The Men of Laguna

by Kim Karr

  His low, dry chuckle doesn’t mask the sound of the condom wrapper tearing. A sound that causes a ripple of arousal so great in my lower belly, I’m certain he must have heard it too.

  After a beat, he settles his big hands on my hips and then lifts me up and forward at the same time, to the very tips of my toes.

  I really wish I had kept my shoes on.

  Keen turns my face to the side, and he kisses down my neck and back up until he meets my lips, and then he takes them in a bruising kiss.

  Lost.

  Lost.

  I’m lost in him.

  With him.

  In the fine fabric of his trousers as they hit my inner thighs. In the soft brush of his white shirt as it rubs against my shoulder blades. With his lower abdomen so close to my body from leaning in to kiss me. With his hand pressed flat against my stomach. With his cock hot and hard against my bottom.

  “Take me,” I moan.

  “You are sure?”

  “Yes.”

  The five-inch difference in our heights doesn’t seem to matter in the least. Keen simply bends his knees, wraps one arm around my waist to hold me up on my toes, and braces the other next to my face.

  When I lick at his fingers, I feel his body shake.

  When his thick cock parts my sensitive flesh already swollen and damp with arousal, my body starts to shake too.

  And then he eases himself inside me, slow, slow, slow, until his cock is completely buried in my pussy.

  Heightened sensations seize me. As if on overload, he’s suddenly a part of me. His lips, his hands, his hard cock inside me, his breath, his body, him. Him. Him. I want all of him.

  He goes still. “You okay?” he asks, his voice rough, strained.

  “Yes,” I cry out.

  With that he pulls out and drives himself inside me.

  “You okay?” he asks again.

  I cry out, “Harder. Faster. It’s good. God. So good.”

  A rough groan eases out of him, and then he begins to thrust, deep and hard. His hand on my lower belly moving down to my clit and up to my breasts, and back down to my clit.

  That’s when I forget everything.

  Where we are.

  Who we are.

  Who I am.

  What happened.

  He is taking me.

  Possessing me.

  Owning me like no man ever has.

  And I want it. Want this like I never have.

  With my palms flat against the wall, I plunge myself back to meet his fast and furious thrusts.

  Out of nowhere, a tingling takes over my body. With his fingers circling my clit and his cock filling me, he’s already spurring the start of an orgasm in the same way I remember he did that night.

  Suddenly my heart is pounding so fast, the room is spinning for a second. When I can see straight again, I force myself to hold off my orgasm with a few deep breaths.

  “So close,” he whispers, moving his hand to my hips and changing his angle to move his cock in and out of me in the most delicious way.

  Still lost in him, I allow my head to tip back, and when I do, he finds my bare shoulder with his teeth, the strap having slipped down my arm long ago.

  Under the sting of his bite on my skin and the brutal grip of his hands on my hips, I start to come, and not just come, but explode. It’s sensory overload and I swear I not only see the stars in the sky, but planets from another galaxy, and feel the earth shift under my feet, all at the same time.

  This position sets me off kilter and I find myself pushing back even harder to keep my balance.

  Keen growls low and deep in his throat. Almost like he knows what he’s doing to me. That he’s setting me off balance in more ways than one. Like he knows how he’s driving me higher and higher.

  I cry out louder. “I’m coming.”

  With that his strokes become relentless, and he changes position one more time. His arm goes around my waist to hold me in place.

  I’m not going anywhere.

  Seconds later the fingers of his other hand gather my loose, sweat-dampened hair and he gently turns my head to the side.

  Right where he wants me, he looks at me, an intensity in his blue eyes that makes me boneless.

  My own eyelids flutter as my orgasm starts to settle.

  But not for long, because then he angles his hips forward, stroking a spot deep inside me I don’t think anyone has ever touched, while at the same time stroking his hand down through my hair, across my ribs, and down to cup the top of my sex.

  Hot, electric pulses zing through me.

