by Emma Chase
Dee’s hands still, just maintaining the snug fit, while I drive my hips forward and back—slowly—drawing out the indulgence. Then I hunch over and speed up—my breaths come faster, my heart tries to break out of my chest.
Dee pants beneath me. “Use the camera, Matthew. I want to see the pictures. After.”
I hiss and I groan. Then I do what she demands. I grab the camera from the floor. And take the pictures.
Click, click.
But it’s not the view of my cock sliding between her luscious tits that I capture—that image is already seared into my brain until the end of time.
Click, click.
It’s her lips—open in pleasure. Click.
Her wet, seeking tongue. Click.
Her amber eyes blazing with intensity . . . and trust. Click, click, click.
Those are the images I immortalize. The ones I need to hold on to.
Because outside of this moment—beyond our searing attraction and erotic endeavors—Delores doesn’t trust me. Not fully. Not yet.
She wants to. She hopes I’m worthy. But doubt still lingers, protecting her heart—preventing her from putting her faith in me completely.
And it’s okay. I don’t know what scars she carries. I don’t know the experiences that taught her to be so guarded. I’ll wait until she’s ready to show me. I’ll work at convincing her, that I’m one of the chosen few she can give her trust to.
Because Delores is worth waiting and working for.
But here—now—Dee’s body already believes what her mind is still wary of. That I’ll never hurt her. That I want her—desire her—more than any other woman before her.
That I’ll cherish every part of her—her body, her mind . . . her heart—for as long as she’ll let me.
The song’s drumbeat pounds. And the singer’s words resonate.
This is my kingdom come.
This is my kingdom come.
My cock slides smoothly between her breasts in a sensational, steady rhythm. Then Dee lifts her head. She leans forward and wraps her lips around me, pulling as much of me into her mouth as she can reach—sucking hard.
And it feels so fantastic, I swear I could frigging cry.
Pure undiluted ecstasy rips through me. I moan her name as I come hard and deep—from the marrow of my fucking bones.
After Dee swallows every drop, she releases me from her mouth. Then she smiles mischievously. “That’s what I was thirsty for.”
I keel over to the side, my legs no longer able to hold me up. And I try like hell to catch my breath.
After a minute of silence, Dee asks, “Did I kill you?”
I chuckle. “Pretty damn close. That was certainly better than I ever imagined heaven being.”
I drag her to me, holding her against my chest. Our skin is slick and all kinds of sticky wonderful. “That was amazing.”
“Yeah, I know.” She giggles.
“But it’s about to get even better.”
She looks up into my eyes. “Is it really?”
I smile and nod. “It really is. Because . . .” I lift her up and slide under one of her legs so she’s straddling my chest. And her sweet pussy is mere inches from my mouth.
Then I hand her the camera. “. . . now it’s your turn.”
Chapter 13
Dee stays at my place that weekend.
On Saturday, I bring her to the gym with me, looking very come-worthy in my rolled-up boxing trunks, a sports bra, and gloves. She made a few jabs at the speed bag and was convinced hers was broken, but I showed her it’s just a lot harder than it looks.
Delores was proud of herself by the time we left—almost as proud as I was of her. She hadn’t mastered the bag, but she was a hell of a lot better than most beginners.
Then Sunday morning rolls around.
I’m awakened by whispered arguing—that raspy, not at all quiet sound that’s as annoying as frigging fingernails on a chalkboard.
“No—Mom, he’s sleeping. God, would you just stop! I hate when you do this! Fine—I’ll wake him up. Fine!”
Hands poke and push at my shoulder.
I tell myself it’s just a dream.
“Matthew. Matthew—wake up, my mother wants to talk to you.”
My eyes open. And I see Delores isn’t fucking with me—she holds out her cell phone.
Parents love me—always have. But, my first interaction with them is not usually over the telephone while I’m in bed with their daughter at six o’clock in the goddamn morning.
It’s a little off-putting.
I whisper roughly, “I don’t want to talk to your mother.”
“Yeah, well, join the club. But she’ll keep calling—just get it over with so we can go back to sleep.”
“No,” I hiss. “I’m naked. I don’t want to talk to your mother butt-ass naked.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s a fucking telephone, not Skype—get over it.” She pushes the phone at me.
“No.”
“Yes.”
Then she actually presses the phone to my face so I’ve got no choice but to take it. My voice comes out forced—unwillingly respectful—like a class of grade school kids giving their teacher a group greeting.
“Hi, Ms. Warren.”
Her voice is clipped—strong. And I wonder if she has any military training in her background. “Good morning, Mr. Fisher. I am told that you are having relations with my daughter—please confirm or deny.”
I look at Delores incredulously.
She just mouths, “I’m sorry.”
I clear my throat. “Well . . . um . . . not at the moment.”
She harrumphs. “I realize that Delores Sunshine is an adult and can make her own decisions. But given the state of the world today, I would appreciate it if you would indulge me by answering a few questions to ease the mind of a concerned single mother?”
