by Jory Strong
Sammael’s snickers turned into howling laughter as he faded away, leaving Atticus to wonder what other humiliation awaited as a result of his brothers’ interference. Still, as he washed his hands, a small cavity of worry managed to open up inside him. He was disease free. Always had been, always would be. But did he dare risk following Bryn home and having her call a halt to a passionate encounter because he wasn’t prepared?
He nearly doubled over in pain just thinking about it. Already the ache to get his cock inside her and come was nearly unbearable.
It was a physical need as well as an emotional one. He couldn’t risk losing her. And while he would have preferred to ask her to marry him, it wasn’t strictly necessary, nor was gaining an affirmative answer. The reality of it rested in the consummation.
Atticus left the restroom knowing he’d have to leave her long enough to acquire the necessary protection. He dared to take her hand as they walked toward the front door. It felt right in his, delicate yet strong, warm. A perfect fit.
They parted company a few minutes later. And though he had her phone numbers, her address along with directions on how to get there, panic nearly overwhelmed Atticus as he watched her drive away. A thousand scenarios played out in his mind where she was taken from him, lost to the ghostways before he could claim her as his bride and ensure that even in death, they would never be parted.
He stopped at the first grocery store he came to. It was a huge affair, crowded with people of all ages. A display of flowers caught his attention almost immediately and despite his hurry to get to Bryn he detoured to examine the bouquets.
The red roses drew his eye. Too soon? he wondered. Too much?
Or maybe carnations. They were safe.
An arrangement of stargazer lilies had him reaching only to hesitate once again. His shoulders slumped. What did he know of romance? Of courting? Oh, he was well acquainted with Romeo and Juliet-type tragedies, and the horrible, modern twist of love and obsession turned deadly with couples sheared from their bodies by murder-suicide combinations. But what did he know about making a woman smile with pleasure over a gift?
He started to turn away from the display of flowers, nearly defeated by the abundance of choice, but then his spine stiffened, his shoulders went back. Love made for a better man, one who was willing to step into the unknown, to risk his heart and his pride.
Atticus studied the assortment of flowers once again, this time not thinking about himself, but Bryn. What arrangement would suit her? Which arrangement would she like?
He spotted it immediately. A mixed bouquet of tulips. Yellows and reds, pinks and starburst orange. It was perfect.
A store employee appeared and liberated the flowers from their protective environment. “These are beautiful,” she said as she handed them to Atticus. “You’re going to make someone very happy.”
He smiled then laughed softly when he realized how often his lips had curved upward since meeting Bryn. It felt almost natural now, as if he’d always worn a smile.
With great confidence Atticus left the flower display and strode to the aisle containing condoms, only to once again be assaulted with unimaginable choice. It made him long for the days of sheep intestines, though the thought of actually putting such a thing on his cock caused him to shudder.
Ribbed. Lubricated. Thin. Extra strength. Non-lubricated. Extra long. Ultra large. Studded. Colored. Flavored! They all vied for his attention and he imagined a lesser man would have shriveled in his pants. But braced with his success in the flower department and the urgency with which his penis was transmitting its desire to get suited up and get on with the business of claiming a wife, Atticus didn’t shrink under the visual onslaught of condoms.
“Flowers, nice touch,” a voice said.
It belonged to his youngest brother, recently of Suriel the Trumpeter fame. But Atticus had learned his lesson. This time he said nothing.
A hand reached over, a finger tapped a condom package. “Grape. You wear that and she’ll think you’re a lollipop. Lucky bastard.”
It was too much. Atticus muttered, “Go away.”
His brother snickered, no doubt having been regaled with tales of Atticus’ humiliation in the restroom. Atticus did his best to ignore it, something he was well-practiced at given how often the five made sport of him.
“Nice work with the hounds, wouldn’t you say?” his brother asked. “And the horse enjoyed going out for a ride.”
