Authors: Abigail Graham
“Can I give it to you?”
“What?”
I sit up next to him. “I know when you were convicted, you were automatically disinherited. Then it passed to your mother, then when she died, to me, per her will. Some of your distant relatives tried to sue but it went nowhere.”
He sighed. “I don’t care about the company, or the money. I want you, Eve. I want you by my side.”
I squeeze his hand.
“What do we do?”
He squeezes back. “You go back to work. We start working together to put your father away.”
I tense, and suck in a sharp breath. “Victor, I can’t. He’ll know, he…”
“He won’t. We have to play pretend. You have to make him think you still hate me. I have a plan of my own. Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Good. We’ll talk about this later. Does your father know where you are?”
“No.”
“Would he have any reason to look here?”
“No.”
“Good,” he says.
He turns, quick and lithe, and his arms are around me, all at once, then his lips on mine as he pushes me down into the bed. I slide my arms around his neck and my legs spread around his sides. It’s been so long, I’m aching for it. He kisses me hungrily, aggressively, like he doesn’t want to stop but he can’t wait any longer to attack my throat. It’s cold in the room but I don’t care. His hands are cold on my skin when the slip up under my sweatshirt. He unhooks my bra as deftly as he always did, like it was yesterday the last time we did this. Once it’s loose I’m shedding my clothes, t-shirt and hoodie and underwear and loose pants, and tugging the sheets down. Victor looks at me body like he’s never seen me before. He looks at me like he’s never seen a woman before. I pull on his shirt. It’s only fair.
He peels off the damp t-shirt, stands up and gets out of his jeans, yanks off his socks. He’s rock hard and just as big as I remember. Victor dives into the bed, skimming lightly over me as he kisses me again. The heater blasts warm air into the room, but I shiver at every touch, at his lips on my throat, his hands on my breasts, the feel of his erection pressed against my stomach. I want him inside me now. I want to feel again. He cradles my head in my hands and kisses me forever, until it burns. The heat between my thighs is a furnace. I writhe under him, naked and wanting, urge him on but he refuses to indulge me, instead tortures me by savoring me. His lips on my throat now, his hands moving slowly down my sides, turning each beat of my heart into a drum beat, faster, faster, faster,
now
, but it’s not now, I have to wait.
Victor honestly enjoys going down on me, I think. He does it whenever he can. His touch is hesitant. I only feel his breath at first, then it’s like he remembers. His hands slide under my butt and squeeze and my stomach flexes as I angle my hips, and press my legs around his head and pull him in, one hand knotted in his hair. Then his mouth, hot on my skin, working up the inside of my thigh to my throbbing sex. Suddenly I was happy he was taking his time. I spent so long trying to please myself with my own hands, imagining Victor down there, and now he’s real again. I know he’s real because I feel the heat of his breath, the warm wet touch of his tongue, and I hear the little noise he makes when he tastes me, so much like hunger. I look down and see the lust in his eyes and heat spread through my chest, like a deep breath of hot air. I need this so badly it hurts. I feel alive again. Please, please, please.
He takes his time, slowly at first, teasing my lips, before his finger slowly enters me. I hear him gasp, see the slack expression on his face before it turns to a grin and he looks up before dipping down to suck lightly on my clit, and I groan and writhe on the bed. The heater is running too hard, it’s too hot in here. I’m sweating all over, between my shoulder blades, my chest, my forehead, under my arms. The heat grows with every touch, and every passing moment. I need more. As my arousal builds, so does his. I can feel it radiating off him, like heat. My body quivers around his finger, a shock of pleasure jolts down my legs and I curl up, biting down a little sound. Slowly, Victor rises, drawing his finger from my body. He rubs it on my lips and I taste myself on his skin, suck his finger. He lowers himself on top of me.
“You want me to eat you out until you cum,” he whispers in my ear, “Or fuck you silly?”
My answer is a light tug on his cock with my fingers. It feels so good to touch him again, to feel his response. As he slides into me I watch the muscles of his back ripple. It’s a full body motion, his rod plunging into my wet sex, spreading my quivering walls, filling me. I groan and splay out on the bed, lazily holding him around the neck as he begins to thrust into me. He’s urgent at first, each pump building the pleasure, the fullness growing with each stroke, bigger, bigger, more, more, but then he slows, like he remembers how long it’s been and decides to savor me. When he slowly draws almost all the way out of me and slowly presses back in, shuddering with forced restraint, the pleasure is so intense it nearly hurts and I whimper and shudder under him, my muscles tensing with every jerk and shock of sensation that rolls through my body.
