Your Heart, My Home

by Linda Mooney

  In the short time she'd been here at his apartment, she'd gotten to see a side of Quazar, of Paul Canton, she’d never imagined. And the longer they talked and shared experiences, combined with the back and forth verbal sparring that passed between them, only solidified the feelings she had harbored all these years.

  He wanted to kiss her as badly as she wanted to kiss him. It was a fact as baldly evident as that lengthening organ between his legs. If she didn't act now, there may never be another time. Bob's cell torture aside, their future had never been more precarious and uncertain as it was at that moment, and she'd be damned if she'd let this opportunity slip by.

  She was half aware of setting the glass down on the table. Or rather, of his hand guiding her hand downward before releasing it and shoving his fingers into her hair. Holding his face between her palms, she tilted her mouth to the side, and he groaned softly as the kiss deepened.

  The dam burst. The floodgates were thrown open, and he was suddenly on his feet, pressing against the small of her back, holding her tightly against him. She opened her mouth wider, allowing him access inside, and he tasted of chicken and cream sauce.

  The hand in her hair moved to the back of her head to give him more control. The hand at her spine shifted to her buttocks, and she found herself seated upon the table. He insinuated himself between her legs, spreading her thighs, until he could grind his erection at the juncture.

  She wanted to throw her arms around his neck, but feared hurting him. In fact, other than his face, there was nowhere else to hold him. His back was off limits, as much as she wanted to grip those muscles and scour them with her nails.

  His lips abruptly moved away, stayed away, until she opened her eyes to gaze up into his. He was searching her face, his breathing heavy. Perspiration dotted his forehead.

  "Sher."

  "What are you waiting for, fly boy? An engraved invitation?" she whispered.

  "I don't have a condom."

  Patting his cheeks, she grinned up at him. "I. Don't. Care."

  He grabbed the sides of her T-shirt, jerking it over her head. Dishes were swept to the floor, the sound of them landing and breaking like sweet music to her ears. Bending her backwards onto the table, he leaned over to take a breast into his mouth.

  She'd never been this roughly handled before. But it was a roughness not meant to hurt or harm her. She could tell he was holding back, savoring her as much as he'd savor any fine meal while devouring it. Preparing her to be the main course...or the dessert.

  His mouth burned on her breast. A hand found her other breast and lightly pinched the nipple. At the same time, his tongue rasped over the bud he held between his teeth. Her hips bucked, and he dragged her closer to the edge of the table. She had no choice but to wrap her legs around his waist and hope they didn't pain him.

  Her hands found his hair; her fingertips dug into his scalp. She couldn't think, could barely breathe, as he worked magic on her breasts. Squeezing them, massaging them, passing from one to the other to suck and tease the sensitive tips. His pelvis continued to grind against her lower lips, until the thin fabric became saturated with her juices. Somewhere within the fog of her rising desire, she wondered what was holding him back. Why didn't he take her? Why didn't he take the next step?

  "Paul." It came out weak and sounding like a plea. But in that one word she got across her wish.

  He abruptly let her go, took hold of the waistband of her pants, and jerked them off in one movement the same way he'd removed her shirt. Then he stepped away. She was left with her buttocks nearly hanging off the edge of the table. Before she could re-wrap her legs around his hips, he grabbed her by the ankles. Hands that were warm and dry.

  "Look at me, ma cher. Ma chérie."

  He was leaning over her, smiling down at her as he placed the heels of her feet on top of his shoulders. The position forced her to bend her knees, presenting herself fully open and exposed. A glance downward gave her an excellent view of his extended erection poised above her shaved bikini cut.

  Mesmerized, she watched him reach down and grab himself, pump the skin slightly until a glistening drop of moisture appeared at the tip of the flushed head, then lower it until she felt him position himself at her entrance. Closing her eyes, she waited. Expectant. Ready.

  He drilled her, slowly, gradually, powerfully. Pushing into her halfway, pausing, then taking himself all the way. Her vaginal muscles screamed as his thickness invaded her, and brought to life nerve endings which been dormant too long.

