Flashes of Me

by Cynthia Sax

  “You’re my big sexy gift.” I run my fingers over his cotton-covered pectoral muscles and down his delineated stomach, his shirt soft, hugging his body. “And all of this is for me.” I skim one fingertip over the ridge in his dress pants, tracing the outline of his hard cock. “I’m a lucky kitten.”

  “You’re a naughty kitten,” Henley growls. “Don’t tease me.”

  “Mmm . . .” I release two buttons on his dress shirt and spread the material, revealing tanned skin and silver scars. He has experienced such pain, my man, and he survived. I lick the marks in his skin and his muscles ripple against my palms.

  “Teasing implies I won’t give you what you want.” I free more of his body, kiss his scars, taste salt and aroused man. “I’ll give you everything you want, Henley.” I undress him slowly, savoring every inch of him, licking and stroking and learning his form.

  I undo the last button and push the shirt off his shoulders, admiring him. He’s all muscle and golden skin and silver scars, not an ounce of softness in his finely honed physique. “You’re magnificent.” I gaze up at him.

  His eyes glitter. “Only you think so.”

  “Only I matter.” I remove his belt and drop it to the carpet. “Everyone says I have impeccable taste.” I skim my fingers over the waistband of his pants. “If I say you’re magnificent, you’re magnificent.”

  Henley flexes, the play of skin over muscle captivating me. “Does your father say you have impeccable taste?”

  “No.” My voice softens, reality threatening to intrude on our encounter. “My father says there’s beauty in everything.” I summon a smile. “He hasn’t seen the artwork in Mr. Blaine’s office.”

  Henley barks with laughter. “Even Mr. Blaine thinks his artwork is hideous.” The skin around his eyes crinkles. “Thank you.” He frames my face with his scarred palms. “For teaching me how to be happy again.”

  “Thank you for not judging me because I want to be happy.” My smile wavers for a heartbeat and then strengthens. “And you’re about to become even happier.” I unzip his pants, tug the fabric over his hips, thighs, releasing his cock. “I believe it’s your turn.” I stroke his shaft with both of my hands, enjoying his size, his hardness.

  “It’s always my turn.” Henley leans back, pushing his hips forward. “Touching you pleases me.”

  “Touching you pleases me also.” I explore him, tracing his cock head with my fingertips, strumming his shaft, fondling his balls, and tugging gently on his black curls. Henley watches me, allowing me to play with his body.

  “Do you want me to suck you?” I lick my bottom lip, hungry for a taste of him.

  “Not tonight.” Henley shakes his head. “Remove your top, kitten.”

  I reluctantly release his cock, unbutton my blazer, and drop the happy yellow garment near his black shirt. My nipples press against the silk of my bra, my need for Henley compounding. I reach for him.

  “Remove your bra also,” he commands, his stern voice straightening my spine and curling my toes.

  As I reach around my body to undo my bra, I watch his face. The silk falls to the floor, landing on the carpet without a sound, and Henley sucks in his breath, his jaw clenching.

  “These are yours.” I cup my breasts with my hands, offering them to him.

  “They are mine,” Henley affirms, his possessive words searing me, branding me. “And I’ll claim them tonight.” He grasps my waist and lifts me onto the bed, his fingers splayed, his muscles flexing. “Lie back.”

  I recline on the bed, the duvet soft against me. “Should I remove my skirt?” I spread my legs, and the fabric pulls across my thighs.

  “No.” The bed dips as Henley moves toward me. “Keep that barrier between us.” He straddles my waist, his body warm and his cock hard. “You have such beautiful breasts.” He caresses my sides and I tremble. “Responsive and real.” He covers my breasts with his hands and I arch, pushing into his rough palms.

  “Play with them, Henley.” I clasp his thighs, holding onto him.

  He kneads my breasts, squeezes my curves, and I squirm underneath him, trapped by his weight. His lips lift, his face softening, his expression filled with wonder. He pinches my nipples, the pain exquisite, and he pulls, twists, layering sensation until I’m writhing like a wild creature beneath him.

