Excessica Anthology BOX SET Winter (58 page)

I
gave a gentle tug. That was all it took and he released me instantly. David
would never hurt me, I knew that. Not real hurt. I slid to the floor and
quickly got rid of his belt and opened the slacks he looked so good in. He
raised his hips to accommodate me, and I slipped his pants down and tossed them
aside. I wanted him to say yes so bad, just as badly I wanted him in my mouth.
One thing I couldn’t control. The other I could.

I
took my time, relishing the slide of soft, steely skin between my
lips—the secret taste of him, the way he smelled, the soft sounds he made
when my mouth took him in. Suddenly, I was ravenous to take him and suck him,
and I knew why. I could feel it, right in the center of my chest where the
truth lives. He would give me what I wanted. I was certain. I licked the length
of him, enjoyed the feel of the engorged head of his cock on my tongue. I ate
him like an ice cream cone, the way my teenage friends once joked about
learning to give blow jobs and then we would laugh. But I did it. Like the
sweetest dessert in the world.

A
light knock came at the front door and David’s body tensed. “Just
trick-or-treaters,” I sighed around his erection. “I left the front porch light
off. They’ll leave.” Having a Halloween birthday had been great as a kid but as
an adult, it could be disruptive.

I
was going faster, finding my rhythm, very intent on feeling him come in my mouth.
It was an obsessive thought. The salty taste of semen. The arch of his body.
The noise he made that seemed to come from the back of his throat. It was the
only thought in my mind when he clamped his hands to my head and made me go
still.

“What?”
I tried to move my head, tried to continue what I was doing. I wanted him back
in my mouth and it was the only thing I could think of.

“Up
here. Now. Come.” His words were clipped and so unlike him—dark and
sinister in the blackness of the living room. I tried to read his expression in
the dim light, but I couldn’t see anything but the shadowed planes and angles
of his face.

I
moved within his reach. I stood there, unsure of what to do. From his tone, he
sounded angry. His hands pawed at my dress, shoved it up as if it were a
housedress. He seemed oblivious of manners or mores and my blood rushed under
my skin, singing to me from inside my body. A heated surge of moisture soaked
my panties. I clenched my thighs, mildly embarrassed.

David
leaned forward, shoving the dress further up my waist. “Take it off.”

I
did. Without hesitation, I yanked it over my head in one swift motion. It
joined his slacks in the pile. He grabbed the side of my panties, sexy ones
bought just for this special evening—two black triangles of fabric held
together at the sides by thin yellow ribbons. He yanked so hard I staggered,
and they fell away from my body, nothing but fancy scrap material at that
point.

“David,
are you—”

“Rowan!”
My name came out primitive—a hiss of air and guttural sounds. There was
nothing but need and want in that voice. Warm fluids seeped down my inner
thighs. “Here!” He yanked me down, cradling me for just a moment as if gaining
control. Then he flipped me.

I
let out a startled cry as my head banged the armrest. His hands pulled at me
roughly and my body responded. A steady throb pulsed in my cunt, my heart
railed in my chest and my ears hissed with the sound of thumping blood. I
whimpered as he hiked my hips higher, parted my thighs roughly, positioned me
the way he wanted me.
Needed
me. I could feel it now—the need. His
need. It radiated like radio waves at high frequency.

The
blunt head of his cock nudged my opening. No time to adjust. No niceties. One
thrust and he was in. My head snapped back as he burrowed deeply on one single
heartbeat. I couldn’t breathe but it was miraculous. My cunt milked at him,
already flirting with an intense orgasm. Then he leaned forward, lightly
closing his teeth over the back of my neck, near my shoulder where a bundle of
nerves sprang to life, stoking a fire under my skin. His tongue snaked out,
wetting the spot. I shivered, loving the feel of his spit on my skin. His
tongue warmed that place few people pay attention to.

“I
wish you hadn’t been so stubborn,” he mumbled. I heard him, but it didn’t
register because he was fucking me. It had always been good but this—this
was fucking. It was what you heard about—starbursts behind the eyelids,
screaming orgasms, feeling faint. All of the above. I had it. I felt it.

