Chapter Sixteen - Paxton
I grab her ankles and spread her legs wide, easing over the top of her—my chest to her breasts, my cock positioned at her entrance. She’s so fucking wet. I wrap my fist around my dick and flick her clit a few times. Her whole body arches in response.
“You like that,” I whisper, continuing the motion.
She says nothing, her eyes squeezed tight, biting her lip, fingernails digging into my skin.
I plunge inside her and she goes soft. Our hips move together for a moment, kinda slow. Kinda easy. But then I lean down into her neck and bite her earlobe, going faster and faster as she responds to this new direction. Her tits bounce against me, legs wrapped around my body, knees pressed against my hips.
And she smells like sugar.
Everything about her is sweet. The little moans she’s making. The scent of her hair. Her pink lips and those perfect nipples. I lean in and bite her lip. Her eyes open and I start pumping her harder. Slapping against the inside of her thighs. Everything is wet, and hot, and time just needs to stand still so this never has to end.
“I’m gonna come,” she whispers.
“Not yet—”
“Ohhhhhmmmmm. Shit. Oh, fuck, yes! Fuck me! Fuck me!”
“OK.” I laugh, enjoying her little show. “Yeah, OK. Come, sugar. Come all over me.”
Her hands are suddenly in my hair. Twisting and pulling like she’s holding on to me. Never gonna let me go.
“Pax,” she moans out. She’s still fucking coming. I feel wave after wave after wave of contractions against my dick as I slow down.
“No,” she says. “Harder! Harder, harder, harder…”
I speed back up. Pounding her now. She is gushing with come. My dick slides in and out of her pussy. I stand back up, grab hold of her hip bones, and watch the curve of my cock enter, and almost exit, her opening. The lips of her pussy wrap around my shaft like a glove. Like we are puzzle pieces fitting together.
And then her fingers are there. Pushing against her clit. Rubbing as she continues to moan. I slap her hand away. “I don’t need help.”
She laughs, eyes closed again. “Something is wrong with me. I’m so fucking horny right now. I just came—twice—and I need more.” Her eyes fly open and she stares at me. “Flip me over.”
Nobody tells me that twice. I step back and flip her whole body over, push her knees up, press her head down onto the comforter and tongue her wet pussy, flicking against her clit.
“I forgot to tell you—”
“Are we talking about this?” I ask, still trying to lick her.
“I’m a squirter.”
“What?”
“Shit!” She wiggles away from me, kicking out and squirming her way across the bed.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“I don’t want to ruin this bed! I’m telling you, I’m a squirter and this will be pretty messy if we keep going.”
I grab her by the ankles and pull her back to me, then reach under, lift her up, and hoist her over my shoulder.
“What are you doing?” she squeals.
“Taking this to the shower.”
I walk across the room, flip the light on in the master bath, take her into the massive shower, and set her down on the marble bench. “Don’t move,” I say, my eyes never leaving hers as I reach around and feel for the steam switch on the wall, flick it on, and then look hungrily at my girl as the mist wafts around us in floating tendrils. “Squirter, huh?”
She bites her lip to stifle a laugh.
“And you know this how?” I should shut the fuck up. I don’t want to know how she knows. But I can’t help it.
She shakes her head and giggles.
“Cindy.”
“When I masturbate, it just—it gets—overwhelming and then… you know. That happens. And the way you were touching me in there. It felt like…”
“Masturbation?” I say with a cock-eyed smile. “Nice recovery.” I drop to my knees, push her back so she’s resting against the wall, and do it exactly the way I was. Quickly flicking my dick against her clit. She grabs on to the edge of the stone bench this time, her knees pulling up automatically.
“Like this?” I ask, never taking my eyes off her.
And then she’s out of control. Her moans turn into gasps, turn into screams. I cup my hand over her mouth automatically, momentarily startled as she writhes, and kicks, and yes—squirts.
I don’t think anything has ever turned me on so much in my entire life.
I take her hands, pulling her up to standing. She wobbles, like she’s not under control yet. So I reach under her thighs, lift her up, press her against the wall, and pound her hard until there’s no way I’m stopping. I pound her until there is nothing on my mind but coming inside her. She squeezes my hips with her thighs, so tight. So focused. My hands come up to her face, glistening from the steam, and I kiss her, and fuck her until she comes again and there is only one thing left to do.
Finish.
“Fuck… yes…” That was perfect.
She collapses against my chest, spent and tired. I walk backwards until I find the bench, and then sit down with her in my lap. Her face is buried in my neck. We are sweaty, and hot, and breathing in the steam like the air we are sucking is lifesaving.
I rest my head back against the wall, close my eyes, and let go. Maybe for the first time in my life I just let it all go. The past. The jobs. The future. It’s gone. Wiped away in the aftermath of lust.
After a few minutes of stillness, she eases backward, gets up, turns the steam off, and then starts the shower. She makes the water cool, then grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet.
We wash each other. Hair, body, soul.
