Page 87 of The Cruiser
“Refreshing?” Morgan asks, and pulses it deeper to the point removal requires some special extraction skills.
A shudder runs over me, head to toe.
Never get between a man and his mango.
His mouth hard, a little rough, it’s insanity, how good it feels. Literally and figuratively eaten out. One spear after another, he devours flesh, turning mine into a bundle of sweet, sticky arousal. At one point, he squeezes a mangled piece, letting the juice pool like liquid sin in my belly button. He tongues it out, lapping and growling like a mad dog. The tickling sensation leaves me giggly and gasping and feeling all of fourteen. His face is a mess of orange and smeared with my cream when he comes up for air.
"I can't get enough of you," he pants and starts all over again.
Morgan’s tongue is a reckless creature and my hips buck wildly, his hand strong and pressing down on my belly. I’m vibrating, wound to the breaking point, the high-pitched whine no longer contained in my body. It’s high above me, its own thing, so alive and real I flutter my eyes open, certain to see the sound waves.
But there’s nothing.
Only a shockingly bright sun and his savage destruction of my clit.
Both are blinding me.
The spreading, hot wetness of desire between my legs is like a volcano erupting.
And he’s so on fire, ready to plunge deep before I come down from the stars.
A sharp, cutting rip of packaging between teeth bleeds into a snap of rubber onto skin. He hoists both my legs onto his shoulders, a bruising torpedo tip pushing my trembling parts wider. He buries himself completely, groaning like a beast in heat.
“Fuck, Vandana. You are heaven and hell.”
A properly fueled man can cover miles in a single day, and Morgan’s hell-bent on breaking any marathon record. I rise above the dark edge of pain and pleasure, absorb the marauding blows. Let the planets spin behind my eyelids, drift off into the purple cosmos. I’m boneless, lost in shadows, his ragged breathing coming faster and faster.
Whatever that bird is flying so high, I can feel the air pulsing off its wings, swooping and diving.
Feel the freedom.
I arch into the surrender of it, Morgan’s final assault accepting of my defeat. We shatter together in a way that defies re-piecing, fragments of us drifting up into the endless blue sky.
* * *
Drifting back into the real world, I’m a sticky mess of mango juice and sunscreen, limbs glued to Morgan’s. He’s lying in stillness beside me, his breathing slowly returning to normal. Words escape me, the very basics of speech in general.
Our heads turn at the same time, eyes meeting in silence.
He, too, is at a loss as to what just happened.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks.
“I might need a breather,” I reply, gamely. Ridden and raw, muscles I didn’t know I had are achy and screaming.
“I’m sorry.” He kisses me softly. “I lose myself around you. It’s dangerous.”
You can say that again.
“How about you don’t starve yourself before dinner?”
He lifts my limp hand and brings it to his lips. “I’ll eat two lunches,” he says, with a lazy, wrung out smile. “That should help.”
* * *
It’s late afternoon when we crawl out of bed for an ocean dip. Morgan swims naked and his disregard for swimwear comes as no surprise. (I'm not there yet.) With the coastal town of San Remo in our sightlines, we bob in the water and talk about where we want to travel (me—Africa, him—Vietnam). Our favorite bands. (Maroon 5 and U2, respectively). Things we want to accomplish. He drops another hint about me working here but lets it slide when I swim in silence beside him.
Right now, I want to be in the moment.