The
harder he thrust, the wetter I became. My body eased the way for his breadth
and length but greedily wrapped around him in the process. His hand found my
breasts and he twisted my nipples to the point of pain, but I didn’t cry out. I
was too enchanted by the steady rhythm of him slamming into me, mesmerized by
each brutal thrust of his cock against my G-spot. His teeth sank into my neck a
little further. I moaned and I sounded like a mad woman. Desperate. Insane.

“I
would give you anything,” he panted. “Up until now, I have controlled myself.
For you.” Each word was punctuated by a thrust that pushed my face into the
cushions. I nearly lost my balance but gave up the battle and rested my
forehead on the chocolate brown fabric to steady myself. He draped his body
over mine, his mouth never leaving me. “You have no idea how hard it was,
Rowan. To be that close. To smell you. Not to act. It goes against my very
nature.” Thrust. Pound. Brutal. Blissful.

Again
his teeth sank deeper, and my body tightened, forcing the friction between us
to feel even better. My pleasure heightened, and my body felt light and heavy.
I was close.
If he would just break me, I’d be done. Done. I would be lost.
And found...
I was so intent on my desire, my wish, that I barely heard his
words.

“And
you come to me with this request. What can I say? I would give you anything.
I’ve fallen in love with you. So, I’m torn. Give the woman I love what she
really wants or deny her and save my soul. Not that I have one.”

His
teeth plunged through my skin and orgasm broke deep within me. There was pain,
great waves of it, but it made the pleasure miraculous in its intensity. His
mouth drew on me, sucking my neck. The orgasm continued. It was more intense
and lengthy than anything I had ever felt—a hot searing delight that
washed over me inside and out. I rode wave after wave as colors danced behind
my eyelids and still he drew on me. Sucking. Louder now. Greedy sounds.

“I’m
giving you my mark. Just like you wanted. I don’t know if I’ll turn you,” he
mumbled against my neck, his cock still pushing at me, sliding in and out of my
willing body. I moaned again but it was fainter. The pleasure could be heard,
even by me, but it was a weaker smaller sound. “That is my hope. That you’ll
turn, and I won’t lose you.”

My
mind was catching up. Scrambling, terrified, absorbing his words. I was still
coming. Contractions and releases that made me feel dizzy and weak. It felt so
good but I was slipping. I could feel it.

“I
love you, Rowan. I hope I gave you what you wanted. I hope you make it through.
You taste so good...”

My
body still twitched and grabbed at him. The warmth of arousal and orgasm still
flowed. I sank down further on the sofa, his teeth still on me, the sounds of
his hunger in my ears.

I
rode the wave and couldn’t tell whether I was dying or coming to life.

About
Sommer Marsden

Sommer
Marsden’s work has appeared in dozens anthologies and on numerous websites.
Some of her favorite books include I is for Indecent, J is for Jealousy, L is
for Leather, Spank Me, Tie Me Up, Whip Me, Ultimate Lesbian Erotica ‘08, Love
at First Sting, Open for Business, Tasting Her, Hurts So Good and Yes, Sir. She
is also writes The Seekers novellas for Eternal Press and is the author of The
Anniversary Party for Whiskey Creek Press Torrid. She lives in Maryland and
keeps her alter ego to herself. Not really. She had a big mouth and knows how
to use it. She has many addictions and has no intentions of getting help for
any of them. They currently include red wine, writing smut, long walks, the downward
dog position, emails, blog hopping, and biscotti. You can reach her at
[email protected]
or visit her at
SmutGirl.blogspot.com
to keep up with her dirty ramblings.

ONE OF US

By J.M. Snyder

Conner
Allen stood in the men’s room of Sylvia’s Grill and watched himself in the
mirror as he pulled back the bandage on his neck. In the harsh glare of the single
light bulb overhead, he frowned at the wound beneath the bandage. It wasn’t
very big, and two days ago Conner would’ve sworn it was almost gone,
finally,
it was taking forever to heal. But this morning he had woken to a dull pain in
his shoulder, and the wound was back to looking infected again.

