The Best Laid Plans (9 page)

So he took his time, getting to know her body, staying away from the obviously sexual parts of her, focusing instead everywhere else, caressing, kneading, learning, knowing. And then he returned his attention to her more sensitive parts. When he finally took her nipple in his mouth, she cried out and arched up against his mouth. He teased it, paying attention to her body’s responses, moving to the other breast when the first became less sensitive.

She reached out, hand brushing his hip as she tried to grab him. He backed his ass away, moving his crotch out of reach and made a disapproving noise.

“Jayne, I’m busy.” He ran a hand down her side. “Stop trying to distract me.”

She huffed, but dropped her hand back to the mattress.

Tracing smaller and smaller circles across her pelvis, his hands finally made contact between her legs. He twitched at her wetness, how swollen her folds were, how ready she was for him.

Repositioning himself so he knelt between her legs, he threw her legs over his shoulders so her heels rested on his back. The time had come at last. He bent down to taste her.

She shuddered and moaned, low pitched and deep in her throat. He licked the length of her and moved to her clit, working it with his lips and tongue. He slid a finger up and down her wetness, then inserted it into her and rhythmically pulsed it against her G-spot. She tensed, springing up to rest on her elbows, and watch him while he savored her. She threw her head back for a moment, then looked at him again.

“If you stop doing that, I will fucking murder you.”

He didn’t stop.

***

His mouth and hands were pleasure to the point of pain, but if he stopped, she felt like she’d die. He was perfect, so perfect, God yeah,
right there!
He slid another finger inside her. Hands wildly clutching the sheets at her sides, Jayne arched her back and cried out when the best orgasm of her life slammed through her.

She emerged on the other side, wetter and still wanting. She’d just come harder than she ever had, but she wanted more. Maybe it was from delayed gratification. Probably because he had skills.

But it definitely wasn’t enough. It wasn’t complete. She needed him inside her.

Now.

“Malcolm, now. I need you inside me.”

His fingers fumbled on the foil packet in his eagerness, but he had it open, the condom unrolled over his dick in seconds.

And finally, finally he moved on top of her, pressing her into the mattress. She kissed him, tasted herself on his lips as he plunged inside her in one long, hard stroke. Every nerve sang with relief as he filled her, pulled out, and then filled her again. The angle of his hips was flawless, rubbing her in just the right places.

He fit her perfectly. She spread her legs wider, wanting him closer, deeper. He knelt up, moving her feet by his head, tilting her hips at a more severe angle as he grabbed her ass, and thrust faster, making her breasts bounce.

“That’s so fucking sexy,” he growled and bit his lip.

He
was so fucking sexy, all male, all power driving into her. The evening sunlight streamed through his blinds, shining onto him from behind, backlighting him in a halo of light that played up the golden tones of his skin and the reddish highlights in his dark hair.

She tore her legs from his shoulders, using her momentum to sling her feet over his thighs, and pushed him onto his back. She grabbed his hands, pinned them by his head and started riding him. Coming had made her tight and sensitive, but she wasn’t expecting another orgasm to start building so quickly.

She hadn’t realized how big his hands were until now. Splayed over her hips, they made her waist seem tiny. They were strong, beautifully formed, long fingers, masculine, but finely sculpted. And big. He ran them up her torso to her waist, up to her breasts and back down to her hips as if he was trying to memorize her skin.

“Turn around,” he moaned.

She complied, legs trembling with lust, climbed back on, riding him reverse cowgirl. She gently kneaded his balls while rocking back and forth, up and down. His hands were on her ass, guiding her, rubbing her, squeezing her.

Nothing could feel better than this,
she thought.

Then he flipped her onto her knees.

***

Motherfucking … the sight of her glorious ass, of her, bouncing up and down on him was the best thing he’d ever seen in his entire life. She had the most adorable dimples on her lower back above her perfect ass. He ran his hands up her thighs, squeezed her curves. She moved her hips in ways he’d never seen, and the effect felt startlingly good. So good.