Atticus opened his mouth, prepared to issue a scathing lecture about the “borrowed” tarot card and the privacy required when a man was courting his future wife, but a pimple-faced teen sidled up next to him, his cheeks flaming as he studied the condoms. A quick glance down, unintentional no doubt, and the teen’s chest seemed to cave in at the sight of the ridge pressing against the front of Atticus’ jeans.
“Poor guy. You’ve just buried his self-esteem,” Atticus’ brother said. Then added, “Don’t forget the chocolates to go with the flowers,” before fading out.
Afraid to linger and risk another encounter with one of his brothers, Atticus decided to stick with basics. He plucked a package of extra large condoms from the display rack, hesitated over whether he needed more than a single pack, then decided against it. Why invite prolonged suffering? Wearing even one condom was one too many.
A shiver of desire went through him. Arousal escaped from the tip of his penis as he imagined what it would be like, sliding into Bryn’s sheath with nothing separating them.
He found himself on the candy aisle without conscious thought, but detoured to the ice cream. Finally an easy decision!
Atticus grabbed a carton of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia, named appropriately enough after Jerry Garcia of The Grateful Dead fame. Then he was on his way to Bryn.
Chapter Four
Bryn looked around her living quarters. It was basically one large room attached to the office space visible through the open door. Originally it’d been a suite of offices but as the business park had floundered, losing one tenant after another to modern architecture and more popular areas of town, Sid, the owner and landlord, had torn down walls to form apartment-office combinations. Bryn wasn’t sure the conversions were completely legal, but she didn’t fault him. The place was half vacant and some income was better than no income.
She studied the poster art on the walls above the crowded bookcases then moved on to the comfortable couch and chairs, their worn fabric hidden by gaily covered hand-made quilts she’d snagged at various thrift shops. She tried to see it through Atticus’ eyes and hoped he’d find it the refuge she did.
Her heart rate picked up when her attention shifted to the bed. Her cheeks heated along with the rest of her body. The sheets were changed in preparation for the night. She’d known even before they left the pizza place that she was going to sleep with him.
There were probably a lot of reasons she shouldn’t, why it’d be better to wait, but she didn’t bother to dredge them up. A lifetime of seeing ghosts, most of them lingering in abject misery or seething rage, had made her determined to live with no regrets.
Bryn moved over to her CD player and sorted through the disks. It was country for the most part. She nibbled on her bottom lip and wondered what Atticus enjoyed listening to. Country music was filled with stories, a lot of them sad ones, but even those spoke about the importance of finding happiness in life. She settled on Jessi Alexander and put Honeysuckle Sweet into the player, pressed the play button as a knock sounded at the office door.
Atticus. Bryn rubbed damp palms against the clean shorts she’d snagged after a hasty shower. She resisted the urge to check herself in the mirror, to make sure the green of the shirt she’d put on really did enhance her eyes.
This is not a date, she tried to tell herself, but her racing heart knew she lied and the bouquet of flowers Atticus presented her with at the door proved it right. “Thank you,” she managed, her heart hammering a furious I told you so in her chest.
She led him thro
ugh the office and into her living area. He followed her to the kitchen separated from the rest of the room by a long counter, his heat and masculine scent swamping her as she retrieved an antique crystal vase she’d found at a yard sale and put the tulips in it.
“They’re beautiful,” she said, turning from the arrangement and into Atticus’ arms. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to touch her mouth to his, to whisper thank you against full masculine lips before sliding her tongue against his.
Lust exploded between them. Fierce and hot, like a summer storm, like a sudden swirling of raw power and primitive forces.
Bryn’s hands went to his chest and felt the wild beat of his heart through her palms. She moaned when his fingers tangled in her hair, holding her in place with a delicate balance of strength and gentleness.
His tongue plundered her mouth hungrily. His moans joined hers, making her nipples tighten to painful buds.
The hard ridge of his erection ground against her pelvis and she wrapped her leg around him so she could press her clit against his hardened cock.