  And then I lose all control. Saying things I have no idea what. Making sounds even I have never heard. Murmuring incoherent thoughts as everything turns into a whirlpool of erotic sensations.

  Keen groans through what I already know is his body getting ready for his own release. And I’m still coming.

  Still coming.

  “Oh, God!” I scream out, unable to contain myself. I have no idea how loud my moaning is, but I’m going to guess on a scale of one to ten, it’s at least an eleven.

  At my loud, boastful moan, he turns my head and stares into my eyes. His hips grind faster against my bare bottom. And then I can feel his cock swell and pulse deep inside me. Groaning in what I know is his come noise, he mouths my jaw and neck through slow, jerky orgasmic strokes.

  And then when I’m spent, I think he is too because he exhales against my shoulder, letting his weight slump into my body.

  As the waves of sensations subside, I sag into his grip, waiting for my jellylike muscles to gain enough strength for me to stand up on my own.

  When I am certain I can stand, I toss him a languid smile over my shoulder, and he smiles back.

  Like really smiles.

  Not a smirk.

  His real smile.

  Withdrawing, he cups my chin and brings my mouth to his for a soft kiss, and mutters around my lips, “We should probably talk.”

  Pushing myself upright because I don’t really want to talk about how he hurt me anymore, I start to pull my panties up as he walks toward the bathroom.

  “Don’t move.” The words are tossed over his shoulder.

  I consider running.

  Shimmying my panties up and straightening my skirt are about as far as I get before he returns.

  In the pale glow of the emergency light overhead, I can see his hair—one hot, damp mess, and still sexier than sin. The stubble on his cheeks and chin—that only highlights the planes and curves of his face. His body—long and lean. I swear this man belongs on the cover of GQ.

  His eyes are on me; his walk is slow, deliberate.

  I’m gathering my cool—I mean my cool factor, because around him I seem to lose it—a lot.

  Nervous, I twist my hair into a loose knot at the nape of my neck and just as I finish, his arms are caging me in, and then one hand is undoing my hair. “I like your hair down.”

  Reaching up, I twist it back. “I like it up. I’m warm.”

  His blue eyes glint in the darkness, and he resumes his position, keeping me trapped. “Has anyone ever told you that you are a handful?”

  My pulse races with odd excitement. “All the time.”

  He shakes his head, and just as he moves his hand toward the nape of my neck, the lights flick on.

  Keen whirls around, his arms reaching back as if shielding me from whatever harm might be at the other end of the hall.

  “Can I help you with something?” the security guard asks, pointing his flashlight in our direction.

  Quick to move, Keen bends down and picks up the catalog that somehow ended up on the floor. “I’m Keen Masters, and I just started working for Simon Warren. It’s okay that I’m here.”

  The flashlight moves and lands over Keen’s shoulder and right on my face. “Is that you, Maggie?”

  I squint. “Mitch?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. Are you okay?”

  Stepping out of Keen’s protective stance, I give Mitch a wa
ve. “I’m great. Just wanted to make sure Mr. Masters could find his way around.”

  Keen snickers under his breath, “Mr. Masters. Now you’re learning.”

  I give him a swift kick with my bare foot. “We were just leaving.”

  “Let me walk you out,” Mitch says, the light still shining at us, and blinding me.

  Keen leans down and whispers, “Follow me,” as if he knows I’m seeing spots. More than likely he is too.

  But I can’t do that, now can I? So I step in front of him and start walking, mouthing over my shoulder, “No, you follow me.”

  On my heels, he gets up close and personal and then swats my bottom.

  I yelp.

  “That was for the coffee, and this,” he swats me again, “is for not listening to me.”

  I yelp again.

  Mitch adjusts the flashlight and it blinds me. “You okay?”

  Rubbing my behind, I smile at him. “All good.”

  Once he lowers the light, I turn back to Keen and give him the evil eye. “You’re going to pay for that.”

  He snickers. Actually snickers.

  When we reach the end of the hall, Mitch looks down at my feet and pulls his brows together.