  Henley focuses on me with his renowned intensity, his touching torturing both of us. With every tug, every roll of his fingers, his balls tighten and lift. A dab of pre-cum forms on his cock head. Beads of sweat dapple his forehead. He won’t last much longer.

  “I need you between my breasts.” I press my curves together. “I want you to fuck them, to cover them with your cum.”

  “Yes.” He inches forward and slides his cock between my breasts, his shaft hot. I close my pale skin around him, engulfing all but his tip.

  “We fit together perfectly.” Henley’s murmur of appreciation fills me with pride. He rocks his hips, his cock grazing along my body, his balls swinging against me.

  I watch him, enthralled by the power in his countenance, the roll of his shoulders, the bulge of his biceps. “I fantasized about this also.”

  “Your fantasies fuel mine, kitten.” Henley increases his tempo, thrusting in and out, in and out. The bed skates along the floor, bumping against the wall.

  Henley’s cock head appears and then disappears between my curves. I extend my tongue and lick his skin. He groans, his cock bobbing against me.

  “You like that, huh?” I meet his gaze and lick him a second time. He makes a strangled noise and his rhythm becomes frantic.

  I sweep my tongue over his tip again and again, tasting salt and his distinct essence. Henley grunts, his muscles straining and his breathing hastening. He fucks my breasts with a thrilling lack of control, his eyes wild, and I revel in his unabashed desire. This is truth. This is reality.

  “Kitten?”

  The biggest, strongest, most restrained man I’ve ever met is asking for my permission to come. I lift my chin. His power is mine to wield. His body and mind belong to me.

  “Cover me, Henley.” I thrust my breasts upward, increasing the friction between us, multiplying the points of contact. “Give me everything.”

  He drives forward, slamming the bed against the wall, and roars my name. Cum spurts out of his cock and washes over me with a liquid heat, cleansing my body and my soul. My behemoth pumps his hips once, twice more, and collapses, flattening me against the mattress.

  I squeak, the air squeezed from my lungs. Henley rolls onto his back, taking me with him. I sprawl on top of his large form, my sticky breasts molded against his heaving chest. He cups my skirt-covered ass with his hands, holding me to him.

  He doesn’t need to hold me. I’m not going anywhere. Henley nuzzles his chin into my curls and I sigh happily, spreading my fingers over more of his skin. I love being in his arms. I love it so much it scares me.

  I close my eyes and listen to him breathe in and out, in and out, his lungs as strong as the rest of him. Henley is healthy and safe. I can let go of my fear . . . for tonight.

  Chapter Ten

  * * *

  DINNER IS DELIVERED. Henley answers the door with a towel wrapped around his waist, and we eat on the bed. I strip off my skirt and wear the cream-colored terry-cloth robe the hotel supplies. There are two robes, but they’re sized for normal people, not behemoths. Henley eats in his towel, his chest bare, his legs stretched out.

  I line up my legs next to his, my skin pale against his golden tan, and wiggle my bare toes. He leans over, balancing his plate of steak, mashed potatoes, and steamed vegetables in his hands. “You fixed your nail polish.”

  “Yes.” I beam at Henley, thrilled he noticed. “I did it myself.” I wave at my collection of nail-polish bottles arranged by color on the far nightstand. “I can do your toes too if you want.” He raises his thick eyebrows. “I give my father pedicures, sometimes applying a clear polish.” I laugh. “Once, when he lost a bet with my uncle, I painted my
father’s toenails bright pink. The executive team thought that was hilarious.”

  “It is hilarious.” Henley smiles. “I can’t picture Mr. Blaine with bright pink toenails.”

  “Mr. Blaine’s passion for bright pink nail polish might be a deep dark secret of his.” I push some of my vegetables onto Henley’s plate. “We all have our secrets.” I bounce off the bed and set my empty plate on the desk. “Tell me one of yours.” I return to Henley’s side, cuddle into his body, savoring his warmth.

  “What would you like to know?” He pops a chunk of steak into his mouth and chews.

  My high-security man is giving me total access to his past. I tilt my head and ponder what question to ask him, what a lover should know. “Do you have another name? Will your wife be Mr. Henley or will she have a different last name?”

