Rhythm Page 5

  He didn’t say a word. Nor did he touch me. We walked side by side to the elevator, stood silently waiting for the doors to open, then stepped inside, and fell on each other like animals.

  I don’t remember who started it. I’ll say he did. Geez. I did have enough sense to come up for air and hit the number four button, but unfortunately not before his finger did the walking to punch Floor Twenty.

  I’d forgotten about taking off my silk stockings until he proved to be ambidextrous. The hand not claiming the elevator controls, found its way under Marilyn’s skirts.

  Hot fingers scorched their way up my bare thigh and straight to the thong. Before I could stop him, I stopped the elevator. For the record, I’d meant to punch button four, but hit pause. Our ride jerked to a halt, stranding us between floors.

  Marty pushed aside the scrap of cloth covering me and went straight for the gold. Heat from his big paw, pressure on my clit, slippery wetness below. My common-sense circuits shorted-out at that point, and I happily let my body take charge as he worked me with his hand. At the same time, he sucked on one nipple, then the other. Oh. My. God.

  I whimpered.

  “Oh yeah, sweetheart,” he murmured. Then he went back to worrying the bud he’d abandoned to cheer me on, scraping it with his teeth. I arched higher, giving him more breast to play with. “That’s it, baby doll. Come for papa.”

  Honest to God his rumbled order pushed me so close to the edge, when he bit the sensitive tip he’d been sucking, I shuddered, threw back my head, and screamed my climax to the world. Incoming… Wow.

  My God. If I’d been struck by a bolt of lightning, I couldn’t have been more stunned. Literally. I slumped over his arm like a sack of potatoes.

  The doors opened, he scooped me into his arms, and carried me out of the neutral zone into his lair.

  The doors closed. As I began to recover from the orgasm to end all orgasms, I reconsidered our destination. He kissed me, diverting my attention back to him. I kissed him back and fumbled with his zipper, freeing the erection he’d been teasing me with all night. He growled when I touched it with my hand.

  I wanted to crane my neck and look down at it, but he recaptured my mouth, and I couldn’t see.

  I finally came up for air long enough to sneak a quick peek at his junk. Seeing the size of the shaft, and the even thicker head, I froze.

  This was reality check time. Did I really want to do this? Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

  I had no time to express my doubts. He carried me into another room, slammed, then locked the door behind us, and growled, “Rubber.”

  Good thinking. That interrupted things long enough for me to catch my breath.

  “I don’t have a condom.”

  He looked astonished. I suppose under the circumstances he had that right. But, I didn’t carry condoms, and apparently, neither did he.

  “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

  I obliged. He slid a finger inside me, and my body went into I’m going to have another orgasm mode.

  He leaned me against the locked door, pushed my thong aside, rubbing his engorged flesh against my swollen clit. The only thing stopping full penetration was my inability to scale his frame and get the angle right.

  “Bathroom,” he mumbled, carrying me along with him as he crossed the room.

  “Let me down.” No way. I really hadn’t lost my senses that much. My first time was not going to be in a john.

  Before I could get free, he hauled me into the washroom, fumbled in a drawer, and grabbed a condom. Oh, okay. I guess in the grand scheme of things, it really didn’t matter.

  “Lift up.”

  I did, wrapping my arms around his neck and my legs higher as he covered up. And then, he sat me on the edge of the sink, and pushed inside me. I was wet and ready. But…

  “Christ you’re tight,” he groaned, leaning his forehead against mine as he held onto my hips.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, in acute discomfort. It seemed like a bad time to mention he was scoring where nobody had ever scored before.

  “Work it in for me, baby,” he growled and moved a hand to explore my sex. When he fingered my clit, things below improved.

  Not for long though. He grunted and surged forward, nailing me to the sink. Whoa. Not the most romantic way to lose my cherry. He didn’t seem to notice or mind.

  “Jesus,” he laughed. “We can do better than this.”

  You think? He kept me anchored to him, his cock stretching the walls of my channel as he carried me to the couch in the office.

  He pushed a blanket aside, sat down with me still straddling him, and ordered, “Ride me until I see stars, sugar.”