It
was a bite, no doubt about it—there were two large puncture holes that
looked like fangs had torn into him, though he’d be damned if he could remember
what happened. A ring of teeth marks connected the holes to form a mouth-shaped
bruise on the tender skin at the base of his neck. An animal bite, definitely,
and Conner had already spent so much time trying to backtrack in his
mind—he would’ve thought he’d known if something just came up and bit
him. The most he could recall was cutting through the woods about a month ago
on his way home from work—it had been like one in the morning and raining
when he left the restaurant. Water came down in sheets, cold and cutting, and
the thought of trooping through the downpour and the puddles along Wolfried
Road, his normal route, was simply too much. So he ducked into the woods, they
were safe enough, and the trees overhead kept him mostly dry. He couldn’t seem
to remember much of the walk, but it was a mess of a night and God knows, he
just stripped off his wet clothes and collapsed into his bed once he got home.
The next morning the wound was there, fresh and bloody. Conner remembered
feeling feverish for a day or two, nothing serious, and after a while it looked
like the wound was beginning to close up.

Until
now.

Someone
banged on the bathroom door behind him. “Just a minute!” Conner called. He
smoothed the bandage back in place and tugged his T-shirt up around his neck to
cover it a bit. Then he washed his hands, reached for a paper towel and found
the dispenser empty, and rubbed his hands down the front of his jeans to wipe
them dry. A quick look in the mirror—the bandage wasn’t
that
noticeable—and he pulled open the door. His boss, Sylvia, stood in the
doorway with one hand on her hip, the other raised to knock again. She was a
crass, older woman who didn’t take shit from anyone, but there was something
about Conner that she liked enough to let him squeak by from time to time. When
he saw the stern look on her face, Conner teased, “The ladies’ room is next
door.”

Unamused,
Sylvia handed him an apron. “You know you ain’t hiding from me. What’s with the
bandage?” Conner touched his neck, and she rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me you
got another tattoo. Does your mother know?”

“I’m
eighteen—” Conner started.

Sylvia
wouldn’t hear it. “And late for work,” she said, steering him into the restaurant’s
dining room. “It’s Friday and there’s supposed to be a full moon out tonight,
so you know this place is going to be whack. You’re waiting tables and you’ve
got two already seated. Get busy.”

It
was only quarter to five—still afternoon, really—but the restaurant
was already a sea of faces, each one louder than the next. Conner found an
order pad and pencil in the pocket of his apron and followed Sylvia’s pointing
finger to his first table. As he approached, he almost groaned. Seated in a
corner booth were a bunch of guys he knew from high school, a year or two older
than he was and all of them popular. He knew who they were by sight—two
of them, Brett Branson and Price Hewitt, used to play football for the high
school team, and Rand Davis had been Macon High’s first Mohawk-haired punk,
though now he sported a ponytail halfway down his back instead. Dreading what
they might say when they recognized him, Conner started, “Hey guys—”

“Dead
man walking!” Brett called out. The others laughed when he did, and half the
restaurant turned at the sound. Conner wanted to sink into the floor and
vanish, but when Brett held out a hand, he slapped it amicably enough. “Conner,
kid. How’s the family business going?”

With
a shrug, Conner told him, “You know how it is—people are just dying to
get in.”

That
earned him more laughs. Conner’s family ran the local funeral parlor, a fact
that had earned him quite a few odd looks during the course of his life. When
he graduated last spring, the last thing he wanted to do was follow in the
footsteps of his three older brothers, who studied Funeral Services at the
local community college. This job at Sylvia’s was a way out, but Macon was a
small town and people knew who he was. Some of them, mostly guys he’d gone to
school with, liked to rag on him about it. Unconsciously, Conner scratched at
the bandage on his neck and asked, “So you all want drinks or something?”

“No,”
Rand said in his soft, smoked-out voice. “We came to see you.”

Conner’s
heart leaped into his throat. He couldn’t imagine anyone coming to see him at
work, least of all these three. “Really?”

But
Price laughed, shattering the moment. “He’s just joshing you, kid,” he said,
slapping Rand on the shoulder. He raised his voice and bellowed out, “We came
to eat!”

