Surprise (21 page)

Every movement was agony and delight.

“Please, Max…” She'd not begged before tonight, and she hated herself for it. This would definitely be their last evening together. She should end it now. Stop it all this very moment. Show him the door. Toss him out. But she didn't budge. “Maxwell…”

“I said I wanted to take this slow, Lou. There's no place either of us has to be…”

Her skin felt tight where he'd left some of the larger blobs of wax.

“…except right here. On this rug.”

“This is the last time,” she whispered, her voice too muffled by the rug for him to hear.

He moved the base of the candle down her spine and then between her butt cheeks, angled the base and thrust it inside her.

“Max!”

“The rug won't catch fire, Lou. I promise.”

She recalled her promise that this would be the absolute last time with him.

“But you'll feel the burn.” He turned the candle round and round and slid it in and out. She raised herself just a little and he pushed it in deeper.

“Thick,” she said. The taper was large and uncomfortable, but she did nothing to stop him.

More pleasure and pain.

While gripping the taper he extended his forefinger to nudge her clit with every thrust. She felt herself spiraling toward the edge and moved faster with him. She gasped when the candle slid in farther and she felt the heat of his fingers and the flames against her thighs. She shuddered and gripped the rug as waves of ecstasy crashed through her.

“We're not done, Lou.” He pulled the candle out and edged away.

She rolled toward him, face glistening, lips trembling, hands reaching out for the candle. His arms were longer and he kept it away, tipping it so more wax dribbled onto her. Her skin was so sensitive! The heat and expectancy gathered on the surface, waiting for the next pleasurable plop, dreading the fiery sting of it.

She was so terribly, terribly wet.

“Please, Max…”

More sirens outside, more thunder.

The rain continued to patter noisily against the window. She imagined that the sill was so wet it would warp—imagined that the rug between her legs was just as wet.

He brought the candle close again, running its base along her stomach and chest, resting it between her breasts and angling it so it dribbled wax on her neck, the flame like a mesmerizing caress.

She waited for it to burn her, the flame was that close.

Instead, he pulled it back again and breathed on her. He smelled of rum and something spicy. He swept the fingers of his free hand across her stomach, touching flecks of wax, circling them, and gently picking at a few of them.

The bluesy piece ended and something else started, an old torch song. The singer sounded a bit like Ella Fitzgerald, but was not quite that good. It was cut through by a sustained honk from out on the street, and shouting. The sirens continued, and the rain.

Her phone started ringing, but Max pressed her down with the base of the candle, the slight weight holding her as sure as any vise.

“They'll call back, Lou,” he said, as he insinuated his legs between hers.

“No more, Max.” She panted. “I'm wasted, finished.”

“I haven't started.” He rested his weight on top of her once more, leaning on one elbow and holding the candle in his right hand, the flame dancing above her face now. “Have to be fair about this, Lou.”

The pressure of him, the heat of the fire, and the dazzling risk of the candle all threatened to overwhelm her.

“Can't breathe.” In truth she hardly could, but it wasn't from the press of him. Her arousal was so intense, she felt another climax coming even before he pushed himself all the way inside.

“I love you, Lou.”

She cried softly and arched hard against him, trying to take control and abysmally failing.

This will be the last time
, she told herself.

Too young, too handsome.

Nothing shared between them but this rug and the flesh.

Everything so shallow.

“So deep,” she moaned.

Everything shallow and gathering in one hot point. She glanced to the fire, the tendrils reaching against the brick in time with her bucking. Everything so hot and hurtful and amazing.

He slammed against her now, his teeth rasping against a nipple, her legs drawing up tight around him.

She exploded again, this time like the backdraft of a blaze taking down a wall. A heartbeat later she felt him explode inside of her. She exhaled long, like the breath a fire takes before gathering strength.

But there was no strength left in her.

Finished, he unceremoniously rolled off her, panting, blowing out the candle and letting the taper drop.

The phone stopped ringing and her pager started.

“
That
, you have to answer. Right, Lou?”

