Pulse

by Angel Payne

  But right here, right now, it feels healthy.

  It feels right.

  It feels natural and real and perfectly, wonderfully good.

  “I…I want your come.” With a hasty smirk, I add, “On my tongue. In my mouth.”

  Reece’s features harden. His beautiful lips part. But he doesn’t lower his finger. “Tasting me?”

  “Yes. Yes, sir. Tasting you.”

  “Sucking all of me in?”

  “Sucking all of you in.”

  A ruthless grunt unfurls from him. Angels singing couldn’t improve the sound. At the same time, another milky pearl appears in the slit atop his cock. I lick my lips while watching him wick it off. The man’s penis is such a work of art, I’m shocked they’re not selling replicas of it next to space blankets and Bolt blue nail polish in the airline’s sky market magazine.

  “Then take it.”

  And finally, finally, he’s slipping that finger past my lips, wiping the silky essence along the length of my tongue…

  “And take me.”

  He thrusts his perfect cock through the sugar and cream coating my pussy, penetrating all the way into my body.

  “Mmmmmm…” My moan is long and anguished and pleasured and stunned. Another spills out right after it as Reece pulls out nearly all the way, rolling just his cockhead in the mix of frosting and juices near my entrance, until pushing all the way back. The air between us fills with an erotic slick of sounds as he refills the emptiness in my core again and again. I close my eyes and drown in the wonder of his breaths, the rhythm of his passion, the very beats of his heart. I’m lost in him. In us. In the charge that binds us beyond electricity and sexuality. It’s the fusion of our souls. The perfection of our love.

  After plunking the used macaron back to the tray, he twists back around to position himself between my legs. As my gaze stays fixed on him, he hooks two fingers from his free hand into my mouth.

  Oh…wow.

  “Spread wider for me.” Though his voice is a sensual command, his face is a visage of stark lust. What he’s ordering me to do for him with my body, he’s giving back to me a hundredfold with his undaunted desire. “Take me deeper, Emma. In your creamy cunt. In your gorgeous mouth.” He fucks into both orifices more forcefully, and my sex shudders as my throat gags. “Goddamn.” The ferocity on his face is blurry now as my eyes water. “You like deep throating me, don’t you, beautiful?”

  “Mmmmmm.” I try communicating the feelings with my tone, but the groan isn’t doing much good. I hope he can see the real feedback in my eyes, with the tears running from the corners as he adds yet another finger from each hand, shoving them even deeper as his cock pulses and expands inside me. With the angle of our bodies in the seats, his abdomen strokes my most sensitive nub with each lunge too. I’m close to imploding, and I try telling him so with frantic licks of my tongue between his fingers.

  “No.” He emphasizes by jabbing his thumbs into the hollow beneath my chin. “No playing with my fingers when they fuck you. Take them in your mouth like your pussy takes my dick. Damn. Damn. Yes, Emma. Fuck, yes!” He jams his fingers harder, likely cutting himself on my lower teeth as he stretches my lips, ramming into my mouth. “So pretty, letting me invade you everywhere. Letting me fill you up…”

  I respond with sounds but am past making sense of them. They’re primal whimpers and harsh little chokes, the verbalizations of a woman gone to another plane…of surrender, of sensuality, of utter abandon and perfect affirmation. I’m so gone. So lost.

  And now so consumed, as I’m gripped with total, carnal, white-hot ecstasy.

  “Ooonnngggg!” I let my moan take over as the first zap of my orgasm hits, with my mouth clamping over his fingers as my pussy milks every lurching inch of his stalk. He’s right. I am filled. With his exquisite, kinglike fingers. With his long scepter of a cock. With his demanding dictator’s orders, still pushing into my ear as he charges toward his own awesome completion.

  “Stay here. Right here, Emma. Jesus God, your cunt. And your mouth. They’re mine. All mine.” He plunges all six of his fingers deeper inside me, fucking my mouth at the same cadence his cock takes my tunnel. His movements get harder, faster, more demanding. I moan, feeling the fuse burning closer to the dynamite of his control.

