Learning to Soar (11 page)

Waiters had begun bringing trays of mushroom tartlets, bruschetta and prosciutto with melon. The inaugural party for Razzo was underway. Damien held her tightly, as if he were afraid she would fly away, and Chloe could hardly fail to notice his arousal. She turned her back to him and leaned against him, rubbing his stiffness against the curve of her rear.

Damien lowered his face to her ear and whispered, “I need to show you something in my office.” He brushed his hand lightly against her breasts and kissed her neck. “Come on.” Chloe let him pull her briskly from the restaurant and to the winding iron staircase.

She raced down the stairs after him, past the elegant lounge tables of the entry floor and down to Volare’s dance floor and bar. They ran all the way to Damien’s office and slammed the door behind them, breathless.

Damien locked the door as Chloe dimmed the lights. “Silly that some people say familiarity breeds contempt.” Chloe laughed as she pulled her jade green sundress over her head. “Working with you all day, every day, just keeps me turned on, all day, every day.” The push-up bra she wore thrust her breasts up enticingly, with the rosy blush of her areolae just visible beneath the silver satin.

“Good thing I’m the owner, then, huh?” Damien agreed, swallowing, while he quickly unbuttoned his shirt.

“Mm-hmm”—Chloe nodded—“and I’m the co-manager, don’t forget about that.” She hooked her thumbs under the sides of her thong and yanked it down to her ankles, then kicked it aside.

“You are a kick-ass co-manager, therapist and accountant,” Damien stated, “and a damn fine fuck, too.” He unfastened his trousers and pulled them down with his black boxer briefs. His stiff cock sprang free, jutting up towards the ceiling through a tangle of soft brown curls.

“Yeah, baby, don’t you forget it.” Chloe smiled. She reached behind her back to unfasten her bra. Her tits fell free of the confining Lycra. Damien’s eyes widened when he saw the delicate blue crystals hanging beneath each taut peak.

Chloe shook her shoulders and the dangling crystals sparkled in the dim light. “I added to my collection of nipple jewellery that you started,” she told him. “I wanted to dress up my ta-tas for you tonight. I hope you like it.”

“Oh, yes, your ta-tas look delicious, dear,” he assured her. Lifting his hands, he flicked each swinging crystal and watched them swing. Then he placed a warm, wet kiss on each tenderly pinched tit.

Chloe lifted one foot onto his conveniently placed boomerang table and gripped his erection. Sliding it over her streaming cleft, she whispered, “Come on, let’s do it.”

Damien slid his hands down to cup her softly rounded ass. He placed the tip of his cock just inside her pussy lips. “You’ll be my wife, then,” he whispered, “till we’re old and grey?”

“Yeah,” Chloe promised, thrusting her hips slowly. “Until we’re rocking on the front porch, talking about our wild times at Volare and Razzo when we were young and crazy.” Damien groaned as she sheathed him fully and sighed with pleasure at the tight fit. “Until we’re old and grey and beyond, Damien. I’m yours for a lifetime. I love you.”

“I’m a lucky man,” Damien said softly, easing his cock out. “I’ll try very hard to make you happy. You deserve perfect happiness, Chloe.” He bucked his hips hard and buried his stiffness inside her once more.

“And I’ll try my hardest to make your dreams,” Chloe told him, “I mean, our dreams, come true. We have a lifetime together to do what we enjoy and to love each other.” She lowered her leg from the table.

Damien lay on the red oriental rug and Chloe settled on top of him, squeezing her eyes shut tightly. She lifted her hips and slammed them back down again, pummelling his steely hardness with her own yielding softness. Her crystal-adorned tits bounced and her cool blonde hair flowed like silk over her tanned shoulders. Chloe’s brow furrowed slightly. She pursed and licked her lips as though she were tasting a decadent morsel of chocolate.
Delicious
, Damien thought.

She moved faster, pistoning over him wildly. “It’s happening,” she whimpered, “I’m almost there.” Chloe spread her palms over his bare chest.

“Oh, yes, I’m coming,” she gasped, slamming her cunt onto his cock with all her strength. Her spasms milked the length of him as his own orgasm hit—his cum jetted into her like a fountain. Like a flare. Like a rocket.

Chloe’s eyes remained closed as she wound down from her climax, but Damien’s stayed wide open. As her breath slowed, he spoke softly. “You’re just so beautiful, Chloe. I’ve never seen something as lovely as watching your face when you climax. I see surprise, relief and happiness there.”