She pushed herself up, wax flaking off. The dizzying sensation of trying to stand sent shivers through her. She stumbled toward her bedroom like a drunk, hearing his loud breathing, the rain and the thunder, the sirens, the Ella impersonator crooning away on a song she vaguely recognized.

“You okay, Lou?”

“M'all right,” she mumbled.

Moments later she came back, struggling into clothes and trying to flick off errant blobs of wax.

“It's a four alarm, Max.” She had to force the words out. She was so out of breath and weak, the flush of sex so obvious. “The Miller Warehouse on Third. Have to go.”

He started dressing too, hopping into still dripping-wet pants, hopping in front of the fireplace, blowing out the other candles and fumbling with the flue to shut it all down. He was worming into his shirt when she opened the door and gestured him out.

“Have to go, Max. They think it could be arson and that means it's my case.”

“I'll go with you, Lou…Lieutenant.”

“You're off shift and I'm not going to authorize the overtime.” She was out in the hall, grabbing up his coat and again gesturing. “Now, Max. I'm in a hurry.”

“But they could use the extra hands, boss.” He grinned. The same grin when he was above her, tormenting her with the candle. “I have good hands.”

It's over, she told herself. Over. Over. Over.

Too young, too handsome. Wrong to have a fling with one of her men.

The sirens wailed louder.

“Tomorrow night, Lou?”

“Of course, Max. But don't be late.”

 

 

 

 

For the third night in a row, Janey lies in bed pretending to sleep, listening to her twin sister Dana ride the guy she's been seeing on the other side of the dorm room. For the third night in a row she listens to the sounds they make, grunts and muffled moans and sharp exhalations of breath like murmured edicts from a philosophy of fucking, and sucks her lips into her mouth to stop from crying out when she comes. For the third night in a row, Janey can feel the guy's long cock currently filling her sister's cunt deep in her own, something she has never told her sister about. She doesn't touch herself or move or do anything other than feel what her sister feels and tries not to make a sound.

The guy hisses when he comes inside her sister and Janey can feel his cock pumping heat deep inside her own body, heat that isn't heat from a cock that isn't there. He softens inside her sister and she can feel that too. She is wet, wet enough to wring out, and her pussy is doing that fluttery thing it does afterward, so she relaxes and unclamps her lips from her teeth, letting blood flow back into them. The guy gets up and Janey can see him in the moonlight that is coming through the window, a pile of stacked muscle and a long, hanging cock slicked with her sister's wetness.

Something blooms in her then, as she watches the guy slip into his boxers, a bolt of sheer, torturous longing, flash-quick and searing, as if she had laid the palm of her hand on a hot stove. Janey has had his not-cock inside of her, felt his not-come shoot into the core of her body, but it's not enough. There is nothing she wants more than to feel his hands clamped around her breasts, the point of his nose weaving a trail down her soft stomach, his hips rubbing the inside of her thighs. The freedom to loose an animal shriek when she comes. These are things only Dana can feel—whatever intangible something that blends their bodies never had the courtesy to extend past their genitals.

The door shuts softly and the guy is gone and Janey watches Dana pad back to her bed. They are two halves of a whole, both identical and sturdily beautiful—all wide hips and round ass and large breasts like deep bowls of thick cream, bodies built to handle, to be handled—but different people with different dreams and thoughts and loves and needs, and there are times when Janey sees her sister's unrestrained vitality, the easy way she goes through life, running on pleasure and raw eagerness, and can't understand why she couldn't be identical to Dana in that way as well.

After thinking for a long time, mulling over the merits of doing something they agreed they'd never do and feeling the space inside of her where the guy's cock had been but had also not been, Janey says “Okay,” and the two halves of a whole sleep on opposite sides of a room flooded with moonlight.

 

The next morning Janey gets up and finds the room empty. The sun is beating in through the window and, in the heat, she can smell the lingering scent of her wetness in the room. She gets dressed and goes out to the floor bathroom, looking for her sister. Dana isn't there, so Janey pees and goes back to her room. There is a strip of paper poked into one corner of Dana's mirror with a name and number on it, so Janey goes back out to the floor phone and dials it. It rings once and a voice—that voice—picks up.