  “Close, baby,” he rasps, his lips hot and harsh against my ear. “I’m so close. I’m going to come inside your tight channel, and you’re going to take it.”

  Yes. Yes. Yes!

  And suddenly, he’s flooding my womb with his essence. Filling me up with his passion. And yanking everything free from my mouth to replace it with his tongue. As he trades the lunges of his fingers with the stabs and slides of his mouth, I finally cut loose with a full scream into him, hitting my second orgasm as strongly as my first.

  His electric semen soaks me, taking hold of every erotic particle of me from the inside out. I’m fire and fury. Light and glory. A thousand stars of ultimate surrender, giving him everything I’ve ever been and am, taking him deeper and farther and higher and hotter than I ever have before. On the outside, we may be in a tin can flying through the sky, but on the inside, I am the sky, spreading out and around and against the perfect billowing gray thunder of him…and the blinding consummation of his silver lightning.

  We’re locked against each other like that for long minutes. Hours? I’m beyond caring—and far beyond thinking. And why start now on that one? If logic was really a requirement for being with this man, my application would’ve been rejected a long time ago. Sometimes, even now, it’s a struggle to wrap my mind around how we’re here…how I’m here, wrapped in the glory of him. Loving the whole of him. A part of his incredible world.

  And sometimes, when he cants his head and wallops me with this exact gaze, feeling like his whole world.

  Gulp. Big-time.

  Which, of course, he notices at once. “Hey. What is it?” And demands with just as much a take-no-prisoners growl in his voice. As if I’d even think about turning him down anyway. As if I’d want to. Sometimes the only way to survive lightning isn’t to hide from it. The lightning himself has taught me that in the easiest and hardest ways.

  “This,” I murmur at last. “Us.” I let him see all the creases that creep across my brow. “Sometimes it just feels like…”

  “A lot.” He brushes his lips from one end of those furrows to the other. “I know. I know. Me too, baby.”

  I nod but still push out a soft huff. “I…I think you’re trying to. But do you? And don’t start with the chest thumping, Kong. I just mean…”

  “What?”

  “You are chest thumping.”

  “You see my hands anywhere near my fucking chest?”

  Deep breath in and then out—serving as a reminder of how deep his sex is still embedded in mine. “Maybe we need to continue this without being glued together with macaron cream.”

  With a roll of his eyes, he separates himself from me. With gentle swipes of the cloth napkins that accompanied the cookies, we clean ourselves up as best as possible. As I scooch back into my panties and straighten my skirt, he takes care of dumping the excess cookie mess at the galley.

  By the time he returns, I’ve got my skirt sorted out and tidied my hair a little, securing it into a bun at my nape. With at least an outward appearance of professionalism, I find the subject at hand a little easier to approach—despite him continuing his Kong-worthy glower.

  Another full inhalation as I face him, folding one of his hands between both of mine. “Let’s just look at the situation with open eyes, okay?” When I get his tight but acquiescing nod, I go on. “How many visits to Paris will this be for you?”

  Beneath my touch, his hand stiffens. His whole stature follows. “I don’t see how this—”

  “How many times?” I insist.

  His shoulders jerk, edging at a shrug. “I…don’t know. A dozen, I guess.”

  “And with just as many women, right?”

  “Emmalina.”

&n
bsp; “I’m not trying to rub your face in it. I’m just stating facts for what they are. You’re three years older than me but have seen thirty times as much of life.”

  His whole body turns the texture of an I-beam. “Because I’ve gotten on some planes and gone places?”

  “That’s part of it, yeah.”

  “So, essentially, my giant rubber band ball has more layers on it than yours.” He arches a brow, though his gaze is still nothing but steel and stone, so I still can’t tell if the line is an open attempt at levity or not. “Is that it?”

