Page 60 of The Cruiser
“I’m not going to be in this position forever,” I challenge back.
The twinkle in his eyes turns wicked. “What’s your definition of forever?”
My head drops between numb, tired arms. If it wasn’t for the bed frame, I’d be stapled to the ceiling, stuck there in permanent ecstasy. “Fine,” I relent. “You’re in charge.”
“That’s better,” he says. “Now … Just relax.”
Relax meaning, hang on for a ride to places I’ve never been. Where my drenched body no longer exists within physical laws. And like the Morgan of my dreams, he’s a cosmic force, hell-bent on wiping my brain clean of any rational thought.
Of any thought.
I’m floating. Skipping high above the clouds, unshackling from the forces of gravity. But there’s friction. So much unbearable friction. The delicious sensation thrusts me higher and higher, launching me beyond the moon and stars. I’m shaking uncontrollably and feel the universe cracking and coming apart. Time and space begin to collapse into a crushing pressure. In blackness and nothingness, a shockwave of pleasure shatters me into a million pieces. I’m falling, falling, no resistance, a meteor shower of Vandana plummeting, entry speed back to earth incalculable.
* * *
“Well, hello,” he says.
Morgan plants a generous kiss on my mouth and reaches across my trembling body for a glass of wine on the bedside table. My vision is muddy, and the bright hot sun creates a prism effect around his head. He’s a glowing ball of golden fantasy.
“Jesus,” I whisper. My skin seems powdered with stardust, sparkling from adrenaline and dopamine. After being so savagely dominated, every panting breath is a new exercise in survival. Morgan has no intention of letting me regroup. Not all the way, and certainly not on my terms. He takes a drink of wine and plasters our lips together. A gushing shot of Brunello fills my throat like liquid fire. The stream emptied, his tongue lingers, prying my mouth open. I taste him, me, and want it all, hard and deep and reckless. When we break for air, he runs a hand along my naked torso and smiles at my twitching body, a live wire of nerves.
“You are a deviant,” I tell him.
“Finally, a compliment.” I chuck a pillow at him and he laughs, mimicking me. “Don’t stop. I was only following orders.”
“Until you stopped,” I remind him. “At the worst time.”
He curls a finger around a sweat-soaked lock of my hair. “Insubordination is part of my appeal.”
“You think so, huh?” I sit up, or at least try to. A belated, shuddering spasm curls me forward, eyes squeezing shut with the intensity.
“Or maybe I’m the gift that keeps on giving.” He smiles diabolically.
I shake my head, pawing for his wine. “Give me that.”
While I guzzle away the effects of his beautiful trauma, he investigates the bed frame. “Still in one piece,” he jokes. “I was worried.”
“I don’t think you were worried in the slightest.”
He stuffs a pillow behind him to lean against the headboard with a contented sigh. It’s muggy with sin in here, all the tastes and smells I’ve missed. I pour the last of the wine into the glass, liquid accelerator to stoke the flames. Relaxing beside him, I like the speckles of me trapped in his scruff. For once, looking into the vortex of his eyes, I’m not dragged away. They’re still unwavering, shimmering like the sea, but calmer, a storm passed and settled.
Or readying themselves for the next storm.
My attention rivets onto his dick, and he flexes it up, lets it slap down on his corrugated abs.
“Wow,” I say, laughing at how pleased he looks with himself. “What other tricks do you have up your sleeve?”
“Funny you should ask. I believe it’s your turn to run the show,” he says, stealing back his wine. “If you have the energy.”
Smiling over the rim of the glass, he’s not on the hunt for accolades or applause. The steamed windows, rumpled sheets and my messy coming apart are hallmarks of a job well done.
“You’ll do whatever I say?”
“Anything,” he replies.
Reaching for his plump, heavy scrotum, he jerks in response, hissing, “Careful.”
“Hmm. Someone’s testy.”
He glares at me darkly. “If I am in charge again, you can forget about mercy.”
If Morgan considers anything that just went down merciful, I hate to think what levels of damage truly exist in his realm. I continue to play with him, loving the slip and slide of his testicles between my fingers. Watching him twist and jerk for a change. I’m tempted to blow him within an inch of his life and match him in the pullback department. But as his dick grows in front of me, expanding to its full blunt expression, I change my mind. I might be a princess, but I crave the simple things. The weight of a man on me. The girth of a man in me.
The stupefying pleasure of rhythmic slaps of flesh.
So, I tell him to fuck me into sweet, slow oblivion, and Morgan, bless him, does exactly what he’s told.