  He puts his left arm around me. “My wife can use any last name she wishes.”

  I chew on the inside of my cheek. “You wouldn’t mind if she chose a completely different last name?” I stare at our feet. “Wouldn’t that be like lying?”

  “I was born with two names.” Henley bites into a piece of carrot, chews, swallows. “I now use one name. Does that change who I am?”

  “No.” I smile up at him, a weight lifting from my shoulders. “You’re still magnificent.”

  “Only you think so.” His lips curl upward.

  “Only I matter,” I reply, relishing the familiar exchange. “Why do you use only one name?”

  Henley’s lips flatten, and the sparkle fades from his eyes. “When my dad died—”

  I stiffen, tension flooding my body and straightening my spine. “How did he die? Was it cancer?”

  “No, it wasn’t cancer.” Henley squeezes my hip. “He died in an industrial accident, and my mom couldn’t cope alone. She married my stepdad. I was the big draw. He couldn’t have kids and he wanted a son to carry on his name.”

  I nod, understanding that desire. My aunt and uncle couldn’t have kids. My mother and father only had one child, a daughter, me. We have no one to carry on the Volkov name.

  “My stepdad wasn’t a kind man.” Henley turns his left wrist so his scarred palm faces upward. “He hit my mom.”

  I trace the deep grooves. “With a whip?”

  “With anything he had: whips, chains, my baseball bat.” Henley’s jaw jutted. “I went away to college thinking the abuse would stop. I was often the source of their arguments.”

  I bend over and kiss the marred skin, wishing I could kiss away his pain.

  “It didn’t stop.” Henley stares across the room, his gaze unfocused, his face frighteningly hard. “And I wasn’t there to stop the beatings.” His voice breaks.

  I stroke his palm, seeking to comfort him, not knowing the words.

  Henley sets his plate down on the bed. “I refuse to use his last name.” His voice is flat, lifeless, as though the emotion has been drained from him. “My mom’s family chose not to see the violence. They’d ask her to prove he was the one abusing her, acting as though she’d merely been clumsy, slipping and falling multiple times. I didn’t have the cameras, then.”

  “You have them now,” I add quietly. He’d have proof.

  “I have them now,” he agrees. “My dad left us unprotected.” Henley cups my chin, lifts my gaze to his. “I’d never do that to you.”

  “I know you wouldn’t.” I summon a smile, my heart aching for him. Henley smiles back at me, sadness reflected in his eyes. We gaze at each other, the connection between us tightening, deepening.

  “If you ever need a last name,” I lean against him, “you can use mine.” Furrows appear on his forehead and I clarify, “You can use my real last name—Volkov. Henley Volkov has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

  “It does sound good.” He pulls me onto his lap, turning me to face him partially. “Will your family mind if I take your name?”

  “Mind?” I laugh. “They’ll be ecstatic, rushing to adopt you. My father says we can never have too much family.”

  Henley brushes a curl back from my face, his knuckles skimming along my cheek, leaving a trail of sensation. “It’s okay to miss your father.”

  I swallow hard, a lump forming in my throat. “It feels strange to think of him being there and me being here.” I wave my hand. “But he has my mother to keep him company and I have you.”

  Henley captures my wrist, presses my palm over his heart. “You have me.” He covers my lips with his, possessing me, and I surrender to him, allowing him inside my mouth.

  He tastes of sweetness and spices and Henley, a delicious combination, and I grip his nape, holding his lips to mine, feasting on him. Our tongues touch, twine, tangle. Our breaths mesh. Our bodies press together, becoming one entity.

  Kissing him feels right, almost destined, as though everything in our combined pasts, every spilled tear, every broken heart, every loss, has led us here, our paths merging and our hearts aligning. He’s my present and my future, hope where I previously had none.

  Henley breaks our kiss, breathing heavily, his chest heaving against my breasts. “I should work.” He leans his forehead against mine. The tips of our noses touch. “I have to check in with the office and with the apartment building, ensure everything is secure.”

  “You have to ensure everyone is safe,” I add, now better comprehending his need to protect the people he cares about, to see what others might not choose to see. “Can you work here?”