Even though it felt amazing, he couldn’t lie there and take it. He had her, but he wanted more, he couldn’t lie beneath her passively for another second.

He thrust up to meet her, and then pushed her forward off his dick, onto her knees. She glanced back with a smile. The way she looked, spread wide and willing before him almost made him lose it then and there. Scrambling to his knees, he grasped her hips, pulling her close as he plunged into her again, slowly at first, but building in speed and force. She cried out, bracing herself against the wall so she could push back harder against him.

“Yes!” she screamed, as he rocked his hips against her ass.

Reaching around to find her clit again, he smiled as her hips went wild against him.

She didn’t know which way to push – forward against his hand, or back to press him deeper inside her, so her hips and ass circled wildly, one of her hands made a fist and banged the wall as he felt the muscles deep inside her tighten.

He pulled them both back, and laid her down on her belly, spreading her legs wider as her deep inner muscles clenched his cock.

She  cried his name into the pillow as he ground into her, finally coming himself, twitching hard.

She grabbed his arms and wrapped them around her, moaning and shuddering.

He smiled and gave her a squeeze.

They took turns cleaning up in the bathroom, then came back to bed.

And he dozed off into another nightmare.

He was back in high school.

He’d just played his song for her. Bared his soul through song and she’d seemed to like it. She’d gathered up her backpack and he’d coincidentally been leaving at the same time. The temptation to walk with her overcame shyness. He couldn’t bear to part from her so soon after playing her song. He needed to know what she thought of it.

“Did you like my song?” Supremely lame of him to ask, but he couldn’t let the opportunity slip by. His face felt hot.

She barely glanced at him. “It’s definitely pretty. You did a great job.”

“Thanks.”

“Was it for band?”

“No, it’s just something I love to do.” Boldness surged through him, further freeing his tongue. “You know, it’s about a girl.”

“Yeah, that’s obvious. Angel.”

 Maybe he could summon the courage to ask her out. Could he do that? Did he want to demote her from muse to human, and maybe his girlfriend? If she wanted to, yes. “Yes. Angel. An amazing girl.”

Her face went alarmingly blank. No excitement or friendly smile. “I guess. I just don’t know why you’d write a song about the head cheerleader.”

Angel Byrd? Jane really thought he’d written a song about that vapid cow? No wonder she wasn’t impressed. She’d seemed into the music, liked the lyrics until she heard the title. She thought the words were directed at someone else, someone—

“What’s this about the head cheerleader, Dill-weed? You wrote a song about my girlfriend?”

Jonathan Broughton’s bulk filled the doorway of a nearby classroom. Shit. Angel Byrd’s boyfriend. Oh, he wasn’t the star quarterback. No, that would have made it better. Jonathan was an offensive lineman. Huge, possessive, and arrogant. And he had a friend with him.

Malcolm’s stomach turned to ice, and his legs felt shaky. “What? No, I never—”

 “Blondie.” Jonathan snapped at Jane. “What’s this about?”

Jane rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, looking annoyed. “Just another idiot in love with your precious girlfriend.” She sent Malcolm a disgusted look, and slipped around the corner, leaving him alone with Jonathan, who looked angrier by the second.

“Is this true you’re in love with my girl?”

Malcolm’s heart began slamming into overdrive. “No, the song is about—”

“Come inside, Dill-weed. Let’s talk in private.” He jerked Malcolm roughly inside what he’d thought was an empty classroom, and shut the door. Dill-weed. Such an original play on his name, though it was surprising they knew his name at all. The lamer the nickname, the harder the punches. He’d seen that with other kids who hadn’t managed to escape the football team’s wrath.

“What makes you think you can write things to my girlfriend?”

“I didn’t!”

“Because a needledick like you shouldn’t even be thinking about my girl.”

“I wasn’t!” This was bad.