  “To be blunt?” I volley. “Yeah. And like I said before, it’s not a sulk or a complaint. Your life has been what it is, and mine—”

  My glib line is decimated into a conflicted groan from the moment he crashes his mouth on mine and then breaches me with his tongue. His possession is brutal and angry and invasive, and damn it, I love every moment—to the point that by the end, I’ve released his hand to grab on to his forearms, then his elbows, and then his massive shoulders. As he stays poised, persisting with the lock of his stare from less than an inch away, I remain a panting, needy mess.

  At last, he yanks at my waist—not to pull me closer but as some kind of reprimand. “You don’t get it, do you?” he rasps.

  “Get wh-what?”

  “You snapped the rubber bands, Emmalina.” His grip turns painful. His eyes become the texture of thunderheads. He dips back in to bite-kiss me. “Every single one of them.” As he starts rubbing his hands up my sides, over my hips and waist, he professes, “You disintegrated them all. Turned me into a pile of rubber shards. Something new. A person I’ve never been, trying to reformulate into a man who can be worthy of you. Who can know you and meet you on the same level to which you’ve elevated me.”

  With his hands sprawled over the sides of my rib cage, he aligns his gaze to mine. Our noses collide and our heartbeats thud against each other. “My angle’s the same as it ever was, woman. You’re not just my more. You’re my life. You’re my new. And that counts for everything, damn it. Every day, in every way. From waking up with you to kissing you good night in my arms…life isn’t just something I get through anymore. It’s something to be lived, to be fought for, to be strived for in all its best ways.”

  As he grips me with more insistence, I close my hands in from his shoulders, grabbing hold of the thick, messy, dark-brown strands that play at the edges of his collar. “And you’re succeeding,” I tell him. “You’re giving life your best, and it shows. And I feel it.”

  A substantial breath moves through him. “If you do, then you already know, deep in your heart…you’re all my rubber bands, Emma. The rest are nothing but shreds at my feet—and now I’m laying them at yours.” His face is steel and solidity; his energy is commitment and intensity. “You’re my everything, Velvet. You’re my love.”

  I let him kiss me again. No. He takes over me. Rakes his marauding tongue and hot lips through me and across me until every breath I take is full of him, smoke and steel and strength, a consummation as searing and meaningful as what he’s just done to my body.

  And I’m toast.

  Burned toast.

  Charred beyond viability and blackened to the point where even butter isn’t going to work on livening me up. I’m probably a damn good core for a few rubber bands right now, but I can barely comprehend adding those to my charcoal brick of a psyche.

  And it doesn’t matter.

  Because joy is a long-burning heat.

  And this joy is the only force in the world I want or need right now.

  Here, in the clouds, it’s the sky in which I choose to fly. The firmament that welcomes me into one of the deepest sleeps I’ll ever enjoy.

  Because why think of dreaming when a girl is already living in a dream? Why fight the call of slumber when what’s waiting on the other side is just as perfect? Why be afraid of surrendering to the dark when complete safety is ensured by the arms of the man who’s just told you about being his life?

  Answer?

  You don’t.

  Thank God.

  REECE

  No more than a few minutes after she falls asleep, I pass out too. We sleep like hibernating bears for the rest of the flight, cocooned beneath a few blankets Cosette has undoubtedly brought as soon as my snores started filling the cabin. But I can only guess it went down like that. I’ve been told, by a good many of the traveling partners to whom Em alluded, that booze on plane rides morphs me into Yogi Bear when it comes to snoring. Of course, I never polished off two glasses of champagne and then got any of them off using my laser fingers and a macaron before.

  Since that’s exactly the memory inundating my mind as Cosette wakes us up for the descent into Paris, I’m not shocked that I’ve got morning wood, the airline-ride version. Not that it diminishes my shit-eating grin by one millimeter. Without a doubt, this is the best transatlantic flight I’ve ever been on.

