Chapter 19
Kellan
She was waiting for me, with an expensive bottle of champagne chilling on the rooftop patio, and the late afternoon sun bathing her face in a radiant glow. She was wearing a beach cover up, gauzy and billowy in the cool ocean breeze, and nothing underneath.
I was still glittery and greased from the catwalk, my heart pumping and my skin aglow from the brisk walk across Ocean Beach Drive and down, past Miami Models where a quick yank on the door told me Carla wasn’t in. Smirking, still bare-chested—not an uncommon sight for a gorgeous sunny day in South Beach, fortunately—I’d hoped she’d gotten my messages and watched the live feed.
Apparently, considering her wide open door and the fact that she had champagne chilling and was standing practically naked—and beaming—by the massage table, she had.
I paused in the threshold between her living room and back patio all the same. “Is… is it safe?” I asked, still vaguely breathless from my mad spring from the beach.
She nodded, taking one hand from behind her back and patting the massage table. “Come here, Mr. Romantic.”
Tempted, I paused just the same. “Carla, I… nothing happened that night. With Selena, I mean. I promise.”
“You don’t have to,” she said, nodding toward the table. “I don’t own you. You’re free to do as you wish.”
“But I didn’t,” I sputtered. “I wouldn’t. I’m with you because I want to be. I was with Selena that night because she told me you were coming out to meet us.”
Carla smiled. “She told me to meet her for a nightcap,” she confessed. “Like a dummy, I kept buying her excuses for why she never showed. I’m not stupid, Kellan. I can put two and two together. She wanted to hurt me and get you for Florida Faces. Like a good little hustler, she killed two birds with one stone.”
I inched closer, hand atop the headrest of the massage table. “I’m just sorry you got hurt, Carla.”
“I’m sorry they roped you into this,” she said, bare skin slick beneath the gauzy fabric of her loosely tied cover up. “And I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you told me the truth, Kellan.”
I nodded. “I know how it must have looked, Carla. I… I wouldn’t have believed me either!”
We laughed then, her ripe breasts pressed against the fabric, her nipples taut, eager to be touched, flicked and teased. But, apparently, Carla had something else in mind for her rooftop pleasure that day. Or should I say… mine?
“Come on now,” she urged, voice just above a purr as she caressed the surface of the table provocatively with one hand. “Let me show you how good forgiveness can feel.”
“You don’t have anything to be forgiven for,” I assured her, as eager as either of us to get up on the table, but wanting to be there for all the right reasons.
“Neither do you,” she said.
“So we’re even then, right?” I asked hopefully, tired and anxious after the last three days of worrying over our fate before my sudden inspiration before the afternoon fashion show.
She nodded, her long red hair around her shoulders, her lips full but unadorned, her eyes soft and dewy. “Let’s start over in your favorite place,” she teased, patting the long massage table for emphasis. I shrugged, and crawled atop the table on my back.
“If you insist…” I teased, gripping the sides of the table as I waited for what might happen next. Only then did she draw the second hand from her back to reveal a series of scarves. They were colorful but, more than that, they were exciting.
I had thought our reunion might be full of words and accusations, forgiveness and apologies, but instead there were barely any words at all. Silently, and somehow all the more sexily, Carla set about tying each wrist to either side of the table at waist level and each ankle to the table’s end.
Thus, I found myself, bound to a massage table in the midday sun, glistening from glitter spray and leaking with anticipation. “Have you ever been serviced before?” she asked in a rare snatch of conversation. I merely shook my head. This seemed to please her. “Good,” she said, brightening. “I’ve never serviced anyone before, either, so it will be a first for both of us.”
She leaned down to kiss me then, but only briefly, before sliding her fingertips teasingly along my bare torso. There was less teasing around the waistband of my shimmering track shorts, which she yanked down to my ankles, leaving me bare in the warm Florida sun. It was an exotic feeling, the sun’s rays beaming where they rarely explored, warming my thick balls and stiffening cock, as I grew damp and sweaty on top of the padded table.
She wrestled through the lubes and lotions leftover from the beginning of our long, eventful week and mined them for a suitable flavor. In short order she returned to my side, spraying my throbbing prick with a soft scented lotion that smelled of melons and apricots. The liquid danced along my shimmering skin, slippery and sliding as she gripped it and began to gently stroke my glossy shaft.
It was a steady rhythm, unvarying and purposeful and mechanic, so unlike Carla and her spontaneous, bubbly nature. But I soon found the method behind her madness as my heat and passion swelled to match the flesh between her sticky wet fingers.
When I wanted her to go slower, she kept up the steady pace. If I yearned for her to go faster, she remained in second gear, slow and steady, smooth and gentle, until I began to gasp and struggle and thrust for release. Whether by accident or an unseen hand, her gauzy cover-up gradually loosened, revealing full breasts and a murmuring stomach before sliding from her shoulders completely.
I admired her shimmering body bathed in golden sunlight, her nipples stiff and perky, her stomach flat and soft as I grew closer and closer to release. And then, just as I began to pant and thrust in earnest, just as my balls throbbed and danced along the tabletop, desperate for release, she unhanded me and kicked off the heels she’d been wearing.
“Not yet baby,” she cooed, gently climbing atop the table to join me. “Let me take you the rest of the way deep inside of me.”
She did just that, kneeling on either side of my hip and taking my red, throbbing prick in hand once more to drag along the lips of her shimmering wet pussy. Her auburn pubic hair danced in the sunlight as I heard the slick, damp wriggle of my tip sliding just inside and then, as she wriggled down my straining staff, deeper, ever deeper, until she wedged her pelvis against mine and, just as she had with her hand, began to grind and wriggle on top of me with steady, purposeful precision.
My ankles yearned to spread apart, but couldn’t from the combination of track pants and binding scarves. My hands yearned to reach and touch her, to grab her curvy hips and thrust ever deeper, faster, harder, or merely to pinch and tweak her swinging, breasts as they writhed and rolled just out of reach—but they, too, were bound tight to the massage table.
I was at her mercy and she knew it, enjoying the long, languid ride as at last, I began to thrust my hips, faster, harder, hearing the slick wet sounds of our bodies meeting, before each sticky thrust and grind. I came brilliantly, deeply, wet and flush inside her, but she clung tightly, riding the hard flesh beneath her swollen pussy until she, too, had climaxed. Sinking on top of me, I felt her pussy clench and her body tremble as I continued to throb and drizzle deep inside her.
“Let me up,” I murmured when at last I softened and slid from within. “Let me hug and squeeze you and roll you over and suck your sweet twat until you come on my face.”
She chuckled and kissed me instead. “All in due time, lover. You’re being serviced, remember. You’ve got hours and hours to go before I let you up…”
I chuckled, the sun was in my eyes, which made shadows stretch across our naked skin. There were worse ways to spend a sunny Florida afternoon.