her, easily now, thanks to the drenched heat of her cunt, the moans increased in strength. Her head rocked back and forth, then thrashed as she hit that peak, her cry echoing through the van, resounding in his chest. Her spread legs convulsed hard as she kept them open for him, despite the strong wave of sensations. He felt like he could absorb the shudders in her body through his own.
He kept it going until she came down from that edge, floating like a feather back to the van and to him. She was mumbling, and he dipped his head to her mouth. “What?”
“So…new. Didn’t know it could feel like that, and be…okay.”
Like most teenage boys, he’d been jerking off practically since the moment he’d learned how good it felt. He couldn’t imagine what it was like to her, to be discovering at twenty years old that a climax was something to be enjoyed, not suppressed, not feared or something to feel shame about.
He had been the one to give her that gift. And he would keep giving it to her, as creatively and as often as he could make it happen. He kissed her, making it strong, possessive, how he was feeling it, the way she was needing it. When he was done, he pulled back enough to stare into her confused, dazed eyes.
“Who do you belong to, Daralyn?”
“You,” she whispered.
“Why did you come?”
“B-because you told me to.”
“Exactly. Good girl.” He pressed his lips back on hers, kissed her with his fingers resting inside her, until she settled into it, until he knew nothing else was competing with what he was telling her, trying to make her believe different. But he wasn’t going to leave it that open-ended.
“Daralyn, nothing you feel tonight will be wrong. Okay?” He eased his fingers even deeper, watched her twitch, tremble. “Anything that worries you, you’ll tell me, and I’ll make it better. At this kind of party, I’m totally in charge. Not a single step, not a single thought you have, will be made without that safety net there. Tell me you understand.”
She stared at him. That limitless mix of emotions was back in her gaze. He needed her to believe him, and he put it in the edge of his voice, the sternness. An extra little thrust. That last one seemed to be the defining moment.
“Yes.” The first syllable went up a couple octaves, in breathy response to the penetration. “I understand.”
“Good.”
He withdrew his hand, tasted his fingers while she watched and trembled. “Guess we are going to be late now,” he observed. “I’ll tell Des and Julie it’s all your fault.”
Flashing her a grin, he started up the van again.
He was glad he told her all that when he was feeling a hundred percent sure of himself, because soon after, they turned onto Tyler’s property, and a whole lot of unsettling variables came into play.
Tyler Winterman’s driveway was practically a mile long, through old growth maritime forest. When the house finally came into view, Rory was sure if John Cooper saw it, it would become his next bird house.
The restored antebellum mansion was a graceful vision of tall windows, Grecian columns, a hipped roof that expanded into a half circle with blocked molding over the front entranceway. The grand double doors were accessible up eight marble steps, carved in a giant crescent around the two weight-bearing main pillars.
The property matched the house, the structure sitting on a spit of land bordered on two sides by a wide, winding tributary of the Intracoastal Waterway. The current ran steady and strong. Since a wide balcony ran around all the sides of the house he could see, he expected there were no bad views from any part of the house.
He reminded himself of what Des had said about Tyler, and pushed aside his kneejerk wariness of someone far outside his income bracket. Logistics were less easy to overlook. He wasn’t seeing a way up those steps, short of getting himself out of the chair and hauling himself up, dragging the chair with him. He might be able to find a more graceful way of getting inside from another entrance. Walkways flowed from the steps and disappeared around the corners of the house behind mature azaleas, magnolias and an array of rose bushes that probably bloomed their heads off in spring and summer.
While a practical necessity, looking for an alternative entrance always made him feel like a burglar looking for an unlocked window. The alternative,