I cover the mouthpiece with my hand. And smirk. “Your middle name is Sunshine?”
Dee hides her face in the pillow.
My attention goes back to Ms. Warren. “Fire away.”
She clears her throat. “Have you ever been arrested or convicted of a crime?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been treated for a mental disorder?”
“No.” But I’m starting to suspect Ms. Warren has.
“Are you gainfully employed?”
“Yes.”
“Do you live in a structure that does not have wheels attached to it?”
“Yes.”
“Have you fathered any children that you are aware of?”
It feels like I’m being interviewed by the scariest life-insurance company ever.
“No—no children—aware of or otherwise.”
“Do you practice safe sex with my daughter?”
And that concludes the trivia portion of our game show . . . thanks for playing.
I sit up a little straighter in bed. “Here’s the deal, Ms. Warren—I think your daughter’s awesome. I treat her with respect, I care about her, I make sure she has a wonderful time whenever we’re together.” Delores watches me with warm, adoring eyes. “But frankly, the answers to these questions are none of your goddamn business. That’s between Dee and me—only.”
Ms. Warren grunts. Then she says, “Well, it was nice speaking with you, Matthew. Hand the phone to my daughter, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I pass it over to Dee.
“Okay, Mom. Yes. I love you too. Good-bye.” She ends the call with a sigh.
Then she lays her head on my chest, wraps her arms and legs around me—and squeezes tightly. I kiss the top of her head and run my hand up and down her spine.
“Please don’t hold her insanity against me,” she pleads.
I chuckle. “You haven’t met my parents yet. Like Ferris Bueller said, every family has weirdness in it.”
“Well . . . the good news is, she likes you. You’re welcome to stay in the bunker.”
“I . . . I don’t know what tha
t means.”
Dee closes her eyes and explains. “A few ex-boyfriends back, Amelia dated a guy that was a survivalist. He built an underground shelter in our backyard. He didn’t last, but the bunker has. She keeps it fully stocked, and the people closest to her are invited to hide out there, when, according to her—inevitably—the government tries to enslave the populace and take her guns away.”
The hum of Dee’s voice is just about to lull me back to sleep . . . when her words finally register.
I pick my head up. “Wait. Your mother has guns?”
Monday night, I walk into my apartment and throw my keys down on the front hall table. And right away, something feels . . . off.
The air feels different. It’s like a sixth sense when you live alone—you can just tell when someone has been in your place.
Or if they’re still there.
Nothing in the living room is disturbed. The same goes for the kitchen and dining room, which I scan as I walk down the hall toward the closed bedroom door. I open it and walk in.
And there, laid out in the middle of my bed, in a pale pink lace teddy with matching garters and stockings is . . . Rosaline.
For a lot of guys, this is a fantasy come to life. Right up there next to a hot, horny chick showing up at your door in a trench coat with nothing on underneath.
But for me? Fantastic fantasy—wrong girl.
Her dark hair falls over my pillow in shiny waves. Her blue eyes gaze at me while her red lips stretch into an inviting smile. “Hello, Matthew.”
“How the fuck did you get in here?” She doesn’t acknowledge the shocked disdain in my tone. Or maybe she doesn’t hear it.
Her ruby smile stays perfectly in place. “I told your doorman I was an old friend. After a little persuasion, he let me in. You really should complain to the manager. After what you paid for this place, the security is appalling. Although, I suspect at the moment, you’re quite pleased about that.”
She trails her hand down her stomach, teasing the thin fabric of her panties. Although my eyes are tempted to follow her hand, I keep them trained on her face. “And you’d be wrong about that.”
She rises from the bed and stands in front of me, eyes downcast, hands folded—the perfect picture of sexy vulnerability. “I was wrong to leave things with you the way I did. Seeing you again has made me realize how much I’ve missed you. I was hoping, now that I’m back in the city, you’d give me a second chance.”
I’m not going to lie. Hearing her say that is a rush. My ego does a fist pump. Isn’t that what every jilted lover craves? To hear the former object of their affection say that they were wrong? Beg and plead to be taken back?
“You’re leaving Julian?” I ask, stupefied.
She giggles. “Leaving him? Of course not, silly. If I leave, I get nothing—the prenup was very specific about that. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy my own . . . distractions. You and I can enjoy them together. Frequently.”
A few weeks ago I may have taken her up on the offer. Screwing Rosaline was always a spectacular event. And I’m a guy. Regular sex without attachment is the pot of gold at the end of the frigging rainbow. Something all of us dream about finding but don’t really believe exists.
But here—now—not even my dick is interested. Which is really saying something considering she’s almost naked.
Rosaline steps forward and moves to put her arms around my neck. But I grasp her forearms and hold her at arm’s length. “Get dressed.”
She looks genuinely surprised. Confused.
