my body. I’m aching with it, desperate, hapless, miserable. I spread my legs for Liam, even though my mind tries to pull away. To separate.
Instead, I’m pulling off my panties and throwing them to the floor. Liam lifts me and carries me to the bed, throwing me down on the rumpled gray coverlet I brought from my apartment. I throw my body back so I’m posed on my elbows. Liam shuffles out of his towel, and I can see his growing length.
He wants me as much as I want him, and that confuses everything.
But when he joins me on the bed, there’s nothing that I can say.
Instead, his fingers are finding my sex again, and I close my eyes, letting my body draw closer to the edge of reason yet again.
There are things to be said, but the scent of this man, the way he smiles at me, the way he parts my lips with his… all of that takes over my thoughts instead, pushing out every hint of worry with coursing, intense lust that heightens my senses and threatens to destroy me completely. My nipples grow stiff in the cool air of the room, and he palms my breasts, fingers trailing over them, playing me like I’m an instrument designed for his pleasure.
I am his. His for now. The instrument he needs in this time and place.
Liam rolls to his side, next to me, stroking his shaft to an even greater hardness. My eyes meet his, and slowly, I spread my legs for him, my hand reaching for my slippery cleft.
Gone are the protests from before, and my thoughts about our relationship are getting fuzzy. Instead, I concentrate on circling my fingers over my clit and running my hand down the slippery wetness of my sex.
This is never something I would have done with Charlie.
He never would have asked. Never would have wanted it.
But it feels so natural, so necessary, with Liam. I’m compelled to show him my pleasure. My presence in his life. The aching sweetness that he gives to me each time we’re together.
“What do you want, my little librarian?” Liam’s voice is deep and husky.
My lips curl up into a smile. I might not know what this relationship means, but I am entirely certain about what I need at this very moment. “I want you inside of me.”
These are words I never would have said before.
Words that are on my lips each time we’re together like this.
There’s a first time for everything, and I am evolving.
I tilt my head back and lose myself in the pleasure, fingers working over my own body. Each flick brings me closer to orgasm, sparks lighting through every part of my body.
“Make yourself come, baby,” he groans.
I moan, loud, at the very sound of his voice. My mouth waters as I look at Liam stroking his length. I think of him, stretching me, taking my breath away. His mouth, his tongue, his fingers. Suddenly, I come with jarring force, shaking against my hand.
He watches me with hunger in his eyes.
“I want your mouth on me, Skye,” he says.
I kneel next to him, and the next thing I know, my hands are on Liam’s cock, stroking it, tasting his soft, hot skin and the saltiness of his essence. It makes the think of the first time we were together here in this apartment. My sex throbs as I suck his cock, taking his shaft to the back of my throat and listening as his sighs turn to groans. His hips move in response to my mouth and my tongue.
I’m ready for him to come in my mouth, hit the back of my throat. But he pulls himself away from my mouth and positions himself between my legs.
I look at him with wide eyes. “What did I do wrong?
“It’s all about what you did right, my little librarian.” He drops his body onto mine, and I can feel every chiseled muscle against my skin. “I’m going to come inside of you. Like I did last night and the night before. I just can’t resist.”
He kisses me hard, and he pulls my hair. Every bit of me is on fire, my body screaming out primally and fully. He puts his cock at the entrance of my pussy.
He groans. “So tight. So sweet. Are you ready?”
Before I have a chance to answer him, I feel the head slip inside. My sex pulses in response, and a network of fire explodes in my body. In one swift movement, he pushes the rest of the way inside, his bare cock pushing against my walls. Liam groans, throaty and rich, throwing his head back, lost in pleasure.
“I’m going to come fast, baby. Are you going to come for me again?”
His hips crash against my clit, the pressure building, the rhythm increasing in speed with each powerful thrust.
“Harder,” I moan. “Make me come. Please, make me come.” I’m babbling, groaning, hips bucking upward to meet him.
“Tell me I’m yours. Tell me that pussy is mine. Say it.”
My body is quaking against Liam’s, and I can barely say it, wave after wave of orgasm filling me with light and white-hot heat. But I manage. “It’s yours. I’m yours.”
He grips my wrists and finds his rhythm again, thrusting hard inside of me. I can feel his essence fill me, the warmth and satisfaction of it.
His body slumps against mine, spent.
If my last words were too much for him, he doesn’t let it on. Instead, he pulls me closer into his body and kisses me gently on the forehead. It’s not the gesture of an extended one night stand—that’s what this was supposed to be. It’s more intimate, more real.
Maybe this is preparing me for some brighter future, for some nebulous goal somewhere down the line. But right now, this all feels scary, like this is too far for either of us to go. But as I shower and get dressed for work, everything fades back into the sense of normalcy that existed before.
We’re married.
We’re living toge
ther.
We’re fighting for that little girl. For stability. For the courts. For everything we’d planned.
The word goes out of my mind again. It’s an emotion I could feel, given the right circumstances. But these are not the right circumstances, and Liam clearly isn’t the right person. I’ll let it ride.
But as I get on the train for work, I’m lost in thought.
Will I not let myself say those three words because he’s not the right man for me—or is it because I know the sentiment won’t be returned?
It doesn’t matter, either way.
The results are the same no matter what, and our relationship will continue just as it is for the time being. Anything else would be far more than our fake relationship can stand.
Zelda
The snow was supposed to come tomorrow, not today.
It was a long drive up the mountain and an even longer hike. I thought I knew something about mountains, but Utah is different from Virginia. These are not the rolling, gentle Blue Ridge mountains. These are stark and cold.
Cold.
It was supposed to snow tomorrow, but the sky changed. I was half way up the trail, to the east of Fox Guthrie’s supposed estate. There weren’t even traces of a house, a cabin. Anything.