  My knees were spread wide, as were the lips of my sex. He filled me, and every time he moved, he nudged my clit.

  The straps of Marilyn’s halter dress fell, exposing my breasts to his gaze. “Oh, yeah. Wanted to look at these babies all night. They’re real, right?”

  Real what? I looked down at them, trying to see what made them so special. I must admit, I’d never appreciated their greatness before. When he again scraped a bullet-hard peak with his teeth, I lost that thread of thought, and shuddered.

  “Fucking beautiful,” he whispered, and covered the nipple, working it between his lips.

  When my internal muscles clenched around him, sucking him deeper inside of me, he growled, “Like that don’t you?”

  Yes, yes, I do. I ground down, reaching for another release, which I found. I bucked against him as he thrust up, holding me in place as he buried himself deeper, ushering my ongoing orgasm into another.

  “Dance for me baby. Don’t stop.”

  I followed his lead and then made up moves of my own.

  “Not gonna come, yet,” he growled more than once. “Been a long time.” He rolled me under him without missing a beat.

  That and, “Sweet, fucking sweet,” were the extent of his conversational gambits. But most of what I heard was garbled, and being otherwise occupied, I might have missed some of it.

  I know at one point, me being bare up top with him not, pissed me off. I’d jerked his coat off, and managed a button or two on the shirt, before he’d ripped the rest open. Skin to skin. Flesh to flesh. Oh, my God. It was awesome. Likewise, he lost his pants someplace along the way.

  He had me wasted, limp, and drooping over his chest before he growled, “Coming home, baby.”

  I nodded weakly when he grasped my butt, pumping me up and down as his hips jerked in an erratic rhythm.

  Goose bumps spread up his arms, and he shifted his hold from my rear to my shoulders, pushing me down against his groin as he ground his flesh against the spread lips of my sex, fusing us. He exploded inside me, releasing jets of wet heat splashing against the walls of my channel.

  “Fuck me, baby. You’ve got one more in you. Come with me.” And even as I felt his cock spurt inside me, he pressed his thumb to my clit, took my mouth with a deep kiss, and pushed me into my final-final release. Oh. My. God. I passed out for a minute.

  I opened my eyes, not expecting to see him in a dead slump. Then I wasn’t sure it was a slump. Geez, what if I’d killed him?

  Death by sex with Holly. I leaned closer. He was breathing. Okay. Things below were uncomfortably wet.

  Marilyn’s dress would never recover but… I scrambled off, holding my skirts high enough to try and avoid additional fluids. I was leaking.

  Marty was totally out. So was his penis, though even limp it remained an impressive size. I frowned. He’d worn a condom. I could see no condom anywhere.

  Where the heck is it? I visited his bathroom, and discreetly probed inside myself. I was very, very wet. Gross. I found the rubber inside me and retrieved it. Good God, and double yuck.

  My mental faculties resumed working, and I didn’t waste any time getting on my way. After I’d tidied as much as possible, I left the bathroom and headed out the door.

  My dance partner woke long enough to say his version of “thank you for
the dance” and “good night”.

  “Tell Maxine to send me the bill.”

  Chapter Five

  Marty

  I woke up bewildered, but not from my location. I’d been sleeping at the office since the company bought the place. Before that, I’d slept on my couch in the building that had burned down.

  Since my wife died, I hadn’t had any need for a permanent location other than where I worked. I’d fixed myself a closet and made sure I had a shower in the bathroom. I’d had my pictures of Kit and me in the other place, but when it burned down, I’d lost them, too. I waited for depression to hit me. When it didn’t, I stretched and realized I was naked. I don’t sleep naked in my office because, well, it’s my office. I buried my face against my bare arm and laughed. Oh yeah.

  The leather I sprawled on smelled different than usual when I woke up. I inhaled the aroma of sex, green apples and sex.

  My cock twitched. Whoa. What a ride. A stupid grin plastered my face. At the same time, my sense of well-being confused me. I hadn’t felt so relaxed and at peace since before Kit had been diagnosed.

