by Naomi West
“He’s nothing like Clint,” I tell her. “I was scared of that at first. I was worried that he’d turn violent, or mean. I didn’t want to share anything with him. But we’ve shared. We probably know each other better than we know anybody else. Except for you, I suppose.”
“You met this man a few days ago?” Mom says in wonder. “It sounds like you met him a few years ago. It really must be something special.”
“Something special.” I nod, smiling. “I guess that’s one way to put it. I’m thrilled about the insurance company, Mom. Really thrilled.”
“Let’s hope we can keep death back for a few more months.”
I sit with her until she falls asleep and then leave the hospital, thinking about how I felt the last time I left. I was full of rage and urgency, full of fear with my mind twisted. Now I feel almost peaceful, which is odd considering everything that’s happened. Fear pricks me; I know I’ll lose sleep over the next few weeks over this mad few days. But right now I’m able to savor the after-taste of survival. We made it.
“We made it!” I squeal as I drag Dante into my apartment. “Let me introduce you to my abode.”
“Abode,” Dante mutters. “I reckon my vocabulary is gonna triple being with you.”
“Do you want to take a shower?” I ask. “There’s a supermarket down the street and I can get you some new clothes.”
“All right. Sounds good.” He wonders over to the couch and picks up a book from the armrest. “Far From the Madding Crowd.” He flicks through it. “This is … complicated. How do you read this stuff?”
“Practice,” I say. “I tell you what. You teach me how to ride a motorbike and I’ll teach you how to read difficult nineteenth-century literature.”
He smiles. “All right then, ma’am. Sounds fair to me. I’m gonna take that shower.”
“Let me get you some fresh towels.”
I get the towels for him and then make a quick run to the store, buying some jeans, underwear, and T-shirts. When I return to the apartment, Dante is sitting on the couch with a towel tied around his waist, reading the fifth page of the book. “What happens to this Farmer Oak fella, then?”
“You’ll have to read it to find out,” I tell him. “I got you some clothes.”
He stands up, letting the towel fall from his waist. “Who said I need clothes?”
I look at his body, at the sculpted muscles, the immense power. My heartbeat gets faster and my pussy aches. It aches with the urgency of withheld desire. I suspect that if things hadn’t gone haywire we would’ve spent these last few days doing nothing but making love. I watch as his cock gets hard. I’m not even doing anything sexy, just staring at him, and his massive cock gets rock-hard for me. I step forward and place my hand on my chest, closing my eyes and savoring the feeling.
“You’re like wood,” I say. I push down on him. “There’s no give at all.”
“Open your eyes,” Dante says in a commanding tone.
I do as he says.
He leans forward, bringing his hand to my crotch, and then presses down so hard on my clit it’s like the fire from the clubhouse is contained within his fingertips. He rubs me slowly at first, and then gets faster and faster, his eyes locked on my face with every movement. “I’ve wanted this so damn bad,” he says. “You have no idea.”
I reach down and grab his cock, bulging against my palm. “Oh, I do. Believe me. I do.”
I jerk him up and down, loving the way his breathing gets faster and then turns into a growl, loving the way he stares at me with his hard eyes. I stroke him slowly, and then quicker, until both of us are rubbing each other with all our strength. He rubs me so hard, I feel like my pussy is going to explode. Energy gathers, touching every part of my insides, and then presses against the walls of my pussy. I bite down on his shoulder, moaning into it, which makes him rub even faster.
“Come for me,” he whispers, his breath warm on my neck. “Come for me, Selena. Come for me so I can fuck you and put a baby in your belly.” That drives me craziest of all. He senses it in my body, in the way I pause for a moment, in the way my body seizes up. “Come for me and I’ll put a baby in you,” he growls, nibbling my ear. “Come for me now.”
The gathered energy spreads outward, shooting through my body like jagged spears of pleasure. I collapse against him, my body going limp except for my crotch which is as tight as it’s ever been. The orgasm attacks me, making my lips hot and my hole tingle, making my toes curl and my fingers dig into his skin. I feel the come dripping down my leg, over his hand, squirting and showing no sign of stopping. Time compresses and I hover in this moment for what feels like a long time, and then it passes and I’m left panting and gasping for air.
“I fucking need you,” Dante says. “I need you bad.”
“I need you,” I respond, heart beating so hard I can hear it in my ears. “I need you just as badly, baby. Oh, fuck.”
He grabs me by the shoulders and shoves me into the couch. Not aggressively, but not softly, either. He shoves me and then leans over me, his muscular body trapping me in a way I find so sweet, so enticing. I wriggle out of my pants and he yanks my shirt over my head, and then unclips my bra in one fluid motion. He leans down and takes my breasts in his mouth, first one and then the other, hardening the nipples. They become super-sensitive as he plays with them, tingly and hot, buzzing with sensation. “You’re perfect,” he says, that same growl in his voice. “You’re just fuckin’ perfect.”
“You’re perfect,” I counter.