Then he settles on top of me and kisses me hard and deep, and I take him deep, his rod shifting inside me as he remains buried and rolls his hips. He rests his weight on me, buries his face in my neck, and his whole body trembles with anticipation. I rake my nails down his back, heat pulsing through me in slow throbs, spreading from between my legs to radiate down to my toes, down to my fingertips, swirl under my scalp. I’m sliding away on a tide of pleasure. My legs wrap around him and I pull him against me and a second dragging scratch on his back sends him into a sudden burst of energy, fucking me hard and fast. I need it so bad. I clench around him, all my muscles going tight as taut wires. I whimper and plead in his ear, now, now,
please
, I want his pleasure as much as I want mine, just the idea of it will make me explode. If I go one more day frozen in ice, I’ll die.
Victor drives deep into me, pins me to the bed, and grunts in my ear. The grunts turn into a low, throaty moan, louder than he means it to be, breathy, then louder again as I feel him throbbing, finishing, and explode, thrashing under him. It feel so good the pleasure edges nearly into pain, and I dig my nails into his back and
bite him
, quiet now as pleasure wracks my body in shuddering, punishing waves. When it finally ends I go limp under him, spread out on the bed. He looks at the mark on his shoulder from my teeth and kisses me, hard. I feel wet on his back. I drew blood with my nails. He lays on top of me,
in me
, and doesn’t pull away.
This is being home. I’m home.
God, how could I ever have doubted him.
“Mine,” I purr into his throat. “Mine.”
Eventually, he pulls out of me and I scoot back on the bed to lay plastered to his side, wrapped in his arm. He breathes under me, his chest rising and falling in huge, muscular rhythm. He falls asleep and I could sleep with him like this, forever. I trace my fingers over the designs on his skin. Sometimes he stirs in his sleep, holds me a little tighter, then goes limp again as he falls deeper into sleep once more. By the time he wakes up again I think I’ve traced every feather incised on his skin twice. His eyes open and he looks at me and without a word, I slip down between his legs, my slick sweaty skin gliding over his, and take his cock in my mouth. I close my eyes and rest my head on his leg and let him harden slowly between my lips, tasting myself on his shaft. It doesn’t take long. A few flicks of my tongue and he stiffens again, groaning.
I take my time. He’s already cum inside me, so he lasts longer. The way he grunts and paws the sheets and tugs at my hair when I’m sucking him off makes me feel feral, sexual. I remember the first time I did this, I felt submissive, even a little dirty. Now I see with every movement how I
own
him. I was a fool to think he would step out on me. He wants this. After long minutes he’s sitting on, propped on his elbows, his whole magnificently muscled body gone rigid and tight, and as always he tugs at me a little. Always a
gentleman, my Victor, trying to stop me before he finishes in my mouth. I don’t let him. I take it and swallow it and make him mine again, and then he’s pulling me up by the arms to kiss him and has me pinned down and I take him inside me again. A push on his chest and I’m on top, riding him.
During the night I lose count of how many times we fuck, making up for lost time. Three or four, at least. By morning I’m stiff and sore but I don’t care. The warm water in the shower relieves the ache, even with him in there with me. I stand in the hot water wrapped in his arms, feeling the heat soak into my hair, the steam warm my joints. The ice queen has melted, and she’s a puddle in his arms. I pray silently. Never take him away from me again. Never ever, please. I want to ride in his car. I want to go
home
.
It’s nearly eleven when Alicia starts banging on the door. Check out time.
I open it for her.
“Did you two talk?” she asks.
“A little,” I say, with a smirk.
She looks at me like I’ve sprouted another head.
“What now?”
“Go home. I’m riding with Victor.”
Alicia nods, and heads back to her van. I need to make sure I pay her back for lunch yesterday. I’m
hungry
.
“Vic, I need food.”
