by Ada Stone
All of her.
There must have been something in my eyes, a look of need so deep and dark that it was flashing like danger, because she caught her breath. “Nick?” she whispered as her tits heaved, barely contained by the flimsy summer dress she’d decided to wear.
I didn’t answer her. Instead, I deliberately raked my eyes across her body—those full, perky tits; that tiny waist; those flared hips perfect for gripping tightly in the act—making her flush crimson.
“Please, Nick,” she begged me, though I couldn’t tell if it was a plea to let her up or a plea to keep doing whatever I was doing.
I hoped for the latter, and when I pulled both of her wrists together so that I could hold them with only one hand, I drifted the free one lower to test if my hopes were right.
My hand trailed down her bare arm, her skin silky and soft, flushing as I went. Her breathing became shallow and stuttering as I reached her collarbone, my fingertips caressing that, too. I found the center of her body and slipped my hand down that line. It went between her breasts, which were smooshed together by her bra so that I had to drag my hand through them, effectively pressing against both of them.
She let out a little moan that almost sounded like my name.
“You know what I want, right?” I asked her in a voice that was like gravel crunching.
Her eyelashes fluttered across her cheeks which were now burning, because, yes, she knew exactly what I wanted. She bit her lower lip, my hand still buried between her tits. “I…” But she couldn’t get anything else out. Instead, I watched as her mouth struggled to form words, her lips forming little o’s that made me want to bury my aching hard-on in her mouth just as much as between her legs.
“Good,” I told her, though she hadn’t answered me. But the fast beating of her heart and the deep, burning flush of her skin told me that she wanted me, too.
I let my hand wander lower than her tits, catching the neckline of her dress and tugging it with me. It gave a little, letting me see the outline of her bra—a flimsy thing that was too small for her ample breasts, leaving the edges of her nipples peeking out—but that was it. I encountered the resistance of fabric and kept going anyway.
I heard it tear. If she minded, she didn’t say anything. In fact, I heard her breath catch in her throat, and when I tore the dress the rest of the way, the straps coming apart until I had the neckline around her tiny waist, she let out a moan.
Satisfied with the ruined dress, I left the neckline there and traveled over the top of the dress to get lower. I had to scoot myself down a little so that I could get to the hem of her dress, but when I found it, I allowed my hand to dip beneath it to find the creamy skin of her legs. My hand traveled up, squeezing at her thighs. She gasped as I moved my hand between her legs higher and higher.
Finally, I found her soaked panties. She gasped and begged as I rubbed against them. “Guess you want the same thing,” I told her in a voice laced with barely restrained desire. I needed to take her now.
“I…oh, god, Nick, I…” But she couldn’t finish her sentence, couldn’t find her words.
I didn’t care. The dampness of her panties told me that she wanted me and that she was ready for me, so when I grabbed the waistband of them and jerked, I knew she wouldn’t care about the tearing sound they made.
She moaned as I pulled the tatters of her panties away from her body, tossing them off to the side somewhere.
Not waiting, I slid my fingers along her moist lips. I parted them and wasted no time in plunging a thick finger inside of her.
She screamed. Not a little whimper, not a small moan, but a full scream that was some garbled version of my name.
Her body swallowed my finger to the knuckle and I was coated with slickness. That was all the invitation I needed, so I withdrew my finger—she begged me to come back—and undid my jeans. I got them down low enough to let my cock spring free, so hard that it was pulsing. I settled it between her, rubbed it along her wet lips and split them with the head of my dick.
Her breathing was ragged by the time my head was poised at the entrance of her womanhood.
“I don’t think I have the control to be gentle,” I ground out, worrying for a split second that maybe my engorged member would be a little too much for her.
In response, she lifted her hips slightly, pushing the tip of me ever so slightly into her entrance. That was all I could handle, and with a groan of pleasure, I thrust. I buried my entire length inside of her, and I might have felt guilty for being so forceful, so impatient, if she hadn’t cried out my name and told me how much she loved it.
“Oh, god, you’re so deep!”
I almost lost myself inside her right then and there, but held out because I wanted more. I wanted to pump into her and make those fucking perfect tits bounce. I wanted to hear her scream my name a thousand more times.
With my free hand I pulled down the cups of her bra so that her breasts were free, the nipples hard, and then I began to move. I pounded into her desperately, making her cry out and beg and whimper.
“Oh, Nick!”
Zoe gasped, reminding me where we were and who we were and how she was not my girl anymore. The memory of our time together was like a brick falling into my gut and I knew I couldn’t be inside her just then.
I still wanted her too much. I still cared for her too much.