  For the first time in years, I didn’t feel empty. Giddy would be a better description, but I didn’t think two hundred-forty-pound lard-asses were supposed to feel giddy. I sat up and stretched. The sight of my gear across the room wiped the grin off my face.

  I moved to the desk and inspected the equipment, needing to know what caused the malfunction. Not a mechanic myself, Gable took care of all our gear. I called him. It took him long time to answer and when he did, he didn’t sound pleased to hear from me.

  “Pretty early for me to be out from home, this morning. How about Janie and me stop by tomorrow and have a look.” Translated, that meant Gable was holed up with his woman for the rest of the day and he wasn’t moving.

  “Marilyn there with you?” he drawled, not bothering to hide his nosiness.

  “Was,” I grunted. “She left. That’s why I’m poking around this piece of shit breathing apparatus that cut out on me. We’re on a job next week and I want to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  “I’ve got the gear all scheduled for my usual clean, repair, check. I’ll pay special attention to the SCBAs. I’ll pick yours up tomorrow and find the problem.” Gable wasn’t interested in chatting and since I could hear Harley-Jane giggling in the background, I knew why. I hung up.

  Business taken care of. I closed my eyes intending to replay the moment my oxygen had cut off. Instead, the image of a wild woman giving me the elevator ride of my life filled my mind.

  Have to wipe the security tapes. Shit. Still…what a night. What a dance. What a woman. Yeah. Giddy’s right. My body felt loose and alive. My brain zinged with good vibes.

  I fixed myself a cup of coffee, intending to spend the morning on paperwork and reports. The place seemed too quiet, so I flipped on the radio and tuned in some music. I ended up on my feet, practicing a couple of the moves I’d used the night before. Next time, I need to have her cross her wrists, so I can pull her up and spin her out in one motion.

  After a few of the mental next time notes, I realized I didn’t know my dance partner’s real name. Or address. Or telephone number. Not even her hair color.

  I know she didn’t fake those orgasms. Smugly I looked at the couch with pride. She’d come; I’d held off as long as possible. It had been so damn good when I’d finally let go. And then… It hadn’t been my finest moment. I’d passed out.

  I frowned. I’ll explain that I’d been awake for over thirty-six hours when I see her next time. That led me to the increasingly important issue of how to schedule a next time.

  Holly

  I’d used the dancing crime boss’s hundred-dollar bill to get home where I’d soaked in a bath long enough to ease my aches and pains. The water was cold by the time I emerged. I then slept most of the day, until I dragged myself from bed and got ready for work. Roger’s dress was a wreck. And I’d also managed to leave the bolero jacket behind. Shit.

  I went to Balls & Bones in the late afternoon where I polished tables, served beer, and cleaned up after the football fans. The customers were hardcore sports enthusiasts, mostly men, none of them looking for action other than side bets on whatever game played on the eighty-five-inch big screen.

  No music played all evening, for which I remained grateful. I needed a rhythm-free environment to regroup and figure out what had just happened. My feet appreciated the change from heels to sneakers, and although tips weren’t in the thirteen-hundred range, they were big for a midmonth, snowy, Saturday night. I made it home by three in the morning and slept like a rock until hammering on the door woke me at ten the next day.

  I came awake holding the pillow to my breast like it was Marty’s head. So much for leaving memories of the evening behind. I couldn’t think about anything but the sex I’d experienced.

  By the time I’d staggered from bed, pulled on my flannel robe, and opened the front door, the bell ringer had departed. Instead, I found a gift bag sitting on the porch.

  Huh. I stared at it suspiciously. Unexpected gifts don’t show up on my doorstep. I poked at the tissue paper lining the decorative sack.

  Roger’s clutch purse peeked up at me. Yes! My phone. Ahhh…the cab company. Odd delivery method but hey, not complaining here. Replacing said phone would have been a bitch.

  With that problem solved, I went online to read the newspaper, looking for pictures of Marilyn and Boss. I found us immediately, and we were dancing up a storm. I didn’t expect so much attention. It must have been a slow night everywhere. We were on the front page as well as dominating the entire Entertainment Section.

