We Are Made of Stardust - Peaches Monroe #1 (17 page)

Dalton pulled me to his chest, his arms tight around my shoulders and keeping me up. “That’s fucking awful,” he said. “This cowboy, let’s go find him and make him eat his teeth.”

I sniffed, my nose congested. Was I crying? I couldn’t tell with the shower water spraying down all around us. My eyes felt hot, and my chest was both light and heavy at the same time.

“He died,” I said, sniffing. “The cowboy, not the pony. I guess he was pretty old. The next year at Shayla’s birthday, Lionheart came again, but with the guy’s daughter. She said I could sit on him, even though I was a year older and bigger, but I didn’t trust her. I knew that if I got on that pony, I’d hear something crack and I’d never forgive myself.”

Dalton pulled his hips away from me slightly, allowing some space between us. “I’m sorry to hear that. And I’m doubly sorry to be poking my boner into your belly button while you’re telling me this very personal story.” He frowned down at the fencepost-region. “Not cool, bro.”

I wiped the water from my eyes and smiled up at his face, which was not just aesthetically perfect, but also kind and wise. “I’m embarrassed I told you that story. I don’t know why I did. I’m the one who’s not cool.”

He held his hands on either side of my cheeks and tilted my face up. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. It’s all totally clear. I’m Lionheart.”

“You’re a little Shetland pony with black spots?”

“I’m the beast you’re worried you’ll break.”

I shook my head, disagreeing, but he pulled me closer and kissed me so tenderly. I melted against him, meshing my body with his.

His hands cupped my buttocks as he tongued my mouth. I felt the heat growing in my shower-soaked pussy, and I wanted him inside me.

He reached back and turned the water handle, accidentally spraying us with ice water before getting it turned off. Still, we didn’t stop kissing. I couldn’t let his lips go, not when he wrapped a big towel around the both of us, and not as he walked backward out the bathroom door and toward the bed.

I finally let go of him long enough to give my hair a quick towel dry so it wouldn’t drip and make me shiver. His near-black hair shone like a raven’s wing with the dampness. The two lamps with their brown shades were on, dim, and the room looked more romantic now.

I tossed the towel onto a chair, pulled down the bedcovers, and climbed in. On my back, I tilted my head to one side and peered at him through my eyelashes.

He opened the drawer next to the bed and rolled a condom on quickly. Then he was kneeling between my legs, two fingers dipping into my honey.

I opened my mouth to say something, but only a sigh came out. Now was not the time for talking. Now was for fucking.

His eyes took on a dark cast, lit only by the two lamps on either side of the bed. He grasped one of my legs and folded it up at the knee, opening my pussy to him. He glanced down briefly, then shifted his body up and fell into me, his face alongside my neck and his thickness inside me.

I gasped at the sensation of him filling me, and he heard this as encouragement, pushing further and further, thrusting until his hips ground against my body, hardness on softness.

He found a rhythm, supporting his upper body on bent arms popping with muscles. I kissed one bicep and then the other.

He eased down a ways, withdrawing partially to curl down and lick my nipple. He flicked the firm knob of flesh with his tongue, while at the same time he teased my honey out with the tip of his cock.

Sensation radiated from my breast, and I writhed on the bed, my whole body a sensitive, jiggling embodiment of desire.

He mouthed my breast hungrily, as though trying valiantly to fit the entire mound in his mouth, and then he turned his attention to the other.

His fingers crept down the hollows between us and sought my pink nub, deep within its pillowy folds. He stroked me up and down with his fingers, and as I arched my back, he thrust into me, sending ripples of pleasure all the way to my ears, burning with heat.

“Why don’t you get on top?” he murmured.

“I like where I am.” I grabbed my knee with one hand and helped pull my leg up, allowing him deeper penetration.

He groaned and closed his eyes. The moisture on his forehead wasn’t from the shower, but new—sweat. His cock was rigid, like a kinked hose under pressure, and the muscles along the side of his neck were tense and visible.

“Fill me up,” I said, and he started moving again.