  “Yes.” Henley brushes his lips across mine, his caress edged with gratitude. “I have some gear in the trunk of my car.”

  He dresses quickly, leaves with the key. As he takes multiple trips to his car, lugging his gear into the room, I gather the dishes and leave them on the tray in the hallway, making space on the desk and nightstands for his screens.

  He sets up his mobile office quickly, his movements efficient. I unpack his personal things, hang his pants and spare shirt in the closet beside my pink suit.

  “Are you sure you don’t have an extra suit?” I smooth the crease in his collar.

  “It’s a black suit.” Henley adjusts one of the screens, tilting it to face the bed. He’s clad in a pair of gym shorts. “No one will notice it’s the same suit I wore today.”

  “I’d notice you were wearing the same clothes.” I raise the sleeve to my nose and inhale, his lemon-and-cedar cologne clinging to the fabric. “You have beautiful suits.”

  Henley shrugs, his cheeks reddening, my behemoth adorably modest. I return to the bed, curl next to him to watch him work, silently observing how he systematically answers every e-mail, addresses every problem. Although the information is sensitive, Henley hides nothing from me, his trust warming my heart.

  Hours pass and my eyelids grow heavy, jet lag and emotional exhaustion pulling at me. “Henley?” I blink, trying to stay awake, wishing to prolong the evening.

  “Sleep, kitten.” Henley strokes my back, petting me.

  I rest my cheek against his chest. “Will you protect me?” I’m unable to pretend in my sleep, and the sadness returns night after night, draining me. I need his help, his strength, to combat it.

  “I’ll protect you.” Henley presses a kiss to the top of my head.

  I don’t have to face this night alone. “Okay.” I yawn. “Wake me when you’re done.” I close my eyes. “We’ll have wild, passionate animal sex.”

  Henley chuckles, his body shaking. “We’re not having sex tonight.”

  “That’s what you think, but I . . .” The darkness swirls around me, stealing my words.

  My dream starts the same way it does every night. I’m clad in my favorite pastel pink suit and I walk down an agonizingly long aisle, my heels sinking into the black silk runner. White lilies are tied to pews with black ribbons. Pillar candles burn, the scent of wax and floral perfume heavy in the stale air.

  Every seat is filled and people stand along the walls, their hands clenched before them, their heads bowed. Men wear dark suits with white shirts and somber
ties. Women wear plain black dresses and hats with a hint of tulle.

  As I walk, they turn to face me. Their red-rimmed eyes widen and their lips press together. I tilt my chin upward, ignoring their disapproval, and concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other. No one walks with me, my solitude accentuating my grief. I’ve never felt so alone.

  I reach the front of the church. A gray-haired priest stands over a large brown casket, his face solemn, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. His mouth moves, but I hear nothing, the silence unnerving.

  My fingers shake as I place them on the casket, the wood deathly cold. I don’t want to open the casket. I know whose face I’ll see, whose face I always see, his soulless blue eyes, so like my own, staring up at me, his cheeks previously tanned and full now gaunt and pale, ravaged by cancer, his big body emaciated.

  The being in the box is not my father. My father is healthy and strong, a man able to slay my childhood dragons and swing me in the air, a mentor I can talk to, learn from. I pose over the casket, frozen with dread.

  The images ripple like currents of hot air rising from a summer pavement. A wave of black sweeps over the casket, and my body temperature plummets, this dream deviating from those of the previous nights.

  “No,” I whisper, gripping the handle tightly, my knuckles whitening. The priest watches me, waiting for me to open the casket. No one steps forward to help me. This is my duty, my responsibility.

  My heart pounds painfully in my chest. My palms moisten. I tilt my head back, forbidding my tears to fall. I promised not to cry and I always keep my promises.

  I take a deep breath and open the casket. Henley stares up at me, his brown eyes blank and unblinking, his rugged face too still. I scream and scream and scream, the sound shredding my throat.

  I can’t do this. I can’t lose him too. “No.” I slam my fists on his suit-clad chest, pummeling him with all of my strength, releasing my grief and fury onto my behemoth’s big body. “You promised me. You promised.”