He sidles up behind me, kisses my cheek and gives my butt a light smack and a squeeze. Ordinarily I’d protest but I don’t care anymore, let him show everyone. It doesn’t matter.
“Pancakes,” I say.
“IHOP,” he says. “I know where there’s a good one down here. I think,” he says, sadly. “It’s been a while.”
The cleaning woman is on her way down the row by the time we finally leave. There’s a spring in my step there hasn’t been for years. I hop in the car eagerly, Vic starts her up and we ride to get some pancakes in his Firebird.
Whatever may come now, at least I had last night.
He yawns, and his expression darkens. There’s a stop sign coming up.
“Eve?” he says. “The brakes aren’t working.”
Chapter Nineteen
Victor
When I touch the brake pedal nothing happens.
Well. That’s not good.
“Eve,” I say, trying not to panic. “The brakes aren’t working.”
“What?”
“The brakes. Are not. Working. Seat belt.”
She pulls her seat belt on and grips the sides of the seat. I can’t focus on her now. I need to stop the car. First thing, I start slowing her down using the engine as a brake. Shift down, use the engine’s speed to slow the wheels. It’s hard on the engine but I’d rather be hard on the engine than a greasy stain on the curb. I weave from side to side to bleed off inertia as I put her into neutral. The emergency brake does nothing. I think the lines have been cut. That stop sign is coming up awfully fast, and there’s an oil truck headed the other way, ready to cross in front of me. The fucker is slowing down. If I don’t stop the car he’ll smash right into us. Eve never makes a sound.
I weave across the road. The maneuver bleeds off some energy, and when the tires hit the soft shoulder, it draws off yet more. I nose over to the other side. If I try to use the shoulder to stop while we’re going too fast, I’ll lose control, maybe flip the car over.
Oil truck. Oil truck. Imminent oil truck.
I’m going slow enough to try it. I whip left, then right, into the dirt. The front wheel bites and throws up a plume of dust. I frantically pump the brakes, hoping against hope that the might give me a little traction.
The oil truck blows his horn and the world slows, dragging to a crawl. Now Eve screams, at last. It sounds like she screams for a million years, and the tires join her. The oil truck is on his brakes, but it’s no use. He can’t push too hard, or he’ll turn, jacknife and flip over. The stop sign enters my peripheral vision and slides away, in a red flash. I’m looking through Eve’s side of the car, through her window, and seeing a lot of grill and a shocked oil truck driver. Please, God, not like this.
Then, the oil truck is past and my windshield is full of corn. The car bounces, jounces, skids to a stop amid dead brown stalks, each a couple of feet high. The Firebird lurches and groans, shifts a bit, and finally stops.
Eve sits next to me wide eyed, clutching her chest. I grab her arm.
“Eve!”
She shrieks in alarm and throws herself at me. I stumble out of the car and around to her side, grab her and pull her to my chest. It feels like her heart is going to explode through mine. She takes quick breaths and I’m afraid she’s going to start hyperventilating. Jesus. I pull Eve closer and stroke her hair, smooth it to her head. I hear shouting and here comes the oil man in his coveralls, yelling.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“My brakes failed,” I shout back.
He stumbles to a stop. “No shit. How’d that happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is she okay?”
“Yeah,” Eve manages.
“I’m going to take a look.”
“Careful now,” the oil man says.
I crouch down. I’m not going to try crawling under a car with no brakes and no way to chock the wheels, but it doesn’t take much looking. The master cylinder has been sabotaged. Somebody punched a hole clean through it.
I rock back on my heels and stand up, my head throbbing.
“What is it?” says Eve.
“Hole in the master cylinder. It gave me pressure long enough to drive down here, then gave out when the last of the fluid leaked out. I have no way to tell when it was done, damn it.”
Oil truck me scratches his head. “Ya’ll need a ride?”
“No, thanks.”
“I should call the police, then,” he says.
Oh. Shit. I’m on parole, I’m not supposed to leave the fucking state, except on business. Great.
“No,” I say, quickly. “Thanks, we’ve got this. Right, Eve?”
She already has her phone out. Calling her assistant, I think.
I grin. Oil man hesitates, eyeing me. Please, just leave. Finally he turns.
“Okay then. Hell of a thing. I guess you’re just lucky, then. Freak accident.”