  “Long story.” I wave a hand. “But my shoes are in the car.”

  He smiles as if that is all I have to say.

  As we walk down the steps, Mitch tells us about his wife, and how her feet are always killing her.

  I laugh when appropriate, but am only half listening.

  It’s Keen’s breathing loud in my ear that I’m most attuned to, and at the same time, most afraid of, because holy hell…now what?

  20

  STATE OF GRACE

  Keen

  Bonding over a guy in a white jumpsuit is not what I expected on the drive home with Maggie.

  But come on, we’re talking Elvis here—the King of Rock and Roll. Who wore suits.

  My thing. Her thing.

  After getting in the car under Mitch’s watchful eye, talking about the past or the mind-blowing sex we’d just had didn’t seem top of my list. Nothing good was going to come out of that conversation; I could tell by the way she tensed when I suggested we talk. I will leave that open for her to address on her own terms. So instead I’d turned the radio on, and as soon as I did, Maggie immediately changed the station.

  Just as I went to turn it back—I mean the Talking Heads were playing—“Jailhouse Rock” filled the inside of my Porsche.

  And because it was Elvis, I didn’t change it. She started to sing along to the lyrics and so did I, and when I glanced over at her, and she said, “What?” the conversation gates opened to all things Elvis.

  Who would have thought we’d both be dog lovers and Elvis fans?

  Shit, I sound like a fucking girl.

  “Have you ever gone to Graceland, Keen?” Maggie asks, putting her window down.

  The evening is cool, but nothing like February in New York, so instead of putting her window up, I follow suit and put mine down too. “No, I haven’t, but I think it would be cool. Who knows? Maybe someday when I find the time, I’ll go.”

  The breeze blows the wisps of her hair that have fallen down from her quick pin-up. “I haven’t been there either, but I heard there is one whole room dedicated to just his suits. Can’t you just imagine seeing the suit he wore in Jailhouse Rock or the jumpsuit from the seventies with the wide legs?…”

  Like the sex appeal Maggie carries, she also has an enthusiasm about her that makes it hard not to get sucked into the whirlwind, even for a no-nonsense kind of guy like me. And yes, although I’d never have believed it, I somehow find myself discussing Elvis’s clothing choices.

  Shit, now I really feel like a thirteen-year-old girl.

  When I pull the Porsche onto the street that Cam and Makayla, and Maggie and Brooklyn, live on, I park under the shadows of a palm tree in front of the large house where some mystery writer lives.

  This is the part I’ve been dreading—the good-night talk.

  “Why are you parking all the way over here?” Maggie asks.

  Switching the ignition off, I turn to face her. “I think we should talk, and I didn’t want Makayla or Brooklyn wondering what we were doing, or coming out to check on us.”

  Maggie’s body tenses immediately and I can tell her wall is back up. “Right, we should probably have the ‘that shouldn’t happen ever again’ talk. There, now it’s done.” Her voice gets low and trails off, but her eyes don’t cut away.

  Instinctively, I reach over and take her chin in my hand. “Maggie—” I can’t get the words to come out. For the first time ever, I’m not certain about what to do. My entire life has been about action. Make a decision, execute the plan, and don’t stop until it’s complete. Everything has been so cut and dry. Even with women. And now I’m stumbling on my words, uncertain of what to say. How to express my feelings.

  The car door opens and she hops out so fast, I can’t even grab her.

  Wrenching open my door and hitting a dead run, I’m able to take hold of her arm before she passes the hood of the Porsche. “Maggie, that isn’t what I was going to say.”

  She shoots me a warning look. “Keen, leave it be, will you?”

  Dropping my hold on her, what comes out of my mouth is not what I expect. “No, you got it all wrong.”

  Eyes blazing, she glares at me.

  Crossing my arms, I lean back against my car and wait for whatever it is she has to say.

  Mind you, patience has never been my thing.