  The landing path for this flight takes us close to the heart of Paris, living up to its name in every dazzling way. The City of Light seems to have gotten the memo that Emma Crist is headed for town and has cranked its illumination settings to eleven on the one-to-ten scale just for her. Against a sparkling crisscross of gold and violet, all the cultural icons of the city are brightly lit, making them look like rare pieces of jewelry inside a vast treasure chest. Emma gasps every time she identifies a new one.

  “That’s the Pantheon, right? And Sacré-Coeur? And is that the Louvre Pyramid?”

  “Oui.” Even Cosette is enchanted by my woman’s excitement—though secretly, I’m sure even the native Frenchwoman doesn’t tire of this panorama. I notice as much while extending a small envelope her way.

  “Merci beaucoup,” I murmur, securing the gratuity against her palm. “For the service and the discretion.”

  The tiny blonde finally gives in to an authentic smile. “It is always a pleasure to help the cause of true love, monsieur.”

  I acknowledge her praise with a quick wink. “Even when it’s followed by close to eight hours of snoring?”

  Her forehead furrows. “But…there was no snoring, monsieur.”

  “None?”

  “Both of you seemed…well needing of the rest, n’est-ce pas?”

  I chuckle. “Yes. Of course.”

  At the window, Emma suddenly bounces again. “There it is!” she exclaims. “It’s sparkling. It’s sparkling!”

  In response to my curious glance, Cosette explains, “The Tour d’Eiffel. They shut off all the main lights at midnight, but the ‘sparkle’ comes on one more time, at one o’clock a.m.”

  “I want to see it all.” Emma clasps my hand as I lean over and rest my chin against her shoulder, looking out over the sights with her.

  “And you shall.” I kiss her ear with the promise. “Perhaps we’ll walk some of it tonight since we can’t get into our place until around seven.”

  She swivels her head, blasting into me with a gaze threatening to out-sparkle even the lightshow below. “Our place?”

  “I didn’t want to check right into the Virage,” I explain. “My parents don’t appreciate being taken by their jugular. While my on-camera apology was a ball bounced the right direction, the play is now in their court—and they won’t want to be forced into making that move.” I stroke back and forth between her shoulder blades. “On top of that, I feel better knowing we have a fallback location—just in case what we learn about Tyce and Dad is the worst-case scenario.”

  “Sure. I get it.”

  And clearly, she does—only that doesn’t mean she’s pleased about it.

  “Games, games, games. Why doesn’t everyone just say what they mean and get the bullshit out of the way?”

  I slide my hand up, squeezing the back of her neck. “Well, we still have at least a day until the games begin again, so let’s enjoy the time.”

  The light on her face looks like it got another socket’s worth of boost. “Perfect plan, Kong. I’m not even tired.”

  “T
hat’s why they call me King of the Jungle.”

  “Errrmmm…that’s Tarzan.”

  “Potayyyto, Potahhhto.” I weather her light smack at my cheek with another soft chortle until I’m snagged by the fresh crinkle of her nose and distress in her eyes.

  “Crap,” she mumbles. “Am I dressed all right?”

  “For now, yes,” I reply. “Though I’d suggest replacing the boots with some leggings and flats.” Though I can’t believe I’m saying that. Leggings mean tougher navigation to her lovely pussy, which I plan on giving the full assortment of French experiences as much as the rest of her. “Though part of today’s plans will have to include some shopping. I tossed in a little of everything into your overnight bag, but it won’t go far, and I’m not sure how long we’ll be here.”

  A happy little hum flows off of her lips. “Well, damn,” she mutters. “Twist my arm, mister.”

  I nuzzle into her neck. “With pleasure.”

  To that, I add a wide smile against her skin. She’s happy again, and that eases my nerves about all the unknowns about to come. But thanks to the sleep she’s gotten, along with the magic of the city below, she seems to have tucked away her rising insecurities from before, thank fuck. I won’t delude myself into thinking that my declarations made a lot of difference in her resolve. If I were Emma, I wouldn’t take credence in what I said either.

  You’re my everything. You’re all my rubber bands.