Conner
grinned self-consciously, but Rand didn’t drop his gaze and there was something
in those dark eyes that suggested he was more serious than his friend believed.

* * * *

They
ordered burgers and beer. As Conner distributed the frosted mugs, Rand nodded
at the bandage. “What happened to you?” he wanted to know.

Remembering
Sylvia’s question, Conner said, “Got a new tattoo.” With the piercings in his
eyebrow and lower lip, and a snake tattooed around his left bicep, it wasn’t
hard to pretend that the bandage covered another work of art. Before they could
ask, he added, “I’m a free bleeder, so it’s still healing. I gotta keep it
covered at work.”

“So
we can’t see it?” Brett asked. He guzzled his beer in one long swallow and held
the empty mug out to Conner. “Gimme another. What’s it of?”

Conner
glanced around the table, mind racing. When he looked at Rand, the guy was
still staring at him, and something about his expression made Conner answer, “A
wolf.”

As
Conner turned to leave, Rand gave him a quick grin, as if they shared some
secret that the others didn’t know. For the first time, Conner wondered if the
guy was hitting on him. They were only a few years apart, and Rand wasn’t
unattractive. A smattering of fine scars across his nose enhanced his
looks—made him less perfect and more real, worlds more than Brett or
Price, who still looked like rugged jocks. Conner had heard that the scars came
from a car accident, but no one seemed to know the details. More scars
crisscrossed Rand’s fingers, whitening across his knuckles as he gripped his
beer mug in both hands. At the doorway to the kitchen, Conner looked back,
wondering if a guy like Rand would ever think of getting with a guy like him.

From
across the crowded dining room, Rand stared after him. Conner hurried into the
kitchen, blood racing, a stupid smile already playing across his face.

* * * *

Sylvia
came up to Conner while he leaned against the prep counter, sneaking French
fries off of Rand’s plate as he waited for the burgers to be ready. Her
disapproving look made him wipe his greasy fingers on his apron guiltily, but instead
of reprimanding him, she waved a hand in front of his face and asked, “Are you
feeling all right?”

With
a start, Conner frowned at her. “I’m fine,” he said. Grabbing a pair of tongs,
he began to refill Rand’s plate with more fries from the basket over the fryer.
“Why do you ask? Don’t I look all right?”

Sylvia
peered into his face, concerned. “You look a little pale. Are you feverish?”

Conner
pulled away from the hand that tried to press against his forehead. “I’m fine,”
he said, but now that she mentioned it, he did feel a little…odd. His blood
sang through his veins, his heart pounded in his chest and groin, his hands
were damp and sweaty, and his whole body seemed to be trembling for some reason
he couldn’t quite pin down. He wasn’t usually this bad about a guy but then
again, this was Rand. The guy was
still
the epitome of cool in Conner’s
eyes.

A
drop of sweat seeped beneath the bandage on his neck to sting his wound and
suddenly, his vision blurred. Conner shook his head, trying to clear it, but
lost his balance and staggered against the counter. “You don’t look fine,”
Sylvia said, reaching out to steady him. Her hand burned on his arm and Conner
almost fell when he tried to pull away. The kitchen spun around him. Closing
his eyes against sudden nausea, Conner leaned heavily on the counter, head in
his hand. Vaguely he wondered about rabies, then thought maybe too much time
had passed since he got the bite to worry about that now. Somewhere far away he
heard Sylvia calling his name.

Then
a cold, wet rag covered his face. Conner felt one of Sylvia’s strong hands
behind it, the other on the back of his neck. The cool cloth snapped him back
into the moment. “My God,” his boss said, lowering the rag to peer at him.
“You’re burning up.”

“Give
me a minute,” Conner murmured. The room no longer swayed around him, but he
still felt sick deep in the pit of his stomach and a dull ache that spread
across his lower back. Wrapping one arm around himself, Conner folded over and
groaned.