Breaking away from her, both of us heaving, her big doe eyes looking up at me, I said the only thing that would save us, “Does Sal kiss like that?”
Zoe pulled back and slapped me firmly across the face. “Get out,” she told me, her body trembling with the passion we’d just shared—I wondered if she had remembered the same moment I had.
I didn’t argue with her. I didn’t protest. I just turned and left without another word, my own heart pounding a mile a minute.
***
Three hours later found me in the office of public records. I was pouring over building prints and land purchases, business deals, the whole shebang. At the same time, I was using my phone to research information about building collapses that were recent.
It took me a long time before I made the connection, but once I did, I started getting suspicious.
I’d found an article online which detailed the recent collapse of a charity hall designed and constructed by Vanguard Construction Industries, Inc.—VCI for short. The building had been up only a few months when the collapse happened during the middle of the work day where several offices full of staff and volunteers had been holed up in offices. Dozens of people had been injured and there were a total of sixteen deaths as a result. VCI had been cleared of all wrongdoing, the papers stating that it had been an “unstable and impossible to detect foundation flaw” that had been the leading cause for the building failure. No personal lawsuits had gone to court, though I noticed that there had been at least three filed.
Maybe it wouldn’t have meant anything to me—buildings collapsed all the time and VCI could have been just another company who screwed up or who didn’t—except that I also had the records on business deals within VCI. It was mostly negotiations on winning the contract to build the charity house, but it also had something very interesting on it—a signature at the bottom, the only place it appeared in the entire sixty-five-page report.
Sal Davis.
I looked farther into VCI and found that he appeared on several other documents in a very small capacity—but he was there. Satisfied that Sal was definitely involved with the company, I dug a little deeper on the internet. I found that VCI had been named Cornerstone Construction, Co. just two years ago, and a year and a half before that it had been Graystone Construction and Design, Co. The name changes corresponded with a series of “accidents” just before and while the company, under any of the names, hadn’t been found liable for any of the accidents, there was no denying there was a pattern.
Looks like Sal’s cutting corners, I thought to myself.
Of course, there was no evidence of that.
If there had been, Sal would have been nailed to the wall—or at least, his company would have—long ago.
It looked to be a dead end, until I found a list of names. There were only three of them, but they were the ones who had filed the claims against VCI during the latest collapse. Two were by family members of the victims who had died in the collapse and the third one had actually been in the building.
I looked around to see what their claims were and to see how they were resolved, but couldn’t seem to find anything on it.
All I could find were their names.
***
I tracked down the first two names on my list, which happened to be the people who were family members of the victims. The first was a young woman with three kids. She explained to me that her husband had been a good man, but he’d left behind a family that didn’t know how to support itself without him. The entire time she looked uncomfortable speaking to me and when I asked what her lawsuit had been about, she explained that it was all a misunderstanding.
Then she shoved the door in my face.
The second name belonged to an elderly couple, clearly long since retired, who had lost a vivacious, colorful daughter in the accident. They spoke highly of her, but admitted she was a free spirit and sometimes didn’t think things through. They said she likely died because she tried to go back and help others.
I didn’t tell them how skeptical I was of this and instead asked them about the lawsuit. They shared a look between the two of them and politely informed me that it was getting late. I tried one more time to ask them about the lawsuit, but they said that they felt it was unfair to hold the company responsible for their daughter’s heroic nature.
I was ushered out after only a few more minutes of civil, but unwelcoming conversation. By the time I went to the third name on the list, I expected to encounter the same thing as the other two.
Angela Davenport met me at the door and invited me in. She was in a wheelchair.
“I know you’ve probably already talked to everyone and then some, but can I ask you about the accident?” I tried, knowing full well that it was already a waste of my time.
Angela blinked at me, surprised. She was a pretty thing, younger than I had anticipated. Her eyes were coal black, matching her hair, and her skin was a soft brown color that almost glowed. “You mean the building collapse?” she clarified.
I nodded.
“Oh, sure, that thing. I can’t believe people are still even talking about it.” She laughed, but it sounded just a little forced.
“Was that…how it happened?” I gestured to the wheelchair.
She was silent for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders lightly. “Yeah. It was…pretty terrible. I was in there for hours and hours before they found me. Thought I was going to die down there.”
“I noticed you filed a lawsuit against the company, Vanguard Construction Industries?” I prompted, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t immediately clam up like the others have.
She hesitated, studying me a moment, before shrugging her shoulders again. “Yeah, I did.” She paused for a second as though thinking something through, then gave me a dazzling smile. “It was really stupid of me. I was just looking for someone to blame.”