And then we dry each other off and I lead her out to the bedroom. Collapsing onto the soft comforter, not even bothering to get underneath it. I just grab her and never let go. Pull her into my chest, wrap my hands around her breasts, and… sleep.
I wake up to sun beaming down on my face, reaching for Cindy. Finding her gone. What did I expect? I swing my legs over the side of the bed, rub the stubble on my jaw with both hands, and then stand up and take a piss in the bathroom.
That was the best sex I’ve ever had and I know—I just fucking know—it’s only the beginning if I get to see her again after we talk about it.
I pull on some boxer briefs and walk towards the stairs, surprised when I cross the catwalk and see her—back to me—cooking at the stove in the open kitchen down below.
I don’t say anything. I don’t even know if I have words for what this is. What I’m doing. But I stop at the top of the stairs when I see the shoe. Left there last night as I brought her up here.
It’s fitting, right? Cinderella leaves a shoe on the stairs and then Prince Charming has to go looking for her with only that one shoe as his clue.
The other shoe is further down. And it’s a good sign, I think. That we are not that story. She didn’t disappear. I don’t have to go searching for her. We can spend the day together. No one to stop us. Start something new. No rules, or expectations, or baggage to drag us down.
Well, that’s a fairy tale too, I guess. Because I’ve got baggage, man. I’ve got a huge amount of baggage and there’s no fairy godmother coming to make it all better.
“What are you doing?” I ask, reaching the bottom of the steps.
“Cooking,” she chirps, flipping something over in a pan. This is the Cindy I know. Happy, cheerful, easygoing.
“Where’d you get food?” I say, coming up behind her and wrapping my arms around her body so I can squeeze her tits and kiss her neck. She’s wearing an apron, of all things. It’s yellow, like her hair. With cookies on it. And a tank top and shorts.
Sugar. Goddammit if she doesn’t smell like sugar. Even after staying in someone else’s house, taking a shower with their scented soaps and shampoos, and frying bacon in a pan.
“I borrowed your car and went to the store.”
“You… left?” I ask.
“I came back.” She says it like she might not’ve.
“Where’d you get these clothes?” She’s wearing my dress shirt and a pair of man’s shorts that must be Nolan’s. Which means she’s been snooping around the house while I was sleeping. “What time did you wake up?”
“What?” She feigns ignorance.
I feign with her. Are we talking about this yet? Who she is? Where she came from? How she knows all these things and why she’s been watching me?
If we talk about that, well, then we’ll have to talk about my mother. The Silver Pledge—whatever the fuck that is. Those envelopes, the note, the game. “Smells good,” I say. I can play along. I don’t even mind playing along.
“What time do you have to be in the office today?”
How’d she know I have to be in the office today?
Forget it. We’re not talking about it.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Eleven thirty.”
“Shit,” I say, threading my fingers through my hair. “I have a client today.”
“I know. Mr. Walker’s son went missing two weeks ago. It’s out of character and no leads so far. The police aren’t interested, so he came to you.”
We really should start talking about this. But instead of starting that conversation, I say, “Do you want to help me find him? I could use a good assistant.”
She looks over her shoulder, gives me a sidelong smirk. “You don’t even have to ask. I’m already on it. I pulled up his phone records and even though there doesn’t seem to be a pattern, there is. A number he calls every Tuesday evening. He’s called it without fail for over a year, but he only calls once a week, so it’s not an easy pattern to see when you look at all the hundreds of other calls and texts he sends. He’s a chatty guy. But I found it. So we can start there if you want.”
I pull her hair aside, giving myself better access to her neck. And I kiss her again. She sighs, leans against me just slightly. Just enough to let me know we don’t really need to talk about it. Denial is our friend today.
She squirms out of my embrace and grabs two plates sitting on the counter. She scoops up some scrambled eggs from another pan, then the bacon, loading up each plate as the toast pops up. “Butter that for me, will you?”
The butter is sitting out on the counter already, soft. So I grab the toast and butter it up, dropping the slices on the plates just as she whisks them away to the dining table in front of the big picture window that overlooks the racetrack.
“I made mimosas, too. You like mimosas, right?” She smiles at me.
I hate champagne. But I smile back and say, “Almost as much as I like margaritas and mint juleps.”
“I hope you’re hungry,” she says, smiling into her glass as she takes a drink.
“I’m gonna fuck you on my desk this afternoon.”
She almost spits out her mimosa.
“And then at my house tonight.”
“OK.”
“And we’re never talking about it.”
She swallows hard and nods. “OK.” It’s softer than the last OK, filled with relief and maybe even some regret. But then she forces another smile, lifts her glass and says, “To new beginnings.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
I do believe I will come to love this drink. And all the girly things this sweet-smelling Cinderella has brought into my life. If only for the fact that they symbolize something.
Not a beginning. But an end.
Fuck those silver envelopes. Fuck that rape charge. Fuck everything but what happens from this day forward.
It’s over.
I am Prince Charming in this story, and I decree the bullshit to be over.