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He throws me onto the bed, which is good because I can barely move. He spreads my legs, then slides himself all over me. Like those full body strokes, only now it’s his cock doing the stroking.
When it gets to my mouth, I slip my lips over it, reveling in its incredible hardness.
He pulls himself back, pats my head.
“Good, but right now, he can’t wait. There’s something else he’s been wanting all night.”
He drags it all along my trembling body. Until he reaches my pussy, which I shove up to join him.
He gives me an amused look, and shoves himself into me.
After so long wanting it, the pleasure leaves me shaking.
Jesus, he’s a perfect fit, just the right size. I’m so... full.
“God, you’re tight,” he says, as his cock twitches with its own joy in me.
He pulls out until only the tip is in, then shoves himself back in all the way.
“I’m going to carve you into my size,” he growls.
My hands claw at his back and he starts pumping himself into me, my pussy screaming ecstasy with every thrust.
“A custom fit,” he says, his half-lidded gaze on my pussy.
He shoves himself in harder, and then harder.
“This is my pussy and I will do to it what I see fit.”
And then he’s jerking himself into me firmly, pitilessly, each thrust more intense then the last.
I grab his buttocks, pull himself into me more, harder. I can’t take any more and yet more is exactly what I need. Already I’m almost at the edge.
His lips meet mine, and my teeth bite at them, draw blood.
He raises his hand, shoves himself into me the hardest yet.
Our eyes meet and I smile, glance at his raised hand.
“Do it,” I say, “Do it.”
And he pulls out then shoves himself back in again, his cock meets the back of my pussy at the same time his hand meets my cheek, and my stinging pain fuses with my singing ecstasy, and my joy is streaming down my legs, his cock jerking inside of me. And I pull it out and he drags it over me, one final full-body stroke leaving a spray of white in its wake.
And then my body is one up-down stroke of his pleasure, and we immerse ourselves in each other.
At some point, I’m being lifted again, brought back to the tub again, my old friend. I’m being cleaned. I’m lying on the floor as something white is tossed beside me, and something white is picked up and put in its place.
And then I’m tucked into the billowing whiteness, into the ivory limbs of the white man, and then all is silence.
###
WHEN I WAKE, WE’RE in a tangle of blankets and limbs and soft breaths. Every breath seems slower, more relaxed.
Words spill out of my lips, just part of the calm in-time breathing, just natural.
“What do you think of sex trafficking?”
We both stiffen at the same time, and I close my eyes in horror.
Why in hell’s name did I say that? Am I trying to give myself away?
Now his chest is a hard plate and his eyes probing searchlights.
“Why do you ask?”
I close my eyes again, try to burrow into him deeper.
“I never really thought of it, but lately I found out more about it, looked into it deeper, and it just sickens me.”
He doesn’t answer for a minute, and then he shifts.
For one terrible second I think he’s getting out a gun, a knife.
But he just pulls me in tighter, murmurs, “Me too. It’s always easier not knowing, not really thinking about it, staying in the dark. But it’s not honest.”
I peer into his face.
The words don’t belong to him, to Gavin Pierson, fearsome leader of the Rebel Saints, the unfeeling, hardened sociopath.
And yet, as my gaze traces the edges of his sculpted profile, the high, proud line of his cheekbones, the noble slope of his nose, the hanging too-big lower lip, I realize I’m not looking into the face of Gavin Pierson at all.
The man I’ve heard about is more legend than fact, caricature than real person. This man in front of me, however, this man I’ve experienced first-hand, is nothing like the stories led me to expect.
I grab a chain on his neck.
“What’s this?”
His hand closes around mine.
“That was from my mother.”
“Oh.”
I release my grip, but he doesn’t release his.
“She’s dead,” he says, “She was the kindest, most gentle woman I ever knew. And she died.”
His hand squeezes mine.
“She was shot,” he said, his voice loud, angry.
I glance to Gavin’s face. The mask of cold fury with narrowed slits of eyes and flared nostrils is almost unrecognizable.
My hand feels like it’s being squeezed into dust.
“Hey,” I say, but he’s deaf to my words.
“Hey,” I say, louder this time, pulling back.
Coming back, Gavin releases me, shakes his head.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say, curling back into his chest.
He strokes my head absently.
“She was the best thing in my life and now she’s gone. My dad’s never been around, so now it’s just me and my sister.”
His hand stops.
“Sorry, you probably don’t want to hear my whole family sob story.”
The words come out before I can stop them, “My mom’s dead too.”
“What?”
“She killed herself.”
My words leave a long absence in their wake.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I don’t say anything more, wipe away the tears forming in my eyes. If I get started crying, I’ll never finish.
If I tell him how my mom killed herself because of something my dad still won’t admit he did, I’d have to explain that, when my dad stayed at home after her death, I forgave him. If I tell him how my dad is a brave man, a loving father and a criminal all at once, then he’d connect the dots on just who my father really is. And who I am.
“I knew there was something strong in you, something hard,” Gavin says, half to himself, as he picks up his stroking of my head.
“You have no idea,” I whisper.
And it’s tragic and horrible, because I’m really starting to like Gavin, whose name I’m not even supposed to know. Despite everything I’ve heard and know, despite the fact that it could never work, I do. I like him, and I know if he ever found out, all this would be over. I like him even knowing this – that he could never like me.
“So, have you really read War and Peace?” Gavin is asking me, a strange look on his face.
“Have you?” I shoot back.
He shrugs.
“I always saw myself kinda like Prince Andrei.”
“Well that is dangerous,” I say, “Because I always saw myself kinda like Natasha.”
Our gazes meet, and I find a smile slinking to my face against my will.
I glance away.
“So, no last names,” I say.
When I glance back, Gavin has an amused look on his face, says, “I don’t know your first name.”
I sit up.
“It’s Torrie. With a y.”
Changing the last letter of my name isn’t going to fool anybody, but I’m too tired to think of another name.
But Gavin’s face betrays no suspicion. He nods. “I’m Gavin. With a G.”
We laugh, and I almost feel like telling him everything. Everything from me being the head of the Piccolos to me lying about the last letter of my name.
Instead, I turn to face the ugly painting on the wall, address its gray furball of a sun, “This is nice and fun, but I’m busy, you’re busy. No last names.”
“Ok,” he says, his voice competing with mine for hardness.
I stand up.
“And no talking about what we do. Nothing to identify what we do. This is an escape, that’s all.”
His hand grasps my arm, tugs me back.
“Agreed, but just a bit longer.”
I turn into his smoldering gaze. He squeezes my shoulder, and I let myself sink back, back into the bed, into his arms. Into sweet perfect oblivion.
*