I hold her by the nape and ride her from behind, glorying in each delicious, dizzying stroke. The room swoops and swims, but it’s from ecstasy not pain. Nothing feels so right as being inside Story.
I stroke down her back with the fingertips of my free hand. Admire the umbrella tattoo on her shoulder blade. Grab a handful of her ass. Hold her hip. I pull her cheeks wide to get at her cute little hole, and she lets out a stream of frantic, garbled encouragement. She doesn’t last long. Four more stokes, and then she comes, her legs straightening and jerking, her inner walls squeezing my cock like a fist.
I fuck her harder and faster to bring on my own finish, and it comes immediately. I plunge deep and hold, reaching my hand under her hips to rub her clit and coax out the rest of her climax. It works. Another gigantic tremor runs through her, and the muscles pulse again, squeezing more cum into the condom. Sparks of light dance behind my eyes. I pull out and topple to my side, my head splitting but my heart, my spirit-something I thought long dead-soaring like a fucking kite.
Story, I want to croon in her ear. Beautiful story. My crazy, wild, naughty girl songbird. What a fucking priviledge to be in her bed. I settle for a soft hum. The sound for how she makes me feel.
I manage to remove the condom and throw it in the trash by the bed before I close my eyes and pass out again.
STORY
I’m just out of the shower getting dressed when a knock sounds on the door. Oleg is passed out on the bed, poor guy.
Poor him, lucky me. The guy is a freaking stallion. That was by far the best sex I’ve ever had. It wasn’t any special technique, it was just… Oleg. I love feeling his strength and power. The roughness and dominance to his movements. And yet I’ve also never felt so safe with a guy. This guy is dependable. He comes to every show. Sits in the front with the energy of a bouncer or protector. I never once felt nervous when he was manhandling me. I knew if I said stop, he’d stop. I could relax and enjoy it.
I yank on my sweater run for the door. No one rang the buzzer downstairs, which means it must be a neighbor. Hopefully not to complain about our morning sex session. Not that I was that loud. Or was I? My throat does feel rather raw.
I swing the door open, but when I see the two tattooed guys behind it, I immediately narrow the gap until only my face shows through. “Yes?”
“Hey, Story,” the brown-haired guy says. “I’m Maxim, a friend of Oleg’s. This is Pavel.” He indicates his blond friend. “We met at your show? My wife Sasha talked to you-the redhead?”
“Yeah, hey.” I remember the guy and his friendly wife, and he doesn’t seem threatening, but I don’t know who hurt Oleg, and the guy smashed his own phone like he was afraid of being tracked. Plus, I don’t know how these guys found me or my place.
“I’m sorry to show up here. It’s just that we haven’t seen Oleg since Saturday night, and we were wondering if you know anything? Was he at your show Saturday?”
I shake my head quickly. “No.”
He cocks his head like he knows I’m lying.
“I mean, yes, he was at my show, but I don’t know where he went after that. I mean, I haven’t seen him.” Damn, I’m a terrible liar. I sound breathless, and I’m speaking way too fast.
Maxim’s eyes narrow. He tries to peer past me, and when he does, his shoulders relax. “Oleg, what the fuck?”
I whirl to find Oleg behind me. He pulled on his jeans, but he’s shirtless, and there are no shoes on his feet. He’s certainly not hiding from these guys. Relief flows through me.
I’m suddenly overjoyed to have someone to share the weight of Oleg’s plight with. “He got attacked. Someone shot him,” I blurt, standing back from the door, so they can come in.
“What?” Maxim scans Oleg quickly.
“He got hit over the head and shot in the leg.” I point at the hole in his jeans. I washed the blood out, but the entire thigh area of his jeans is still stained rust.
“Fuck.” Maxim says something terse in Russian to Pavel who appears grim. “Thank you for taking care of him.”
“You don’t have to thank me.” I’m slightly offended. Of course, I took care of him. He’s my friend.
Oleg staggers back toward the bedroom, and Pavel follows him, not offering help but staying close.
“Do you know who attacked him? Did you see what happened?”
I shake my head. “No, he drove my van here to take me home. The next morning, I found him in the back of it, bleeding with a wound on the back of his head.”
Oleg appears with his shirt and boots on.
“Where the fuck is your phone?” Maxim demands. I bristle a little at the way he speaks to Oleg, but it also puts me at ease. They’re obviously comfortable with each other. There’s a rapport. Like I have with Flynn and the guys in the band.
Oleg doesn’t answer. Well, of course not, but he doesn’t try to communicate at all. I’ve noticed him do that with me, too, when he decides he doesn’t want to engage. It’s like he doesn’t even try.
“He smashed it,” I offer, even though I’m not sure Oleg wants me to share that.
Maxim stares at him, like he’s trying to puzzle it out. “Okay,” he says, like he’s got it handled. “Let’s get you home, buddy.”
Oleg looks at Maxim and tips his head my way.
Maxim pulls out his wallet and grabs all the cash in it. I catch sight of more than a few hundred dollar bills. He folds the wad in half and hands it all to me, pinched between his index and middle fingers. “Thank you for taking care of Oleg.”