“And love,” Chloe added with a smile. She opened her eyes. “You see love, Damien.”

At that moment, and for the lifetime of moments that followed, they soared.

Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:

A Ghost on Two Wheels

Bebe Balocca

Excerpt

Chapter One

“Barney!” I lean out of the back door and holler up into the meadow. “Barney, damn it, come on in!” As I have for the past several days, I hope to see him dart out from our rickety barn, his namesake and his favourite haunt, and plummet down the gentle slope to our back door like a ginger lightning bolt. Barney enjoys nothing more than lurking in that dusty old barn, chasing field mice and sparrows and lizards, then resting after his hunts in my lap.

We inherited Barney when we bought this old farmhouse ten years ago. After we moved in, we told Mack Grayden, the owner, that we’d found a cat in the barn.

Mack had shrugged and spat on the ground. “Just an old barn cat,” the crusty old man had grunted. “And I got no use for him where I’m going. Keep him or call animal control to pick him up, don’t matter none to me. Reckon you might want a good mouser, though. Keep mice from gettin’ into the place.”

We decided to give the unnamed mouser a trial period. I set out dry cat food in a dish, and the cat acted like it was wild salmon on a bed of caviar. Apparently Mack had never fed the cat at all and had just left him to fend for himself with mice and lizards and whatever else he could catch. The poor, scrawny thing was just skin and bones. We fattened him up, got him checked out at the vet, and invited him into the house. Our hand-me-down cat proved to be a well-adjusted and contented pet, as well as a very, very good eater. He’d rolled with the punches delivered by his neglectful previous owner Mack, and was more than ready for the next phase of his life. Now Barney, as we named the orange barn cat, is part of our family, a huge, tough tomcat who sleeps at the foot of our bed and curls next to me while I write, as loyal as any dog.

I wait and I hope, but there’s no lightning bolt this morning.

Michael comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “I’m afraid he’s gone, babe,” he says quietly, and plants a kiss on my neck. “He’s been missing for six days now.”

Fear stings the back of my throat and I swallow painfully. I just can’t bring myself to believe it. “He’s been gone for a week before and come back, hungry and filthy and covered in burrs. He’s probably just out hunting,” I insist. I cup my hands around my mouth and shout once more into the air. “
Barney!
Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!”

Michael leaves me to my yelling and walks to the coffee pot.

I shut the back door with a sigh. “You think he’s really gone for good?” I ask quietly.

Michael pours two cups of coffee and sloshes some cream in the mug intended for me. He hands it to me and answers carefully. “Barney’s an old cat, Ivy,” he says quietly. “And he was starting to move pretty slowly. He’s had a good, long life, but he may have gone off to die if he felt the time was near. Outdoor cats do that sometimes, you know.” He sees me bite my lip and quickly adds, “But I could be wrong. He could show up any minute, begging for some Fancy Feast and a nap in your lap. What do I know, right?” He smiles at me over his coffee cup, blue eyes glinting warmly.

Two months into his biannual buzz-cut has given a nicely tousled look to his wavy black hair. I love how he can’t be bothered with frequent haircuts, yet manages to look devastatingly hot with his hair at every length from shaved to shaggy. I think that now is my favourite hair length on him, though—long enough to run my fingers through his short waves, and still short enough to stand up on its ends.

“Wanna go for a ride this afternoon?” Michael asks. “I’ve got an appointment this morning, but we could get a nice little putt in after lunch. It’s going to be gorgeous today. I’ve got the Chief waxed and ready to ride.” He clears his throat before continuing. “I thought today would be a good day to get started on our new tats. Joe and Chloe have time for both of us at two o’clock.”

He says this casually, but I know it’s as meaningful to him as it is to me. For our tenth anniversary of being together, we’re getting each other’s names tattooed over our hearts. Michael and I aren’t married, but we have a bond that goes deeper than any ’till death do us part’ vow spoken in a church. I’ve given myself to him, forever and ever, no matter what, and he’s given himself to me. We have grown together like two trees planted side by side. Our branches are locked and tangled as they grow up to the sun, and, far beneath the surface, our roots are fused together. We’ll never be separated.