The thrusting was slow at first, then built up with the pressure inside me. His fingers were on my clit, adding pressure to the friction of my skin pulled taut from the girth of him.

He rocked into me steadily, and again he implored me to roll with him and go on top for a bit. I declined, insisting he do all the work, since he was so good at it.

The movement of his fingers began distracting me rather than pleasuring me, so I pulled his hand away.

“Is that it for you?” he asked.

I nodded. “Go ahead.”

He withdrew suddenly, and I instantly felt terrible, so disappointed in myself.

But he wasn’t done with me.

He grabbed my legs and yanked me down on the bed, so my hips were at the foot of the bed and my feet on the carpet.

Then he balanced himself on his fists, on either side of my face, and thrust into me, high and hard. The way his cock rubbed against me sent new shivers of pleasure through my body. This was new. A pressure grew.

He looked me in the eyes, his forehead shining and expression intense.

He was bigger than anyone I’d been with, and I had no idea what it would feel like to have a man touch me so deep inside. As he moved through undiscovered territory, I shuddered with a pleasure that seemed to come from my tailbone. It was a different sensation than his gorgeous lips and tongue on my clit. Even more personal.

Hard and fast, gliding easily on my body’s reaction, he sought me out. I had nowhere to hide, and when I closed my eyes, I saw his face. Opening. I was opening to him, and that scared me.

With each thrust, he got bigger and harder, until at last he closed his eyes, bit his lower lip, and turned his head to the side, touching his chin to his shoulder.

A small cry escaped his lips as he came, shaking inside me.

I realized my feet were no longer on the carpet, but on the bed, and I’d been lifting my lower body, raising my hips to meet him.

I eased myself back down to the bed, catching my breath. He pulsed deep inside me, holding me in the hotel room with him, nowhere to escape, not even the back corners of my mind.

He reached between us and squeezed the skin above my clit. It felt good, really good, but I wasn’t going to come, so I pushed his hand away. “Maybe next time,” I said.

He let out his breath all at once and collapsed down onto me, snaking his damp arms behind my back in a hug.

“You made me need another shower,” he said.

His head was nestled next to my neck as I glanced over at the motel room door.

The door.

It was right there, and I could just go. Nut Hill wasn’t far from my house on Lurch Street, and the walk was mostly downhill.

“How about you go hit the shower before the rematch?” I said boldly.

“How about you come join me?”

“Sure. Go get the water started.”

He pulled away, though the musky smell of him remained on me, all down my front like a tattoo.

Once Dalton Deangelo was in the bathroom with the water on, I got dressed faster than anyone has gotten dressed in the Nut Hill Motel, and I’m sure there’ve been some speedy exits.

I was still buttoning up my olive green shirt when I reached for the door handle. I glanced over at the little desk in the room, next to the chair where I’d tossed the towel. There was stationery sitting out on the desk.

My heart was pounding, my nerves telling me to run, just run, so I ran to the desk and scrawled a quick note:

Thanks for the fun. Have to work early. Want to sleep in my own bed.

I could hear Dalton calling me from inside the shower, and it broke my heart to open that door and leave, but it was the right thing to do.

I had to get far away from him, and all these confusing feelings that bubbled up in me whenever he was in my arms.

My running shoes slapped against the second floor balcony outside, the impact of my footsteps ringing through the night air with a metallic clang.

CLANG CLANG CLANG.

I ran down the metal stairs and away from the motel, down the street.

Then I stopped running, because that much running when you’re not used to it is going to make a girl throw up. I learned that lesson during the annual Fitness Test at high school.

I gasped over some bushes, my hands on my knees. Something moved out of the corner of my eye, and I worried it would be Dalton, running after me in a towel, or stark naked.

I peered into the darkness. Someone was definitely there, watching me. Not Dalton, but I could feel their presence.

“Hello?” I called out.

I stood in the alley that ran behind the motel, near the end of the block. To one side was the back of an office building, and to the other side was someone’s back yard and garage.

As my eyes adjusted in the darkness, I could just make out shapes moving in the back yard of the house. Dogs? I squinted, willing my eyeballs to work better. Cats?

The shapes turned and looked at me with curiosity.