  She takes a step toward me. “Sorry, was that the wrong talk? Should it be, ‘I don’t want to do this to you again, but—’”

  I shake my head no, and she stops. I know those words hurt more than any other. What she doesn’t get is they hurt me too.

  “Okay, did you want to go with the ‘That was a mistake, we crossed the line, and we can’t do it again’ talk instead?” She makes a check mark with her finger. “Because that one is done too.”

  My eyes greedily take her in. She really is a lot to handle, and for some reason, I find that to be such an incredible turn-on. “No, not that one either,” I say with a smirk.

  Apparently Maggie’s sense of humor has gone by the wayside, because she narrows her eyes at me and then points her finger. “Keen Masters, you really are an asshole.”

  Just as she pivots on the heels of her fuck-me pumps, I grab her arm again and yank her between my legs. “You can call me that a million times. I don’t care, but if you’d let a guy talk, you would know I was going to say, ‘I want to put my cock in that hot little pussy of yours again.’”

  A pink shade seems to coat her face.

  “Are you blushing?” I ask.

  She tries to shove out of my hold.

  I yank her even closer. We are eye-to-eye and I take her face in my hands. “Are you?”

  Her lips part, and I swear I can feel her heart beating out of her chest. “No, I don’t blush. It’s just warm out here.”

  Laughter spills out of me and I take her mouth for another one of those drugging kisses of hers. Licking around her lips, I murmur, “You’re cute when you blush.”

  She bites down on my lip so hard, I rear my head back and bring my fingers to my mouth, and once I look at them, I give her a smile. “I’ll give you that one.”

  She raises a brow. “Give me?”

  “Yeah, I’ll give you that one, and even refrain from calling you cute ever again, although most women would take that as a compliment.”

  Those hands of hers that I want on me go to her hips. “I’m not most women.”

  “I know that.” I pat my leg. “Now come back here.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Please,” I add.

  Slowly she steps between my legs. “That was much better.”

  “I’m not always an asshole.”

  She laughs. “No, just most of the time.”

  My hand goes to my heart. “You wound me.”

  L
icking at the blood on my lip, she whispers, “Not likely, but I am sorry. I didn’t mean to bite that hard.”

  I groan. “Do that again.”

  “Do what? Bite your lip?”

  My fingers creep over her hips to run them under the silk of her top.

  She moans, and let me tell you, no woman moans like Maggie does. It’s enough to make a guy come on the spot.

  “No, the ‘I’m sorry’ part.”

  “Watch it,” she says, hovering her mouth over mine as if it’s a threat.

  Fuck, I’m so hard right now and I really don’t want to lose her lips, so I drop it.

  Hey, I know when to back down.

  My fingers slide around to her back and then down to her ass. In turn, her hands go around my neck, and then we kiss, or a better term for it might be mouth-fuck.

  When we stop kissing, we stare at each other.

  “So do you forgive me for fucking up what we were just starting?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Okay, that’s fair,” I tell her.

  She stares at me, as if she’s contemplating telling me to fuck off.

  That’s when I decide to hell with it all, I’m just going for it. “Fuck, Maggie, I had you, but I want you right fucking now. I want to taste you. I want to lick your sweet pussy until you scream my name. And then I want to watch your face as I make you come. Repeatedly.”

  Her fingernails tear into the flesh at the base of my scalp. “That’s quite a list.”

  “That’s not all.”

  She tugs on my hair. “Tell me more.”

  Okay, so it wasn’t “fuck off”; that is good.

  “I’m going to lick, bite, and suck your nipples until you feel everything ache. Your pussy will be throbbing. I’m going to make you scream with pleasure. You’ll be begging for more.”

  She’s not panting, but I can tell she wants to. “Anything else?”

  I raise a brow. “Leave your front door unlocked and your shoes on, and you’ll find out.”

  She nips at my lip. “Done and done, but right now I want to hear what else.”

  Yeah, I’m a sucker and give in. “I’m going to suck your nipples into hard peaks, and you’re going to scream at how good it feels.”