These tattoos were my idea. Although Michael is a tattoo artist, and has his share of ink on his gorgeously muscled body, I’m a tattoo virgin. It’s not that I don’t appreciate body art—I’m crazy about Michael’s tats. I love to trace my fingers over the intricate Celtic knot on his biceps and the crescent moon on his wrist. The stark tribal tat stretching across his shoulders is my favourite. It gorgeously accents the beefy width of his back when he’s shirtless. The reason I’ve yet to go under the tattoo gun myself, though, is that for most of my life I’ve been unable to settle on any particular image. I just didn’t feel strongly enough about anything to mark myself with it for the rest of my life. Also, I’ll confess that I’m a big chicken when it comes to pain. Tattoos look like they hurt.

A few years ago, though, when I knew beyond a doubt that Michael was my forever mate, I started dreaming of getting his name over my left breast. I want it right over my heart, so I can hold my palm on it and feel my own heartbeat through his name. I figure I’ll just deal with the pain when it comes, although the thought of a tattoo needle plunging into my skin makes my stomach clench into knots and flop around like a spastic fish.

After I convinced him that I wouldn’t regret it—and how could I ever regret having my true lover’s name printed on my skin?—we talked about how our tats would look and drew up sketches for Joe and Chloe to use. Michael loves the idea of getting my name over his heart, too. He wants to have my name surrounded by tendrils of ivy. Easy enough, right? ‘Ivy’ encased in ivy. I’m getting Michael’s name in a heart drawn from gears and pipes and chains, an homage to Michael’s Indian Chief motorcycle and his love of all things mechanical. Plus, it looks cool.

“So how about that ride?” He plops down into a kitchen chair and asks again, “Do you have much work to do? Can you fit in a putt and then an appointment at Tattoo Maxx? I’ve been looking forward to getting inked with you, Ivy, for a long time, and I think today’s the perfect day for it.”

My heart lurches in my chest as though it, too, were both scared and eager to feel the bite of the tattoo gun. “I’ve just got a few hours of work,” I answer. “I need to polish up that article for the
Gazette
, and then I can take off for the rest of the day. Is that college kid coming back to get colour added to his sleeve?”

Michael nods and sips his black coffee. “Yeah, I’m going to start colouring in Brent’s tiger today, but a sleeve like he’s getting is going to take another visit or two after this one before I finish up.” He glances at the wall clock and rises. “Kid’s gonna be here in ten minutes,” he says. “So I’m going to head out to the shop.”

I stand to meet him, the top of my head not even reaching his collarbone. I run my hands down his solid frame, all six feet and three inches of it, and think for the bazillionth time how much I adore every little thing about this man.

He lowers his face and kisses me. I love the sharp stubble around his lips and the warm, coffee-flavoured sweetness of his mouth. I cup his ass in my palms and pull him towards me. I feel his cock bulge slightly beneath the fly of his jeans and the muscles of his ass flex beneath my hands. He groans into my mouth, towering over me and smelling deliciously woodsy and fresh. He cradles my face in his hands and pulls away reluctantly. “I’d love to go right back to bed with you, Ivy,” he says softly, grinding his half-mast cock against my stomach. “But there’s a college kid who needs some ink in his skin. See you at lunch?”

He refreshes his coffee and heads out to his tattoo shop. He used to work in the city for Joe at Tattoo Maxx, an established piercing and tattoo parlour, but dreamed of opening his own shop. Michael’s work is professional and precise, and he’s grown quite a following among tattoo enthusiasts in our area. We saved his salary from Tattoo Maxx and the earnings from my writing gigs until we could build his own shop, right here on our property. I sometimes walk through our graceful old farmhouse, look out on the unspoilt countryside that surrounds us, and visit Michael in his thriving shop, and think that it’s all too good to be true. We both work from home at flexible jobs we love, and we get to take plenty of breaks in between my writing and his inking. Those breaks come in handy for long chats over meals, motorcycle rides on winding country roads, and fuck breaks in our bedroom.

All this and heaven too, right?

I see Michael crunch across our gravel drive and walk on the flagstone path to his new building. The red Knock Out rosebushes I just planted line the walkway. There are just a few small buds now, but the nursery owner assured me that they’d grow into a lush hedge of blooms within a few years. Skin Deep, Michael’s shop, is his dream and his vision—a tattoo parlour with a clean, retro feel. Michael decorated the space with vintage motorcycle memorabilia—he’s an Indian devotee—as well as posters. We found some mid-century red vinyl furniture at an auction and snapped it up, so Michael’s customers get to sit on cushy and stylish furniture while they wait to get inked.