He laughs gruffly, and then grabs his cock and guides it to my pussy. Even though I know he’ll fit, I still have a moment of panic when his cock presses against my pussy, the head widening the hole, pushing firmly into me and opening me up. I bite down as pain leads the way inside of me, but soon the pain fades away and white-hot pleasure takes its place. His cock completely fills me: fills me to bursting. It fills me so that my whole world becomes him. I can’t think of anything else with that cock inside of me.
His eyes are locked on mine, and mine on his. We’re communicating with our bodies, but with our faces, too. It’s not just pleasure which flows between us. Love flows, too. Love and dedication and a promise. We promise that we’ll always be together and never let each other go. We promise to always offer this pleasure. We promise all this and more but then we can’t promise anything but the moment. He slides his cock into me, hard, slamming into my sweet spot and blotting thought from my mind.
I twist my hips in rhythm with his cock, grinding down on him as he drives up into me. I grab his face in my hands and kiss him, our lips and teeth mashing together clumsily as we writhe as one. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him close to me, holding him so that we’re chest to chest, so that we’re almost one person. I sit down on him repeatedly. He drives into me repeatedly. Our pleasure rises as one. My moaning and his grunting and growling are a song, and no song is so welcome or needed or brimming with pleasure.
His cock is like a persistent lover returning again and again to my sweet spot, wooing it until it is slick-wet and hotter than hot, until it is bursting with pleasure and waiting for the chance to unleash the euphoria. I am barely conscious of anything else apart from that spot of pleasure, that perfect aching spot of potential. I know the orgasm is coming, but I want to withhold it until the moment of his climax. I want us to ride the pleasure together. I want us to reach, reach, reach—
But then I can’t hold it back anymore. The pleasure is too immense, too powerful. The orgasm unleashes like a tidal wave, throwing me around, taking me for a ride. I feel like I’m thrown bodily all over the place, and then I settle into the repeated surges of pleasure, grinding my hips down on him, bringing his cock deeper and deeper inside of me so that I can take every ounce of ecstasy. I kiss his face, his neck, his chest. I kiss whichever part of him my lips find. I don’t think. I just ride and kiss and moan.
Then I hear his grunting, pleasure-filled, and I know he’s trying to hold back his moment of releas
e.
I whisper in his ear, “Come in me, baby. Please, come in me. Please, please, please.”
It’s too much for him to handle. He leans back, looking into my face. I’ve never seen him look like this: completely consumed, unable to think. In this moment, he truly is a beast.
“Come in me!” I scream, bucking on his cock as another wave of the orgasm attacks me. “Come in me! Come in me!”
He pushes into me one last time and then lets out a wolf-like howl, arching his back and roaring at the ceiling. I grip his neck in my hands and lean up, kissing him over and over as he spills inside of me. It’s the most intimate moment of my life, both of us completely letting go, neither of us even slightly embarrassed. When it’s done, he collapses onto me, breathing softly into my face. I kiss him on the eyebrow.
“Hey there,” I say.
“Howdy,” he says, and then rolls from me and sits on the couch. “I knew you made me into an animal, but goddamn. Howling?” He laughs, lifting his arm. “Get in here, will you?”
I go to him, resting my head on his chest. “Maybe that was it,” I say.
“The baby?”
I nod.
“Yeah, maybe. What shall we call him?”
“Him? Oh, you silly man. I know she’s going to be a girl.”
“You know that, do you? And how’s that?”
“I have a feeling in my bones.”
“A feeling in your bones?” He jabs me in the ribs. “You have a feeling here.” He tickles me, brutally and mercilessly.
I leap up and dance across the room away from him, batting his hand away and telling him to quit it. Finally he does, retreating to the couch. I join him. “Is it safe?” I ask.
He grins up at me. “It’s safe now, Selena,” he says. “At least, it’s as safe as it’s ever gonna be with a man like me.”
“You mean a big scary biker man?” I tease, kissing him on the cheek. His come is still spilling out of me and yet I want more. “You mean a big tough violent psychopath?”
“Hey,” he says, turning on me with cold eyes. A tiny glint flickers in them. “Is that really how you want to talk to a big tough violent psychopath?”
He pounces on me then, and we spend the rest of the night writhing and moaning and growling and panting, stopping only so that he can go down the street and get some Chinese takeout. We fall asleep in bed surrounded by takeout containers with the smell of sex mixing with the smell of chow mien.
I wake with fear gripping me as it did countless times with Clint, but it’s fear from the past and not fear for the future. It’s the sort of fear which doesn’t succumb to logic, the flashback fear I’ve dealt with ever since the beatings started. I hear men outside my room, talking about killing me, and hear the gunshot and see Dante grasping his bleeding leg. I smell the scent of death. I feel the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of my head.
Then Dante rolls over. “Something’s wrong,” he says without having to be told. He holds me, whispering, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe. You’re protected.”