“That
time of the month, eh?” Sylvia joked. She rubbed the damp rag in his hair and
said, “Tell you what, Conner. Take a little break and I’ll see what I can do
about getting these plates out to your tables.” He nodded weakly, and Sylvia
added, “Go get some fresh air, you hear?”

Conner
stood up carefully, afraid to trigger another wave of pain, but except for a
prickling of the wound at his neck, nothing came. He took a deep breath, in,
out, then held it and waited. Someone filled a glass of water from the sink,
which Sylvia handed to him. As he drank it down, he thought maybe he already
felt a little better. It was just a spell or something—his mother got
them all the time. But slipping outside for a moment or two during the hectic
dinner rush sounded great. With a dubious glance at his customers’ plates,
Conner asked, “You sure you don’t mind?”

“Go
on,” Sylvia said again. She patted his shoulder, her touch still hot enough to
make Conner shrink away. With each breath he took, the dizziness dissipated,
leaving him shaky in its wake. Before she could change her mind about that
break, Conner headed through the doorway into the dining room. His gaze drifted
to Rand’s table automatically, but the guys were laughing over their drinks and
Conner looked away before they noticed him. Off the dining room was the dim
hallway that led to the bathrooms, and at the end of the hall was the back
door. When Conner pushed it open, the cool breeze that drifted in made him
shiver. Outside, the sky was just beginning to darken, but the halogen light
above the employee parking lot was already on, its glare holding back the dusk.
Conner stepped out onto the wrought-iron porch and kicked the small wooden
block they used as a doorstop into place before letting the door swing shut.
Then he leaned against the railing, the thin metal cold beneath his heated
hands, and breathed in the coming night.

* * * *

The
pain came again, twisting his stomach into knots that strangled Conner’s insides
and left him gasping. Almost as soon as it started, though, the sickness
passed. Conner leaned against the railing, his heart hammering in the back of
his throat, each beat a nail driven deep into the wound at his neck. Around
him, the evening air seemed to vibrate with the drone of a million insects, but
the parking lot was empty and the woods behind Sylvia’s silent. Conner shook his
head and wondered if maybe he shouldn’t try to leave work early. He stared out
past the perimeter of light into the dense trees, considering his options. Call
it a day, head on home, fall into bed and try to sleep this strange, painful
ache away. Or go back to work…the thought made him queasy, he didn’t want to go
back inside. Something in him reveled at being out in the dusk—he felt
the siren call of the night in his blood, and his body wanted to leap from the
porch, hit the ground running, tear off into the darkness and get lost in the
woods. He pictured himself growling among the leaves—where did
that
image
come from? A hunger rose in his bones, followed by a sudden desire to chase
down the moon. He rocked back on his heels and wondered if the railing would
hold his weight. He wanted to climb up, stand on the thin line of metal, and
jump off into the night. He felt his blood surge within his veins, coaxing him,
encouraging. He stepped up on the bottom rail and stood on it, testing his
weight. It might hold—

Behind
him, rusty hinges squealed as someone pushed open the back door. Conner stepped
off the railing and waited to hear Sylvia’s bossy voice telling him time was
up. Instead it was Rand who spoke, surprising Conner. “There you are,” he said,
letting the door swing shut.

“Rand.”
Conner turned and leaned back against the railing. “What are you doing out
here?”

Crossing
the small porch, Rand leaned on the railing beside Conner. “I could ask you the
same thing,” he purred.

“I’m
on break,” Conner replied. This close, Rand’s skin looked almost white, his
eyes dark like bruises, his lips and nostrils ashy. Faint scars stood out like
claw marks on his neck and arms, and suddenly Connor wondered if the guy was a
cutter. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Rand
shrugged like he didn’t care. “The door was open. I saw you and came out to
talk to a friend. What’s wrong with that?”

Besides
the fact that we’re not friends?
Conner thought, but he didn’t say it out
loud. Sure, he knew who Rand was, but he didn’t
know
the guy, and if his
family didn’t own the funeral parlor, he was pretty sure Rand wouldn’t bother
to remember his name. “It’s nice out here,” Rand said, breaking into Conner’s
thoughts. “Moon’s coming up, finally. Any plans tonight?”