  "Love me, ma cher." His voice washed over her seductively. His hands held her hips as he started moving inside her, moving in and out with slow, deliberate, long strokes. With her heels on his shoulders, each time he reentered her, her legs were forced downward toward the table. Unable to clutch his head, she threw her arms to her sides, palms down, and her short nails dug into the table's veneer.

  She could feel his scrotum tickle her anus, heightening the sensation. She could hear the table creak softly with every thrust. Heat zipped beneath the surface of her skin, making her skin sweat and her inner channel weep. His lunges grew faster and somehow deeper, making his sacs slap her butt cheeks. She had no recollection of the moans coming from her throat until he chuckled softly.

  "That's right. I want to hear you come, ma cher. I want your body to take me and squeeze it as hard as you can when I bring you."

  Ma cher. A play on words, on her name, but in French. In French, where the words were affectionate and spoken with a loving tone.

  His breathing turned ragged as his speed increased. A hand left her hip, and the next instant his fingers were playing with her clit. Rubbing it, pinching it, teasing it. Rolling it around until she could barely take any more. Her build-up swirled within her like a force of nature ready to erupt.

  She grimaced as she reached for that moment, unable to believe she was about to orgasm for the first time during intercourse. Unable to think of anything else when he suddenly began ramming himself into her with short, intense jabs.

  Everything came to completion, sending her screaming like a Fourth of July rocket. And still he pounded inside her. She couldn't breathe. Her head felt like it was about to explode. She reached for him as he held her body at the summit, extending her pleasure, forcing her to slide along the golden rim of her release for as long as he could. Until he finally ground to a halt and lay on top of her, panting for air. His arms and elbows propped on either side of her to support his weight.

  She felt his face nestle against her neck, his nose buried at her hairline. Warm puffs flowed across her throat, and her body shivered involuntarily. Reaching up, she cupped his cheek, unmindful of the way the stubble scoured her skin. Turning her head toward him, she whispered, "How do I say that French thing to you?"

  "Mon cher."

  "Well, that won't work."

  "Why not?"

  "We both can't be Sher."

  Paul chuckled and slowly rose. She watched as he grimaced, and she wondered how much pain he had endured in these past few minutes.

  Gradually, he managed to straighten up and step away. His softened erection slid out of her, and she realized she already missed feeling him inside her.

  "Come." He held out a hand. She took it without question, and he helped her off the table. Then, without further explanation, he led her into his bedroom.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Pleasure

  She had no idea how long they slept. At one point, she woke up to discover it was nighttime. The room was almost completely dark except for the pale, washed-out lights that filtered in through the curtain from outside. She paused, listening, and the steady sound of his breathing made her smile. He'd stayed with her. Even though she knew he should have been resting inside that giant heating element downstairs, he had chosen to remain with her, beside her. She reached out to touch him, to physically reassure herself he occupied the other side of the bed, when she caught herself. No, her touch would most likely awaken him.

 
Carefully, she got out of bed, thankful that it had those memory foam mattresses that created little reciprocal movement. She went first to the bathroom to relieve herself, then peeked inside the living area at the mess on the floor.

  A hand lightly brushed aside her hair, and a pair of warm lips kissed her nape. She smiled in spite of herself.

  "Those people must have had one hell of a party last night. Look at the mess they left," she quipped.

  "Leave it. It can wait until morning." He drew an arm about her waist and pulled her against him. Already she could feel his growing erection try to burrow its way between her buttocks.

  "Want another taste of table sex?" he growled softly, cupping a breast with his free hand as the hand at her waist dipped between her thighs. She obliged him, and spread her legs to give him easier access.

  He gently spread her pubic lips and strummed her clit, awakening her body once more. She decided foreplay was fine, but sometimes a good, old-fashioned, fast and furious fuck was even better. And this time, she wasn't in the mood to dilly dally.