If there’s one thing that gives me the willies even worse than dragonflies, it’s raccoons.

Two of them were ambling toward me, hell-bent on giving me rabies, for sure!

I started running again, and I travelled the dozen blocks back to my house by alternating between jogging and walking quickly while wheezing.

When I got to the house and came in the front door, Shayla was sprawled on the couch watching TV. She hit pause on the remote, turned and looked at my sweaty, red face, and said, “It just gets worse every day, doesn’t it? At least you’re not covered in dirt this time.”

“Dating a celebrity is ultra glamorous.”

“Come.” She pulled herself upright and patted the sofa next to her. “Chantalle phoned me tonight. She asked me how you got the job being a personal assistant for Dalton Deangelo.”

I slumped into the soft cushions next to her, feeling every ounce of myself, every frizzy yellow hair on my head, and every little pimple.

“That little cunt,” I said.

“Wow, Peaches. Why don’t you tell us how you really feel?”

“I’m sorry. I know you always liked her, but she puts me down.”

“It’s your fault for being offended at her ignorance. She doesn’t know what she’s saying, and she doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“Right.” I crossed my arms and turned to the frozen TV screen. “What are we watching?”

“Don’t you want to tell me why you burst in here like bears were chasing you?”

I looked over at my best friend, assessing her mood. She smelled of cigarette smoke, and there was an empty cookie bag and an empty chip bag on the coffee table, as well as a half-empty bottle of Mountain Dew on the floor next to her. Oh, she was in no mood for my problems. If I had to guess, she’d had more trouble with her boss at the restaurant. He was married, and she should have known better, but apparently he was a smooth talker, and things always
just happened.

I didn’t need to hear about her frustrations, and she was likely in no mood to hear about mine. And what was my problem, anyway? A really cute guy enjoyed spending time with me and getting close to me. He made me want to tell him my secrets. I wanted to lean on him. I wanted to love him. But that would only lead to pain, because as soon as his movie ended, he’d leave town, taking the Airstream trailer and a piece of my heart. He’d probably feel good about it, too. He could draw on the experience for future acting roles.

Well, forget him.

“This looks good,” I said, and I pressed the play button on the remote control. Over the audio of the reality TV show about a family bakery, I said, “Raccoons. I worked late, got some food at DeNirro’s, and I ran into some raccoons on the walk home.”

“They’re totally adorable, with their little raccoon hands, and you’re nuts.”

“I agree. I am nuts.”

Shayla grunted and reached for the Mountain Dew. She took a swig and handed the bottle to me.

“Thanks,” I said, and we watched TV until both of us fell asleep right there on the couch.

~

Wednesday.

The flowers from the day before were opening.

I stared at the lush peonies and tried to escape the thought I was a flower myself, and Dalton Deangelo’s attention was the sunshine trying to light my darkness.

No wonder I’d run from his motel room the night before. If I’d stayed, he would have kept at me, with his kind words and soft touch, and I would have been a blathering idiot before midnight. Telling him how stupid I can be. Having him look at me with pity… curiosity… disgust.

The flowers were heavy on one side, and as they opened, they drooped, taking up more of the limited counter space in the narrow bookstore. Their sweet perfume hung in the air, tricking me into thinking a well-dressed older lady was there with me.

One thing that always makes me smile is seeing a lady in her eighties, decked out in tons of accessories, all perfectly matched to the colors in her impeccable clothes. Our generation is just not into the matchy-matchy look.

Beaverdale attracts a number of wealthy retirees looking to soak up small town life. They’re so adorable when they first arrive, the ladies clapping their hands and declaring everything “so quaint,” and the men leaning in to confide to their wives, “That same exact lamp/house/pizza would cost twice as much back home.”

I never understood how people from all over America would even hear about little Beaverdale, much less get the idea to retire here, until we started carrying a few magazines at Peachtree Books, and I discovered there are several periodicals dedicated to small town life.

Last summer, one of them ran a story titled
Beavers & Passports
, all about life in The Beav. They quoted a local as saying Beaverdale’s “so far off the map, you need a passport.”