Jonathan snatched the sheet of paper out of Malcolm’s now-sweaty palm. Malcolm’s heart pounded from a beat into a prolonged drum roll. A rolling thunder of dread in a shitstorm of emotion that had invaded his chest.

“Well, lookie here,” Bobby, Jonathan’s friend, and star kicker for the team, drawled, grabbing the page from Jonathan. Even while knowing he was fucked, Malcolm wondered if he’d grabbed it because Jonathan couldn’t read. “The love song is called Angel.”

“It’s called Angel, but it’s not about Angel!” Malcolm tried to explain, fear making him stutter.

Jonathan’s face turned red, and his nostrils flared. “There’s only one Angel, Dill-weed. I think that says it all right there. Bobby. Dropkick.”

Bobby smiled as his foot connected with Malcolm’s crotch with enough force to lift him a couple inches before he crashed to his knees. His chin smacked the corner of a desk on the way down, but he wouldn’t notice that bruise until later when he got home. The kicker followed with a swift and brutal shot to the kidneys, sending him crashing against the wall back-first, knocking the air from his lungs.

“Now.” Jonathan picked up the guitar case, set it on a desk, and unfastened the clips. “I wouldn’t have even thought a little faggot like you would pay attention to girls. So good for you.” He opened the case, and Malcolm struggled to his feet, reaching out.

“Please, don’t—”

Jonathan shot a look at Bobby, whose foot slammed into Malcolm’s knee, knocking his feet out from under him. He didn’t have time to dodge the following kick to his stomach. He threw up from the force of the hit. Jonathan laughed, and Bobby swore and jumped back out of the way.

“I’m going to teach you a lesson, Dill-weed. Something so you won’t ever think about even thinking about my girl again.”

“I never—”

“Dude, just shut the fuck up!” Bobby swore and kicked him again, this time in the ribs. He’d have passed out if the fear hadn’t filled him with so much adrenaline. Jonathan walked to the teacher’s desk, rummaged in a drawer, and found what he was looking for. He grinned and strolled back to Malcolm’s guitar, and took it out of the case. He trailed the scissors along the body, deeply scoring the wood, scratching the varnish off.

It was like he’d carved that line across Malcolm’s soul.

Then he put the scissors on and
twang!
Snipped through one string. The small, nylon e.
Twang!
The B string.
Twang!
The G. Everything would be okay. Strings were replaceable and not that expensive. It sucked, but he could fix this. Even the scratches. It was all cosmetic.

Twang!
“Fuck!” Jonathan grabbed at his face.

“What? What happened?” Bobby looked from Jonathan to the door, back again.

Jonathan flung the scissors away from him, pulled his other hand away to look at it. A thin trickle of blood dripped down his face from a small cut under his eye.

“Dude,” Bobby said. “That could have taken your fucking eye, man! Career over!”

Jonathan prided himself on being tough, but from the neck up he was a pretty boy. His nostrils flared and he seemed to inflate with anger. “Your fucking guitar, man, just about took my fucking eye out!” He stabbed a finger at Malcolm.

And then things moved in slow motion. Jonathan grabbing the neck, taking a step toward the wall, and swung the guitar like a baseball bat. Someone shouted no and it had to have been Malcolm because no one else knew this was happening, or felt this pain. Wood splintered and the remaining strings broke with a sound that was like a dream dying. Something that had the potential to make beautiful music became a pile of kindling.

A piece of Malcolm died with it.

Jonathan dropped the remnants of the guitar to the floor and turned to Malcolm.

With Bobby’s help, he gave Malcolm the second-worst beating of his life.

He’d pissed blood for two days.

***

“Hey.” Gentle hands woke him gasping from the memory, from the dream.

“What?”

“You were talking in your sleep.” Jayne sounded amused.

Fear spiked through his chest at the thought of what he might have said, but he struggled to remain sleepy-looking. “I was? What did I say?”