“How'd you get home so fast?” the guy says, and Janey is suddenly frozen, unable to speak, unsure of what to do.

“Dana? You there, babe?” the guy says.

“I'm here,” Janey says.

“How'd you get there so fast? Didja run or what?”

Her heart is hammering and her pussy is getting wet, deep heat radiating up through her. “Yeah, I ran. Just come over, okay? Come over now,” she says, trying to steady her voice.

“Now?”

“Yeah, now,” she says, then softly, so the other girls in the hall won't hear, “Come over and fuck me. I want you to come and give it to me right now.”

The guy laughs and breathes heavily into the phone. “Yeah,” he says. “We can do that.”

Janey bangs the receiver down a little too hard and one of the stoner girls sprawled out eating toast in the kitchen says, “Jesus,” then, “Wait, which one are you again?” But Janey is back down the hall and into her room, stripping off her clothes. She hasn't showered, and her pubic hair is a damp tangle between her legs, but she doesn't care. All she wants is the guy. She waits impatiently, absently running her fingers between her legs, deeply horny, wet and ready for the guy, and half-terrified that Dana will come through the door at any moment.

The guy finally comes and flings the door open. Janey is up off the bed and all over him before the door clicks shut. He hauls down his jeans and presses the weight of his swollen cock against her stomach. Janey smashes her mouth onto his, stretching her tongue deep into his mouth, feasting on him, swallowing him, drinking him in. His hands grip her heavy breasts, and she feels electric fluid flush into her pussy, swelling it sweetly. He lowers his face and sucks on her breast, and she can feel every tiny tastebud on his tongue rub across the pink end of her nipple.

Janey closes her hand around the hard length of his cock and leads him to her bed. She is barely aware of what is happening, all her motion and action driven by a raw instinct deeper than thought. A current of delirious abandon jags through her guts, a kind of barely-restrained ecstasy that plunges her into an almost narcotic bliss. All she has ever wanted is right here in her bed—the guy, his fingers stutter-stepping down the curve of her spine, the feeling that she has somehow connected with the part of her sister's mind that they should've shared.

She throws him down on her bed, gets on top of him and grinds her pussy into his face, laying into him, smothering him with her tightness. His tongue is on her clit and his cock is in her mouth, hard and huge and salty. They are an organism connected at a million points, their cells opening and enveloping each other and meshing together. She takes his whole cock, pushing it down her throat, deeper and deeper until his little groomed patch of pubic hair is scratching her eyelids. He has slipped a finger deep into her, filling her body at both ends like an ouroboros.

Then she feels him pick her up and she is weightless with his cock still in her throat. “On our bed, okay?” he says, and part of her is still terrified that he will find out what she has done but most of her doesn't care where he takes her. It matters no more than the current weather in Calcutta or the number of angels struggling for position on the head of a pin. She could ask and be informed that they were on a steep decline into the deepest fires of hell and she would simply smile and be steadfast in the knowledge that he was leading her and that she would follow him anywhere he desired to lead.

The guy drops her on Dana's bed and his cock pulls out of Janey's mouth. He gets her on her back and opens her legs, pushing her knees so far back that her hips crack, her compact little cunt a slick machine. The guy looks at her laid out before him, her broad hips and the plateau of her stomach and the short thick line of hair above her tight little slit. He doesn't know Dana well, but he knows her pussy—its soft pink lips like crumpled tissue paper reaching out from within, lips which slide deliciously along his shaft when he drives in and out of her—and the cunt in front of him with its thick labia pushed together, secreting away a whisper of pink flesh, is not it.

He looks at the girl in the bed, the soft ringlets in her hair stuck to lips softer still, her long nipples pushed into hard dots on the nape of her breast, and understands what has happened. He can't believe his luck, and for a moment he thinks about what he is doing, what could happen, but then he is thumbing her open and she is so wet, wetter than the other one has ever been, and all that sort of floats away.