But before I can elaborate, there’s a knock on my door. And Delores’s squawking, singing voice drifts down the hallway. “How ya call ya loverboy? Come ’ere, loverboy . . .”
Motherfucker.
This is bad. Like building a house on an ancient Indian burial ground whose bodies are reawakened and really pissed off kind of frigging bad.
I walk away from Rosaline and make my way to the door, going over my options. I could stash Rosaline in a closet or under the bed, but if Dee finds her, I’ll look guilty. I could try to rush Delores away from the scene of the crime, but if she ever finds out why, I’ll look really fucking guilty.
The only viable choice is to lay it on the line—tell Delores the truth—appeal to her trusting nature and God-given faith in the honesty of her fellow man.
Yeah—you’re right—I’m totally screwed.
I open the door. Delores holds a Dirty Dancing DVD up for me to see as she dances in place. “This is the perfect movie for us! I’m sure you haven’t seen it yet—since your testosterone-drenched eyeballs have been too busy watching action movies and war porn. But lucky for you, I own the director’s cut with extended scenes. We can reenact the ‘lift’ scene. I also do a hot cha-cha.”
I slide out into the hall before she’s done talking and close the door behind me. That’s when she notices the look on my face and stops dancing. “What’s wrong?”
I put my hands on her shoulders and say, “I need you not to freak out.”
Of course saying that is just going to make her start to freak out sooner. Stupid.
“Why would I freak out?”
I try to do better. “You have to trust me, Delores. I swear it’s not what it looks like.”
That’s not any better, is it? Shit.
Her apprehensive tawny eyes shift from my face, to the door behind me, and back again. She doesn’t assure or agree, but demands, “Open the door, Matthew.”
Might as well just get it over with.
I open the door and Delores marches in ahead of me. Whatever she was bracing herself for, she doesn’t find it. She looks around the living room. “What are you . . .”
It’s then that Rosaline comes striding down the hall—still covered in garters and lace.
Because if I didn’t have bad luck? I’d have no luck at all.
“I think you’re being rather childish about . . .” Rosaline stops short when she sees Dee—but doesn’t seem even a little bothered. “Well, this is awkward.”
I grind my teeth. “I told you to get dressed.”
“I thought you were being coy. I didn’t think you were serious.”
I turn my back on her and face Delores. “Dee . . .”
Half a dozen emotions swirl in her eyes—shock, surprise, hurt, betrayal, anger, humiliation. Faith and trust are nowhere to be found.
But she doesn’t run.
And for just one moment, I think I might have gotten through to her. That she’ll remember my promises—think of my actions—over the last several days and she’ll come to the inevitable conclusion that I’m not a cheating dickwad.
I’ll give you a second to guess what she does next. Just to keep things interesting.
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
She slaps me. Hard. Straight across the face.
Slap.
Then she runs out the door like a bat out of hell.
“Goddamn it!”
I want to go after her—I will—but first I have some exterminating to do.
With an oblivious smile, Rosaline says, “Now, where were we?”
“I was just about to toss your ass out the door. Still am. I don’t want to resume anything with you, Rosaline. We’re done. Don’t try to speak to me at parties. If you see me on the street? Turn around and walk the other fucking way. If you ever pull something like this again, or try to interfere in my life? I’ll make damn sure your husband and every society acquaintance you have learns that you’re a conniving, cold-hearted, two-faced bitch. Understand?”
Her confidence evaporates and her expression turns wounded. But it only lasts a second. Then her eyes ice over. Angry, but controlled. Like a rat hell-bent on survival, even if it means chewing off her own leg. “Very well.”
I give her a final glare as I walk out the door. “Don’t be here wh
en I get back.”
By the time I catch the next elevator and make it down to the lobby, Dee is nowhere in sight. I jog out to the sidewalk and search through the sea of busy New Yorkers until I spot her blond head retreating down the block.
And that’s when it starts to rain. It’s pelting and icy, like a giant sky-wide showerhead turned on cold full blast.
Thanks a lot, God. Way to cut me a fucking break.
I weave between pedestrians—trying my best not to get an eye gouged out by the flurry of umbrellas along the way. When I catch up to Dee, I grab her arm, spin her around, and yell, “Would you stop running! I told you not to freak out!”
She motions back toward my building and shouts, “How am I supposed to not freak out when you’ve got a naked girl in your apartment?”
“Because I’m not up there with her! I’m down here—probably contracting pneumonia—chasing the fuck after you!”
“Why?”
And it’s then that I realize I’ve asked Dee to trust me—to believe that I’m different from the assholes of her past—without really giving her a reason to. Any guy can show a girl a good time—thoughtful presents, fun dates—but that doesn’t mean he’s honest. He could just be putting up a convincing front. Shielding an ulterior motive or a player persona.
To prove you’re not hiding anything, sometimes you have to empty your pockets, open your bag, submit to a pat down. Even if it’s uncomfortable or embarrassing. Trust has to be earned . . . sometimes by stripping yourself bare.