And this man is supposed to have more money than God.
But there’s nothing.
Dr. Wu lied when he sent me to Utah. That’s the explanation. And then Derek Guthrie lied when I asked him about his brother?
That doesn’t make sense.
It took a long time to make it this far. And then.
A bear trap. A pain, like lightning. My teeth chatter, and I think about trying to get to my pack again. To my phone. But the snow is piling high, quick. I can see one brown strap, and that will be buried soon.
How many hours has it been?
My head nods, heavy with sleep. I pull the emergency blanket around my shoulders and lean my back against the tree, trying not to move my ankle.
It’s broken. Is it broken?
The snow is red with blood. My blood.
To the bone, I think. That’s what it felt like.
My eyes close, and my head nods again. I can hear my pulse in the dark, quiet recess of my brain. Pounding, pounding, pounding.
If it weren’t for pain in my head, I could fall asleep. Right here, in this blanket. My ankle and foot are starting to go blessedly numb, and the pain in my leg is subsiding as well.
I drift off for an instant—maybe fifteen seconds—and I dream that I’m warm, inside my parents’ big, old house back in Richmond. My cousins are all there, gossiping. There’s a fire going. The TV is on, playing a football game. My dad is talking about his law firm to my uncle, and my mom is serving cookies. Fresh chocolate chip cookies.
My head snaps back up, and I involuntarily jerk my leg.
I let out a long, low moan. Like a wounded animal. The pain is like rage. Like nothingness.
“Mom never once made cookies,” I laugh. “The nanny did.” I laugh again, louder this time.
I want to go back there, to that warm, imaginary place.
My teeth chatter.
I close my eyes again. This time, I just listen. The snow is falling around me.
I think of the sounds that have been in my life so far—the din of the press room at the Boston Globe, the sounds of my parents as they griped about my dyed hair, my major, my choice of friends. My everything. Everything was always wrong.
The click-clack of keys on my computer as I searched for this man, for the ultimate story.
Click click.
The endless searching. Emails to his contacts. A flight to Japan to talk to the new head of his company, Akira Sakae. That was a particularly interesting adventure.
The things I uncovered… illegal activity on the darknet markets, billions of dollars in currency unaccounted for, and every trace of Fox Guthrie, otherwise known as Digerati Faux Hon—eliminated.
He’s a ghost, and I thought I’d finally found him after I talked to his brother, Derek, two days ago in Salt Lake City, Utah.
“Oh yeah, he’s got property on that mountain. Now, I’ve never been there, and I haven’t seen him for six months. So I do think he’s there… but I can’t be sure…”
It was as much of a clue as I’ve ever had to go on.
But there’s nothing now. No sound except for the muffled sway of wind through the pine trees. If I stop breathing for a moment and the pounding in my head subsides, I can almost make out the gentle fall of snow on the ground.
I didn’t find him. My target. The billionaire with the bag of gold coins, the ones worth billions upon billions of dollars. And growing every day. Digital gold coins.
I laugh a little. The thought of it is funny even now. How did he disappear? Where’s he been? Not here.
I’ve been hunting for a day. Days?
There are empty cabins. Mazes of trails. No sprawling properties or huge houses, nothing like I’d been told would be here.
My stomach turns, and my eyes open again.
“Just hold on,” I mutter. “Don’t fall asleep.”
That’s what they say in the survival books. Don’t fall asleep. Warm up your body. Stay warm.
But my lips are numb now, and my teeth are no longer chattering. My foot couldn’t move even if I tried. I won’t try. I don’t have enough energy. I look up at the trees and over to the grove where my phone and my pack with the fire starter fell when I stepped into this thing.
Hard, cold, scraping metal.
A bitter memory. It seems distant.
But it was an hour—maybe hours?—ago. Maybe it was yesterday. I can’t quite remember.
I let my eyes slip closed and sleep.
It’s been so long since everything has been this quiet.
And finally, the wild tempest in my mind stills, and I listen to the snow as I drift off.
Overhead the sky is heavy and gray with dense snow falling down. I feel the crystals on my face, piling against my nose, tangling in my lashes, settling into the turn of my jaw. It’s okay. I don’t need to move anymore. I’m fine. I’m quiet. I’m not even aware of the cold. The snow is silent and calming.
I might be sleeping, or dreaming. Or waking. In a state between the two.
The pulsing pounding in my head begins to slow, becoming fainter and fainter. The images in my mind become fainter. I retreat to the false memory, the one with my mother and father and the warm, lovely feeling of home. It all fades into nothingness as I begin to let myself go.
Something moves off in the woods. I hear it, but I’m too numb to react. I hear its footfall, steady and fast.
It’s near.
“Sweet Jesus,” it says.
I can’t open my eyes. They’re closed, frozen shut.
“Oh, breathe. Breathe.”
Warm lips press against my own cold ones, as a blast of hot, humid air is forced into my lungs.
“C’mon. Breathe,” he insists. “That’s it. C’mon.”
The lips touch mine again, and another puff of air enters my lungs. I feel myself coughing and my body again going limp.
Warm fingers lift my frozen eyelids.
Pale eyes, the color of glacial ice, with tiny green flecks dotting the irises, peer into my own.
“You’re going to be okay,” he says. “I promise.”
He’s beautiful. His eyes are beautiful. His voice is the sound of a bass guitar strummed against a tenor melody, poured over hot rocks.
I hear the sound of metal gears turning, then feel myself vaulted into the air.
He hauls me over his shoulder, ass up, head down, with all my cold blood rushing to my brain.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he says again, marching forward. “Whoever the fuck you are.”
Everything goes to black. And I wonder if it’s a dream or if I’m finally dead.
~~~
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