  The papers had stressed the amount of money raised—over twenty-five thousand dollars—not the dancers. And yes, Marty was hot, even in the grainy shots of him tossing me in the air, and another with my legs around his waist, being bent backward grinding against him.

  Uh. Good thing I’d been in disguise. I suppose because it represented a more visual delivery mode, local television channels had concentrated their coverage on the dancers, primarily Smoke, Inc. Team One.

  And someone had made a forty-five-minute composite of the whole thing and uploaded it to YouTube. Watching it was weird. Comments like “don’t miss the tit shot at 3:34” made me scramble to find it. Thankfully, even I didn’t recognize the woman in the wig, make-up, and Marilyn costume being thrown in the air.

  Follow up news, which should have been the main story in my opinion, mentioned the fireman who’d gotten injured saving two kids and a dog from a burning building.

  I was glad I’d decided to donate my dance-a-thon earnings to help the guy. I didn’t want to profit from his pain. The rest wasn’t that easy to erase from my thoughts. My nipples hurt where Marty had bitten them, and my core ached from…

  Anyway, determined to put the incident behind me, I concentrated on filling out an application to work at Humble Homes. If I could get hired part-time there, I might get an employee discount and make a real dent in my remodeling plans.

  Bitter cold kept me and most of Pittsburgh indoors the next day. I didn’t mind. I got lots done and it turned into an almost perfect weekend except for the wrong number in the middle of the night.

  When the sound of the phone interrupted Ray Charles singing Georgia on My Mind as Marty’s hands slid up my hips, I reluctantly left dreamland. Picking up the offending object, I squinted at the display. Unknown number.

  Huh. Maybe Megan’s stuck somewhere like I was. Not that she’d rescued me, but just in case, I answered.

  “Marilyn, is that you?” A male asked immediately, sounding frantic.

  Marilyn? “Nope, no Marilyn here.”

  “I’ve been trying to get through to you. Are you mad at me?” His voice increased in volume and he seemed oblivious to the fact that I was clueless to his identity.

  “Wrong number,” I said, glancing at the clock. Four in the morning.

  “Answer the next time I call, Marilyn or I’ll have to…” As
he listed in graphic detail the psycho-style punishment he’d be delivering for missed calls, I hung up. He called back, three times. I didn’t answer. On the fourth, I blocked the number.

  Yuck. Creepy shit. I dressed and descended to the kitchen, flipping on lights along the way. No more sleep for me tonight.

  I turned on the music, assembled my tools, and worked all day. By six in the evening, I’d finished sanding the cupboards and vacuuming dust from the walls and hard surfaces. I’d put in a heck of a day.

  On Monday, it thawed, snowed, and re-froze. I got an early call from my sometimes day job, substitute teaching. School was in, but a lot of teachers were off. I reported to a seventh-grade inner city school, thinking I’d left the dance-a-thon behind.

  Wrong. One of the teachers mentioned it during lunch, and a newspaper shot of the fancy-stepping, garter-belt wearing, Marilyn Monroe draped over Marty’s arm, surfaced in the teacher’s lounge.

  I pretended to ignore my colleagues’ enthusiastic discussion about dance steps and music, hiding my interest behind a façade of indifference as they shared dance moves and I graded papers for the absent teacher.

  I ended up subbing the full week. Great for my bank account, but I didn’t accomplish much on my kitchen project. My thoughts were divided, between work and Marty, rendering me scatter-brained.

  Had my head not been attached, I probably would have lost it. As it was, one of my gloves disappeared the second day. After the kids and I performed a fruitless but intense classroom search, I gave up and left for home without it.

  It wasn’t far from the school to the bus-stop, so I attached myself to the group of students walking that way and inspected their outer wear for my purloined glove. Nope.

  I wasn’t surprised, though. My students seemed honest enough to me. And who would steal one glove? In my mental frenzy, I’d lost it somewhere. No wonder. More than a couple of times during the following week, I stopped dead-still, blushing vividly as I recalled my recent uninhibited behavior.