His words are like magic. The fear doesn’t vanish—fear rarely does—but he pushes it back. I hold him tighter. “I’m glad,” I say.
Epilogue
Selena
Markus clings onto my nipple, sucking greedily. I sit by the window in summertime, rocking back and forth on the chair with a blanket laid over my knees. The sunlight is framed in the wide window, dappling me perfectly. I wish I could take a photograph of how this moment feels, my son feeding from me, my man on his knees across the room, trying to put the rocking horse together.
“How is it I can dissemble and reassemble a bike but I can’t figure out this damn thing?” he mutters, trying to jam two pieces of wood together. “That just doesn’t make any sense to me. No sense at all.”
“You shouldn’t say ‘damn’,” I chide.
“Damn, damn, damn.” Dante smiles. “You think my son’s gonna have a clean mouth anyway?”
I pout, and he just wriggles his eyebrows and then winks at me.
My mind drifts back as I sit here. It can’t help but drift back. There’s something strange about breastfeeding, I’ve found. I always end up sinking into reminiscing, into thinking about everything that led up to this moment. I think about Dante and I walking around this house with the realtor, a three-bedroom in the suburbs, me telling him it was too much and him kissing me right there in front of the stuffy realtor and telling me I deserved it. I think about Dante placing his hand on my belly the first time Markus kicked, grinning and laughing and shaking his head.
“I just don’t believe it,” he kept saying. “I know how stupid it sounds, but I don’t believe we made that. It’s too crazy. It’s just too damn crazy.”
I think about when we found out we were pregnant. I had just quit my job to try my hand at freelance writing, and I was sitting at home on my laptop when it struck me that I hadn’t had my period. Five days late, and yet somehow it had slipped my mind. I charged to the store like a woman possessed. When I sat on the toilet bowl, the pee wouldn’t come. Years and years of needing to pee without a toilet in sight, and now it wouldn’t come! But finally, after too many glasses of water, I managed to produce the goods. Dante returned wearing his leather after a job. He knew something was different right away, and it didn’t take him long to figure out what.
He read my face as he’d become so good at doing, reading my features as though they were a book written only for him. “Really?” he said, hands shaking in excitement. “Really, Selena? Really?”
“Really,” I told him.
The next two hours were a blur of sweat and sex and mad writhing.
“Husband,” I whisper.
He glances up. “Wife?”
“I just like saying it,” I tell him. “Husband, husband, husband.”
He grins at me sideways. “Wife, wife, wife. That little fella makes you crazy when it’s feeding time, I swear.”
I stroke his head, his thin sparse hair. “Maybe,” I admit.
My mind drifts back to the wedding, which was easily the best day of my life apart from the day Markus was born. And even the day Markus was born was only incredible because Markus was the result of it. The bleeding and the panting and the straining don’t factor into it at all! I think back to the conversation with Mom a couple of days before, sitting beside her bed as she sat up, smiling at me and eating a banana. Just that simple act, Mom eating food which hadn’t been pre-mashed, was astonishing in itself.
“It’s amazing,” she said. “It’s just amazing. Look at this.” She munched the food. “I’m an eating machine, Selena. I think I’ll be ready for steak and fries and ketchup and burgers and … ooh, I’m in food fantasy heaven right now. Cheese and biscuits and coffee and …”
I remember walking down the aisle with my heart in my mouth. The function room we were married in was split down the middle with Mom and her nurse on one side and about fifty bikers on the other, but Lion walked across the room, smiling all the while, and wheeled Mom’s chair across to the biker side. “You’re family now, ma’am,” he said. Dante winked at him and Mom beamed like it was her wedding, and I didn’t mind. I could’ve stood there for hours watching her smile and flirt with all those bikers.
I remember the moment Dante slid the ring onto my finger, the serious look in his eyes. I wondered if this was real, if I had really met a biker in a bar and now I was standing here in the most beautiful dress I had ever worn, pledging my life to the best man I had ever met.
“I do,” I said, and my fate was sealed.
I remember the wedding night in the penthouse suite, sitting in a hot tub with Dante’s hand between my legs, and then the two of us making love until we ached like we’d just run a marathon. I remember the arguments, too, screaming about our pasts and about our broken souls, but most of all I remember the reconciliations, coming together to heal and love.
Markus blows a spit bubble and I know he’s done. I cover my breast and
lift him up, kissing him on his soft head.
Dante is still messing around with the rocking horse.
“Is this seriously giving you this much trouble?” I ask.
“I know,” he says. “I agree. I don’t understand it. Look. Come here a sec. Put the little guy down.”
I carry Markus to the cot and place him down, arranging him so that he’s safe and comfortable, and then go to Dante. He shows me his problem: a tiny hole which a slightly too-big pin has to fit into. “Every time I push it in, it slips to the side,” he explains.
“Okay. What if I hold it and you push it?”
“Hold it tight, then.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a weak ickle woman.”
“No offense, ma’am, but I’ll talk to you any way I damn well please.”