Their lips parted, but only for an instant. The need to breathe came in a far second to the need for intimate contact.
She slid her hands upward, wrapped her arms around his neck and cried out when her nipples rubbed and pressed against the solid muscles of his chest. A whimper escaped as lust built to an inferno and she lost the will to do anything but cling to him.
Atticus shuddered as wave after wave of incredible sensation cascaded through him. He knew what the great poets said about love and lust, but even they had not captured it completely.
He burned. He ached. Conscious thought deserted him in Bryn’s arms.
She tasted of springtime and happiness, of primal mystery and divine desire, of heated nights and playful afternoons.
It transcended anything he’d ever known, anything he’d ever believed true about finding his soul mate.
His hands left her hair to sweep down her back, to settle on her hips briefly before sliding up her sides to touch the swell of her breasts.
The hard points of her nipples were driving him crazy, sending pulse after pulse of white-hot need to his cock as she pressed them against his chest.
“Bryn,” he whispered when they parted for air. He dared to rub his thumbs over the tight nubs, was tormented with the need to kiss down to them and suckle.
Her whimper emboldened him. His hands cupped her breasts, gently weighed them. He moaned when her pelvis rocked and her mound pressed against his erection.
“Let me see you,” he said, a shockingly primitive part of him wanting her to disrobe for him, to show him that her hunger matched his own.
Bryn’s lips parted slightly and he couldn’t fight the urge to take them again. From the first touch of his mouth to hers he’d given himself over to instinct. There’d been no time to worry, to wonder if his inexperience in such matters would surface. There’d been no awkwardness, no hesitation.
Their lips met, clung in a perfect joining. His tongue twined with hers. His breath mingled with hers as though they’d always been one being forced to live in separate bodies.
Lust and happiness blended, whipped through him like comet trails across his soul.
He forgot about his request, his desire for her to strip. Her body trembled against his. The soft, urgent whimpers told him she craved the feel of skin against skin as much as he did.
His fingers found the buttons of her shirt, the front clasp of her bra, made short work of opening them, parting them. He groaned, shivered as his palms glided over her full breasts and hardened nipples. Her moans filled him with satisfaction and confidence, caused his cock to throb and leak arousal.
“Bryn,” he said, lifting her onto the counter then immediately taking her nipple into his mouth. He kissed, laved, bit, suckled as his fingers found the nipple’s twin.
“That feels so good,” Bryn said, her back arching, her fingers spearing through his hair, holding him to her.
His mouth was incredible. It felt as though his lips were pulling wave after wave of heated need from her cunt up to her breasts. He made her feel things no other man had ever come close to making her feel.
Tenderness, surprise, desire—they flashed through her quicksilver fast with each interaction. He was gorgeous and yet there were glimpses of uncertainty, vulnerability. It was an irresistible combination, made more so by the hot, liquid hunger his touch evoked.
“You’re beautiful,” Atticus murmured, nuzzling, claiming the nipple that hadn’t yet known the exquisite feel of his mouth.
Her fingers tightened in his hair but she made no protest when his hands glided down her hips and around to the opening of her shorts. I should have worn a skirt, she thought, suddenly anxious for him to trail kisses downward, to bury his face between her thighs.
She was wet, swollen, flushed, her clit rigid against the thin fabric of her panties. A moan escaped when the top button of her shorts gave, when the zipper parted.
“Please,” she whispered, bracing her hands on the counter, lifting so he could tug the shorts down and off. He left her panties on, closed the distance between them again so the material of his pants touched her inner thighs and the hard line of his cock pressed against her clit.
His fingers brushed against her ankles in an erotic caress. The straps of her sandals slid down, then off.
“Atticus,” she said, pulling him from her breast, her cunt spasming when he held her nipple in his mouth, relinquishing it with a pop at the point where pleasure and pain merged perfectly.
She’d meant to guide his mouth to hers. But when he stepped back and dipped his head, kissed down her belly, his wet, hot tongue exploring her navel before his lips parted around her clit, Bryn was lost.
