I’m wet – so wet. He begins to thrust faster, harder, deeper. I bury my face in the crook of his neck and bite his hot, damp skin, feeling it between my teeth. If it’s painful to him, he doesn’t let on, because it only makes him thrust harder. Soon I’m crying out with every stroke. The pleasure is building up between my thighs with an incredible intensity. I bite him harder, and suddenly I’m screaming as I come, that big, thick cock like a drug, a new pulse of ecstasy every time he moves inside me.
As the orgasm ebbs away, I gasp, “Did you come?” even though I’m sure he didn’t.
“Not yet, but – ”
“Put me down.”
“Wait – just a second – ”
“Trust me.”
He looks at me, his face the one wracked with torture now, but he relents. He pulls me up off his cock, then gingerly sets me back on my feet.
I put the shower head back in place and let it wash over his cock. I rub it as I do, getting it squeaky clean. Then I maneuver him so that he’s between me and the shower, the hot water hitting his back, and I bend over and take him in my mouth.
He draws in his breath raggedly as I envelop his head with my lips and begin to suck. Mm… he tastes so good, so clean. I run my tongue over the underside of his shaft and tease him with my tip. I pause and stand up to find the bar of soap, then work up a bunch of suds on my hands. With my mouth back in place, teasing, sucking, I use one hand to cup his balls – already tight and pulled up firmly against his body – and lather his dark, damp curls. With the other hand I soap up the shaft and glide my fingers up and down, careful not to get the suds too close to my mouth. No worry – there’s plenty of length before there’s any danger of that happening.
I suck and caress him with my tongue, and swirl my hands, soft and soapy. All the while I look up at him with doe eyes, making sure he’s watching me. He tries his best, but every so often he tilts his head up and groans.
I understand completely. I’m enjoying this a lot. Enough that every so often my eyes roll back in my head and I just enjoy the feeling of his swollen head and the first few inches of his cock filling up my mouth, my tongue swirling over the soft skin stretched so tight around that iron rod.
“Oh God, Eve, I’m going to come,” he moans.
I kind of want to feel him in my mouth… but I’m so turned on that I want more.
“Not yet,” I say, completely withdrawing both my hands and my mouth.
He stares down in disbelief and horror, like he can’t believe I’d be so cruel.
That is, until he sees me brace myself against the shower wall and offer myself to him, my ass pressed against his cock.
“Come inside me,” I whisper.
He doesn’t have to be told twice. He angles his cock down, lines his head up with my lips, and slides inside me with one long, golden stroke.
“Oh!” I cry out. He’s a lot to take in all at once, but I’m so turned on that the pleasure overwhelms any temporary discomfort.
Suddenly he’s thrusting into me, fast as he can go, his hips slapping against my ass, groaning with every impact. I moan and cry out and curse, it’s so good. I can feel the vibrations of our wet flesh smacking together, almost like he’s spanking me. Simultaneously I feel the head of his cock touching some insanely pleasurable spot deep inside.
I can’t hold onto any semblance of control anymore. He’s so good – so thick, so big, so unh – that he pushes me over the edge. I begin to scream as I come again, my legs wobbling, my knees threatening to buckle completely.
My cries push him over the edge, and he shouts as he comes, his cock bursting, filling me up with spasm after spasm.
I moan and tremble as my own orgasm subsides. I’m still bent over at the waist, forcing myself to stay up by pressing my hands against the shower tile.
He slides out of my body, then pulls me up to a standing position and kisses me fervently, the hot water splashing over both of us.
He hugs me to him, and I rest my head against his chest, hearing his heartbeat hard and strong beneath my ear.
“…that was one hell of a quickie…” I whisper, my legs still quivering beneath me.
11
A little over an hour after we entered the house, we’re on our way. Our clothes are dry, and Grant’s suit survived in good enough shape, even if it is a little rumpled.
We leave the house in relatively good order. The owners will be quite surprised to find the parachute when they open up the laundry room, though – plus a couple of thousand dollars from the backpack.
We walk down the road in the dim light before dawn and find the Mercedes Grant mentioned. It’s got to be at least 20 years old. I heard once that Mercedes in Europe are like Hondas in America: one of the most common cars on the road. I silently hope that’s true, because it would work in our favor during the drive to Paris.
Grant easily opens the car door, but then he directs me to sit in the driver’s seat. “Put it in neutral and take off the parking brake.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I’m going to push it away from the house before I start it up.”
It takes a little while, but the road is flat and Grant is strong, and he’s able to get the car rolling enough to where it’s eighty feet down the road before long. We pull a switcheroo: I get in the passenger seat while he hotwires the ignition, and just like the old Nicolas Cage movie, we’re gone in 60 seconds.
I turn in my seat and watch nervously through the rear window. No irate, screaming Frenchman comes barreling out of the beach house.
Grant knows exactly what I’m doing. “You worry too much,” he teases me.
“Said the guy who wanted to push the car away before he started it.”
“I’m just cautious.”
“‘Cautious’? Remind me again – who has the serial killer after them?”
“As I recall, someone else in this car besides me.”
Damn it. As the French say, Touché.
We pass a couple of signs that, even though I don’t speak French, seem to suggest we’re in a place called Neuville-lès-Dieppe.
“It’s too bad we don’t speak French,” I muse, “otherwise we could stop and ask for directions. I guess we could just look confused and say, ‘Paris, see voo play’?”
“I speak French,” Grant says.
“You do?”
Suddenly I remember that he knew the Baudelaire quote Epicurus had sent him: Au revoir, mon hyprocrite lecteur, mon semblable, mon frere. At the time, I had just assumed that someone else had translated it for him. Guess not.
“Yup.”
“Did you learn it in high school?”
“No.”
He doesn’t follow up, so I ask, “College?”
“Nope.”
“Then when did you learn it?”
“Oh… I spent some time in France years ago.”
I don’t know why, but there seems to be something slightly evasive about his answer.
“You did?”
He gives me a look. “Why do you think we’re here?”
“You said you had connections. By which I’m assuming you mean ‘less than legally upstanding connections.’”