  "If I was dessert last time, what am I this time? It's too damn early for breakfast."

  "Let's call this a midnight snack," he suggested, moving her forward until they reached the dinette. Once there, she bent over the polished wood until her breasts flattened upon it. Silently, he started to part her butt cheeks to take her from the rear.

  "Talk to me," she murmured. "Talk dirty to me. I want to hear you call me that French thing again."

  "Ma chérie." He kissed her between her shoulder blades. "Ma belle chérie."

  This time he slowly rubbed the thick head of his erection between her lower lips, sliding it over her taut clit as he smeared her cream around her entrance. Without his urging, she spread herself as wide as she could, and received an appreciative chuckle for her effort.

  "You have the most beautiful ass I've ever seen," he commented softly.

  "Oh, wow. How romantic."

  He slid inside her just a fraction. Enough to where she could feel him, but not so far as to send shivers up her spine. Impatiently, she wriggled her butt.

  "Having second thoughts?" she teased with obvious sarcasm. She was rewarded with a light slap on the cheek. The next moment, he pushed another inch into her and held it there.

  "Just call it payback," he murmured. He moved himself slightly, pumping but going no further within her. Her need sizzled like hot coals.

  Sherandar laid her forehead on the table. "All right! Uncle! Fuck me!"

  "That's ma cher."

  She heard the pleased sound in his voice a split second before he pushed into her, digging all the way through her channel, dragging over sensitive tissues, and making her cry out.

  Unlike the first time, when she could do nothing but lie there and take whatever he did to her, this time she could physically respond to him. Placing her hands on the table top, she rocked on her tiptoes. Moving her bottom forward and back. She heard him laugh as she met his every lunge with her own, and the sound of their flesh slapping together with each thrust echoed loudly in the silent room.

  Teeth gritted, she felt like an animal in heat. Rutting with abandon. Her sole focus became the exquisite sensations flooding her body. Igniting fires and boiling her blood in her veins. As she grew aware of the slow spiral ascent toward fulfillment, she threw back her head. Expectant. Reaching for it.

  Hitting it with the force of a heat seeking missile exploding inside her.

  She'd given up feeling any kind of embarrassment over her responses, as wild and uninhibited as they were. If he wanted her responses to be with total abandon during copulation, so be it. She'd give him as exuberant a ride as he wanted, and then some.

  As he had after their first finale, Paul bent over her to catch his breath, placing some of his weight on her before his legs gave way. She heard him breathe in the scent of her hair after brushing away a few strands from her face.

  "Let me go on the record here, and ask if we're ever going to screw around on the bed?" she managed to inquire. She barely heard his laughter, but she felt its movement along her back.

  "You haven't given me the chance."

  "Me? Since when is it my fault? You're the one with the table fetish."

  He gave her another playful swat on the bottom and stepped away, drawing himself out of her. Although she regretted him pulling out once again, she was also aware of the fact that she was starting to feel sore. Twice in one night after years of abstinence was a bit more than she was accustomed to.

  He took her by the shoulder and helped her stand. "Back to bed?" she remarked dryly.

  "It's not yet three in the morning, Sher."

  "That's not what I meant. You need to be downstairs in that super-charged coffin."

  To her surprise, he kissed her temple, then her cheek, and finally her lips. "What? And miss another possible rendezvous? Come on. Where's your sense of adventure?"

  He almost sounded like a little boy begging to stay up for a few more minutes. Sherandar snickered.

  "All right. You win. But next time? I get to drive." She started to give him a whack on the rear the way he had done to her, but managed to stop herself at the last second. Instead, she took his hand and lifted it to her lips, inserting his forefinger into her mouth to suck on it. Laving it with her tongue with obvious intent. Paul gave a soft growl.

  "Keep that up, ma cher, and neither of us will get much sleep tonight."

  She removed her mouth with a soft pop. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Bitch, bitch, bitch." She snorted and sauntered back into the bedroom with him close behind.

