Up to Me - By M. Leighton Page 0,18
mouth. My pulse races out of control.
Faster and harder I grind against him. When I hear his moan, it flips open the floodgates of pleasure and my world flies apart on the tip of his tongue.
He holds me to him as I close my eyes and give in to the spasms that wrack my body. Before the contractions fade into blissful nothingness, I feel Cash move. Within seconds I feel him behind me. I feel his fingers probing me, gliding in and out of me. And then I feel something bigger.
His first quick thrust takes my breath. With a groan, he pulls out and slams into me again, renewing my orgasm.
Wave after wave, I feel my body squeezing tightly around him. I'm so full, so very, very full. I feel him everywhere, like he's penetrating all the way into my chest. Over and over, he withdraws his length and then drives it back into me, seating himself more deeply each time.
"Take it all, baby," he says through gritted teeth. The words are so hungry, so erotic I cry out.
His rhythm increases and so does his breathing. I know what's coming. I know he's coming.
His body stiffens and he growls with the first pulse of his climax. He pounds into me in short strokes as he leans forward and twists one hand into my hair and buries his teeth in the skin of my shoulder. It doesn't hurt, doesn't break the skin; it only enhances the pleasure that's already flooding my body.
And just like that, I'm exploding all over again. Coming apart. Wrapped in Cash's arms. Holding him within my body.
Within my heart.
Within my soul.
CHAPTER SIX - Cash
Sundays are big visiting days at prisons. It's always sad to see the number of families sitting at the separated tables. Kids talking to fathers they barely know. Wives talking to husbands they barely see. Lives lived in a way that's barely human. In a place like this, it's easy to see that all mistakes, large and small, have consequences. The larger the mistake, the heftier the consequence. I just hope nothing I've done or have to do in the immediate future land me in here. I think I'd rather be dead.
On autopilot, I go through the familiar motions of getting in to visit my father. I'm sitting behind the glass, my hands folded on the table in front of me, when they bring him in. Although I'm not aware of wearing any particularly telling expression, something I'm doing alerts my father.
He gets right to the point the instant he picks up the black phone on the wall. "What happened?"
I meet his concerned eyes, eyes just a shade or two lighter than mine, and I shake my head once, casually reaching up to tap my right ear with my fingertip. He watches me intently for several long seconds. I know he's processing it all and that contingency plans are being formulated as we speak. Or don't speak, as it were.
Finally, he nods. Just once, a short, curt bob of his head. He understands. I can see it in his eyes.
"Nothing happened. It's just been a long weekend. Work's been busy."
The conversation drifts to mundane topics, nothing that would be totally out of the ordinary for one of my visits. We catch up on people and events and daily real life things, nothing worthy of any extra attention. I'm hoping it's just enough to lull any listeners into a lazy state of boredom.
Finally, Dad steers the conversation back to the most important thing. But, crafty guy that he is, he does it in such a way that it doesn't seem obvious. At least I hope it doesn't.
"So how'd that fishing trip go? Catch anything?"
I don't fish. Nash did, but I never have. Dad knows that. And that's how I know that we're not really talking about fishing.
"Nah, it was a no-go. Ended up spending the weekend hiding out. You know, to work."
He nods slowly, meaningfully. I know he picked up on my use of the term "hiding out."
"It can be dangerous. To work too much."
"Yeah, I know it can be," I say, nodding for emphasis. Still he watches me closely. It's like we're carrying on a much deeper conversation without