Ian swore and held her tight as his cock spasmed inside her. The heat of his ejaculate in her cunt, caressing her cervix, refueled her orgasm, giving it an extra little pop and shimmy.
Finally, after long, glorious seconds, Alice began to descend, the last of the electric pleasure fading, slipping into aftershocks. Ian lifted her just enough that his cock slipped out, and then he laid her upon him.
Ken’s hands on her ass spread her cheeks. The sensation of his condom-covered cock placed against her rosette pulled a moan of need from her soul.
He moved closer, tenting her, and pushed his cock against her anus. The burn, the stretch, lit her fires once more. She began to press back against him, as she had with the plug.
“Let me, sweetheart. Relax on Ian. Just let go, and let me in.”
Alice didn’t understand how to do that…and then she did. She exhaled and imagined her body melting into Ian’s.
Ken’s cockhead opened her sphincter, and then he slowly slid inside.
“Oh God. Oh…” Alice couldn’t find the words. The plug hadn’t prepared her for the reality, for the sensation of Ken’s hot flesh in her ass. She trembled with need, a new, devastating kind of need that filled every part of her.
Ken held still. She heard him breathing hard, felt his hands trembling, and knew he fought for control.
Who wants control? This is an out-of-control moment.
It was, and Alice decided to show her lover it was so. She began a tiny bouncing movement and, with her bouncing, pushed back. The ability to speak returned.
“Fuck me. Fuck me. Please, oh please…”
“Damn.” Ken’s tether snapped as he eased out then pushed home again. The thrill of the friction, the movement, the tiny nerve endings that came to life and transmitted one command—more—pushed her high then higher still.
No, no control here. The orgasm approached with the dynamic force of a volcanic flow, inevitable and unstoppable.
Ken fucked her hard, drawing a keening wail of triumph from the depths of her soul. Wave after wave of rapture washed over her, consumed her, a bliss so pure it stunned her.
Ecstasy had a form and a shape and a reality, and it was her men, one fucking her but both of them there, in this moment, holding her, praising her, making her the center of their world.
And that was only right, because they sure as hell were the center of hers.
* * * *
Fucking cops. Owen Baker paced his hotel room, anger seething from every pore. It was all he could do not to throw something at that fucking television.
“What the fuck are they waiting for?” The local newscast said arson was suspected in the fire at Travis Sporting Goods but that there were no current suspects. Apparently, the investigation was ongoing.
I fucking gave you bastards a tip! What the hell more did they want? He’d even told the cops he’d seen the two men breaking into the back of the building and that they’d been carrying a gas can! And I left that fucking gas can where a fucking moron could find it. He’d bought it three days ago at a big box store. Nothing fancy, totally nondescript, and he’d totally wiped it down and then worn gloves.
Cops are as fucking stupid here as they are everywhere else. As far as Baker was concerned, law enforcement officers were way down there on the stupid scale, right alongside lawyers.
He hadn’t gone into this situation looking to take his own out of the hides of those two Kendalls, but he sure as hell was there right now. He’d managed to buy Pete Pickle’s Bait, Tackle, and Sports, so at least he’d salvaged his trip to Waco. Old Peter Pickle’s spreadsheet had holes big enough to drive a fucking Mac Truck through. But with a bit of work, and his own incredible business acumen, he could and would turn that business around—at least on paper.
He could fix it, of course, because he could fix anything. Baker considered himself a fucking genius when it came to making a profit. The bonus, and this was simply perfect, was Pickle’s receipts showed suppliers in a couple of border towns, and that fact was exactly made to order for Baker’s purposes.
He’d thought he’d come to Texas to take over Travis’ business, but now he knew this situation was truly heaven sent. He wouldn’t have to forge new paths—just slightly refine the ones that were already there.
The real plus was that he’d spent a lot less on this acquisition than he’d anticipated. Baker frowned as his mind wandered to yesterday’s business meeting with Pickle. Baker knew how to fudge a document. He’d insisted on having ol’ Pete sign the contract he’d produced. He’d just use his printer to create a new document and then copy Pete’s signature onto it. No fuss, no muss, and since the money paid had been cash, no other paper trail to contradict the contract he would create.
No one would be the wiser.
Joey Rowe would never know he’d used most of the man’s investment for personal purposes, because the contract he’d forge would show Baker had paid a lot more to Ol’ Pete than he actually had.
Baker took a moment to look out the hotel room window over the bustling city of Waco. The Brazos River wound its way through the city, and he imagined that was why Pete’s business had done as well as it had. He’d heard there were several fishing spots in and about the area. He’d been surprised to discover that this part of Texas wasn’t the dry and scrubby wasteland he’d imagined. But it was all good for him. A sense of rightness filled him. He’d succeeded beyond the goals he’d set for himself. The future was a shining gold ring just waiting for him to grab it. There was