  There was a wonderful sense of familiarity as she crawled under the covers. When Paul reached over and pulled her next to him, wrapping his arm around her waist, she couldn't stop smiling. And when he spooned himself against her buttocks, his wide chest warming her back, a perfect sense of safety and rightness enveloped her.

  This was the moment she would remember for the rest of her. Regardless of what happened to them after they took care of Bob, if they decided to go their separate ways again, there would always be this night. Forever in her memory. Forever in her heart, where nothing would diminish the sweetness of this brief interlude when she belonged with him.

  And to him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Addicted

  Paul stood at the foot of the bed and watched the woman sleeping in his bed. In the bed that had never held two people until tonight.

  Weak moonlight, combined with weaker streetlight, filtered into the room. It bathed Sherandar in an opalescent aura, making her appear ethereal, almost ghostly.

  Why are you here with me? he silently questioned. And why can't I let you go? What is it about you that's made me addictive? You're like crack. Two hits, and now I can't get enough of you.

  The first time we had sex, I thought that would be the end of it. The end of needing you, of craving you. One good healthy fuck, and I'd have my fill. Like wanting something sweet and fixing a seven-layer chocolate cake. Then after eating one slice, knowing that much was enough. If I caved in to you, if I had you, then it would suffice. I wouldn't want you anymore.

  But it didn't work out that way. Once was not enough. All right. A second time should do it. But after that second time, I realized you'd had just the opposite effect on me. Twice didn't cure me. Neither will a third or fourth, or twentieth time.

  How do I cure myself of you? What can I do to make me stop desiring you? What will it take, Sherry Ann Darby? You leaving me? Because there's no way I can force myself to make you go.

  When she had brought up the subject of things going back to the way they'd been, he'd felt as if someone had reached into his chest and crushed everything inside...heart, lungs...

  Hope.

  He couldn't answer her, so he'd turned his back to her. Because if she'd seen his face, she might have misinterpreted what he was thinking, what he was feeling.

  Your question was legitimate. What will happen to us? You know everything about me now. How
do I know I can trust you?

  He caught the faint wail of sirens. Somewhere there was an accident or a fire. Maybe Quazar was needed. He debated whether or not to awaken Sher, then realized what he'd done. Working together with Sherandar? The two of them as crime fighters and defenders of the city? The irony was unmistakable.

  What is it about you that makes me wish that I led a normal life? He smiled in spite of himself. But if I wasn't Quazar, would I have met you? Would you have taken the time to insinuate yourself inside of me?

  He raised his face to the ceiling. Closing his eyes, he sighed. Standing there was only making things worse. He wanted to wake her. He needed to make love to her again.

  Make love. Yes, that's what they did. They made love. Wild, uninhibited, and definitely spontaneous, and damn satisfying. Yet it hadn't been enough. Right now he was sporting a hard-on so stiff, he could go to bat with it and hit one out of the park.

  Yet, something was keeping him from crawling back into that bed, waking her up, and taking her a third time. She would welcome him with no hesitation.

  I can't do it. I can't keep doing... He curled his hands into fists. What? What can't I keep doing? he asked himself. Can't keep loving her? Can't...

  Loving her.

  "I love her." He whispered the words, hearing his confession but unable to believe it. Not yet, anyway.

  He left the bedroom and went down to the basement. Brightening the room, his eyes lit upon the bags she had brought with her. He went over and casually sorted through their contents. Most of it was a mish-mash of electronic parts and over-the-counter meds. One sack held second-hand clothes. He smiled at the old, black leather jacket.

  Next he checked out the strands of beads and balls she'd been working on. There were four of them, two long and two short. Each one was different in size, color, and shape. Paul nodded appreciatively.

  His erection bobbed in front of him, striking the edge of the worktable. Wincing, he turned and spotted the regenerator. If he was smart, he'd climb inside, close the lid, and rest there until morning. If I can close the lid, he silently mused, touching himself. The desire to feel himself soaking up the white light was strong, but the need to return to his bedroom and Sher was stronger.