I narrowed my eyes at her, but tried again. “Why would you say that? Don’t you think it could have been the company’s fault?”
She waved me off with a delicate hand. “No. I mean, yeah, that stuff happens, but only with the bad companies, you know?”
I stared at her uncertainly for a moment. Bad companies? “What do you mean by that?”
“Well, if they were really a bad company, would they have paid all my medical bills? Would they have helped me get on disability? No way! They would have left me to the wolves and made me pay all the court costs for some stupid lawsuit that I wouldn’t have even won in the first place. Dropping it after all of that was the least I could do.”
We talked a little bit more after that, then I thanked her and left. I didn’t need to hear any more, really. It was pretty obvious to me that Angela Davenport was a goodhearted woman who had been through something terrible and just wanted to move on with her life. Maybe some part of her knew that things weren’t quite on the up and up with VCI, maybe she didn’t. Either way, she was willing to leave the whole mess behind her in order to move on with her life.
Which I couldn’t blame her for.
That being said, I was willing to bet that the reason VCI was so damn nice to her was that they realized she had a strong case against them. Or at the very least, she had the power to mess them up in the court of public opinion.
I wanted to tell her that she’d been had, but in the end I didn’t see the point. Angela Davenport had probably ended up with the best possible outcome for her, and I wasn’t about to drag her into court just to screw Sal Davis.
After all, I was pretty sure I could find other ways of doing that.
Chapter Eight
Zoe
My life was a mess. Maybe it had always been that way, but recently it had gotten worse to the point where I was pretty positive that nothing I did would fix it. Still, I was trying.
After Nick’s visit only a couple of days ago—and the delicious and oh so wrong night before that—I was a flutter of nervous emotions and hormones. On the one hand, my body was begging for Nick. I couldn’t get him off my mind. Everything I’d wanted lay in Nick’s strong arms, but it was all so out of reach.
Well, maybe it wouldn’t be if you hadn’t slapped him and told him to get the hell out of here! I thought to myself angrily, but even as I did, I knew that wasn’t true.
Things were broken between Nick and me, despite the obvious passion and maybe love that still lingered between us. I wanted to believe that we could come back together. That we could patch things up and ride off into the sunset like some crazy western romance novel, but I wasn’t that naïve. Things had gotten complicated and even if I could fix things between myself and Nick, it wouldn’t matter.
Sal would never let me go. And if he did, he’d ruin Nick for it.
I showered three times after Nick left. In part because I found myself in desperate need of release. I had to lose myself in my own touch, imagining it was his, and it brought me to delicious orgasm as I remembered the good times between us.
The other part of showering had been a lingering sense of dread.
Sal had warned me about being with another man. He’d insinuated that maybe I wouldn’t live long enough to regret any transgressions I committed against him. He’d all but threatened my life and it terrified me.
He was not the sort of man I wanted to cross.
Which was why I scrubbed myself until I was raw and pink. I brushed my teeth over and over again, and washed my hair until it smelled like coconut and nothing else. Even after I stepped out, though, I felt the sense that Nick still lingered in the imprint of my skin. Maybe he always had, but I felt like now Sal could see that imprint.
It terrified me.
I was meeting Sal at his place that night, which was why there was a deep pool of dread lingering in my stomach. The last thing I wanted to do was go over there and pretend like I was excited to marry him still. And how was I supposed to spend an evening with him, knowing that my mind would be full to the brim with memories of Nick?
It was awful, but there was no way around it. After Sal’s warning shot, there was no way he’d let me cancel on him. And if he did, he’d only send someone after me to look and see why I’d canceled.
What if Nick showed up again then? Sure, I’d slapped him and kicked him out, but Nick wasn’t the kind of guy who gave up when he wanted something. And while it still seemed impossible to me, I thought he still seemed to want me.
Trying to ignore the warm trickle that washed over my body at that thought, I got dressed.
Since I would be spending the evening just at the house with Sal, he would tolerate something casual instead of dressy. I could get away with skinny jeans and a button dow
n-blouse—he hated it when women wore t-shirt. I grabbed a pair of ankle boots, too, because he didn’t like flip flops or tennis shoes, and then headed out the door. I’d dragged a brush through my hair and forced it into a tame ponytail, hoping that would be enough for him today.
The entire drive over there, I dreaded a night with Sal. He’d paw at me like some animal in heat and then get angry when I told him no. He’d pout and gripe about my stupid rules, and then he’d tell me to top being such a prude. When I insisted for the hundredth time that all I wanted to do was wait, he’d tell me that I had better be prepared for a proper fucking, because our wedding night was going to leave me sore and begging. For more.