Her hands went behind her, gripped the back edge of the counter as her hips lifted, as she pressed her cloth-covered mound against his mouth. “Yes,” she said, the word a ragged whisper, a desperate plea.
He tortured her through the thin material of her panties. His breath, his moans, the teasing touch of his mouth to her inner thighs as his tongue claimed every drop of escaped arousal had her crying out, clutching the counter as her hips bucked and her channel spasmed repeatedly.
The eroticism of his slow kisses, the sight of him between her thighs, eyes closed, lashes dark against his cheeks, his face taut with desire though he remained unhurried, sent molten hunger pounding through her veins, pooling in her cunt lips, her clit, her nipples.
“Please, Atticus, don’t make me wait any longer,” she said. “It’s safe. I haven’t been with anyone in a long time. Put your mouth on me.”
Atticus wanted to linger. The taste of her rivaled the ambrosia of the gods who called Mount Olympus home. Her arousal intoxicated him, was more potent than any wine made to honor Bacchus.
Her skin was like heated silk. And her whispered pleas… They were a siren song he would never attempt to resist.
With a groan he stripped the panties from Bryn’s body. He had the primitive urge to stuff them in his pocket as a token, a perfumed reminder of the first touch, the first taste of the woman who would soon be his wife.
The sight of Bryn’s cunt mesmerized him. She was slick, flushed, open, her labia like the petals of a flower coated with sweet nectar.
Words tumbled through his thoughts, became tangled on their way to his tongue, making it impossible for him to speak, to tell her what she was to him. He pressed his mouth to her cunt lips, licked and sucked in a carnal kiss of greeting, in a promise they would always be together.
Raw pleasure coursed through his veins. He gripped his erection through the fabric of his pants, afraid he’d come as his tongue trailed through the silky moisture of her slit, pierced her as he wanted to do with his cock.
Her moans and whimpers, the jerk of her hips as he fucked her with his tongue fed an endless spiral of fierce joy and desire. Her wet core was beyond any fantasy.
He tasted, lapped, moved to her clit, his breathing becomin
g rough and fast, his balls tightening in warning. She jerked, panted as he licked her, sucked her, ran his tongue over the exposed tip of her swollen woman’s knob until she came with a shuddering cry.
Satisfaction raged through Atticus afterward as he held Bryn, her face buried against his shoulder, her naked body pressed to his clothed one. His cock throbbed with the need to explore the same wet, welcoming folds his mouth and tongue now knew, but for the moment he was content to hold her, to savor a closeness he’d never experienced before.
“I’ll make it a habit to bring you flowers daily,” he said, palming her breast, caressing her nipple.
Bryn’s heart turned over in her chest. She tried not to read a promise in his words though she thought she heard one.
She realized their conversation over pizza had been sidetracked and she didn’t know what city he called home, didn’t know how far away he lived, whether he was restless, ready to move or had hopes of expanding the family business. But she didn’t want to spoil the moment, to worry about the future when the present was here now and could be enjoyed thoroughly.
Feeling bold, satisfied, incredibly feminine, she touched her lips to his and tasted herself on him, murmured, “I appreciate the…flowers.”
“It was my pleasure,” he said, making her smile even as his tongue slid into her mouth for a slow, heated kiss and his arms pulled her bared cunt against his denim-covered erection.
When they parted for breath, Atticus lifted her from the counter, his laugh joining hers as she wrapped her arms and legs around him and let him carry her to the bed. He couldn’t bring himself to let go of her as he placed her on the mattress and lowered himself on top of her.
“You’re overdressed,” she teased and he didn’t resist when she pushed him over and onto his back, following so she straddled him.
He wanted to hurry her as she unbuttoned his shirt, pushed the cloth aside to explore his flesh. Lust jerked through him when she found his nipples, teased them first with her fingers and then with the liquid heat of her mouth.
