Desire heats my blood and pounds throughout my body. My breath sounds harsh to my ears. I stare as she stretches her arms out towards me.
I’ve never witnessed anything so beautiful in my life.
My barriers lower, my resistance fails. It’s wrong, but I don’t care anymore—if she’ll have me, by God, I’ll take her.
“Come to me, Grant,” she whispers, as she offers herself to me.
I have absolutely no control of my own reactions.
I hear a strange combination between a growl and a sob as I pull her into my arms. Just as I’d imagined, I grip her ass and she parts her legs. Cupping her buttocks, I lift her to me, pulling her soft sex against my aching cock.
Accommodating and willing, she wraps her legs around me while her fingers dig into my shoulders. My chest rises as I inhale deeply. God, she smells divine.
I love the long, slim, length of her, and how we’re nearly the same height. She tries to press her lips against mine but even though I long to, I can’t. Instead, I bury my face in her damp hair that curls around her neck and shoulder.
No kissing on the mouth.
I’m completely unprepared for my own response—unprepared for this rapid, all-consuming longing of body and soul.
I’m a determined man who has resisted the attentions of many young ladies over the years. Beautiful women who thought they wanted me. Women who had no idea who or what I am.
It’s strange to discover such powerlessness at Renata’s proximity. I’m weakened by her kindness—or strengthened—I don’t know which. I do know I can’t fight this urgent, aching desire.
Freely, I give myself over to the gentle power of this pure and perfect woman. It’s a kind of surrender, a willing admission of defeat.
I’ve never known such a roaring tidal wave of need.
We fall on to the bed. I cover her with my body, pressing my hardness against her softness, crushing her breasts against my chest. I brush her hair out of the way, so I can run my tongue and lips along her neck. Nuzzling against her earlobe, biting, kissing, licking, I latch on to the place where I feel her pulse throbbing.
Renata moans invitingly, low in her throat.
I don’t take my clothes off when I have sex; I never have before. I grab a condom, unzip my jeans and groan with relief as I free my aching cock. I can put a condom on with my eyes shut, mainly because I’ve only had sex in the dark before. The light in this room hides nothing.
I’d never have allowed it, except my scars don’t disturb her.
She touched my scars.
That one generous act cut me wide open. It’s as if I’m exposed, heart and soul. It feels incredible, yet I’m vulnerable and raw. What is this exquisite pain? This agonizing ecstasy?
Her skin is warm, smooth and silky; her scent is all woman.
I feel the stiffness of her nipples even through my shirt. Her swollen breasts are fantastic. I fondle and squeeze them, finding her nipples with my thumbs. Fascinated, I rub them back and forth. When I do, her breath burns hot against my neck as she shudders in response.
“Yes, yes,” she murmurs, her hands exploring my back, my shoulders and stroking my hair.
I kiss and nibble her neck but I won’t last long. “I’m sorry, I won’t be gentle—I can’t be gentle,” I gasp in a hoarse voice.
“You can’t hurt me. I want you. Take me, Grant. Take me now.”
Blood is drumming in my ears. My entire body is superheated and sensitized. It’s scorching hot, this erotic fever I can’t contain. I concentrate on getting inside her. Never have I felt such overwhelming desire. I move a hand between her legs, my fingers moving against her folds and spreading her open for me.
“You’re so wet,” I say, stunned.
Can a woman fake that? I have no idea. The prostitutes I’ve been with used a clear kind of gel.
“Oh, um,” she squirms deliciously under my hand. “Please,” she whimpers.
I’m surprised by the sounds of arousal she makes because they seem so real. I can almost believe this isn’t a job and she actually wants me—scars and all. Is it possible? It doesn’t matter. I won’t stop. Right now, she belongs to me.
I close my eyes for a brief moment and pretend she truly wants me.
I pretend she’s mine.
This unexpected desire to possess her is dark and primitive. I ruthlessly push inside of her, stretching her and filling her in one smooth thrust—calling out with the intense pleasure of it.
As I do, Renata gives a soft breathy groan that sounds loud against my ear. My dick jerks inside of her—I almost climax. Squeezing my eyes shut, I pant raggedly while I regain control.
More blood shoots into my cock. I swear I can feel my dick swell. Even more shocking than the exquisite sensation of pleasure, is the absolute relief that floods me in scorching, sensual waves.
I need this. I need her.
She’s hot, and tight, and our bodies intertwine. Her legs and arms wrap around me as if she’ll never let me go. Her slender form quakes under me, as I draw my hips back and savagely push myself inside of her, balls deep once more. She gasps and quivers deliciously, so I do it again.
Pushing into her, pulling back out, slamming back into her hard and deep.
In and out.
In and out.
Faster, faster, faster with force and strength—I fuck her exactly the way I want to, the way I need to. I cover every part of her, driving one way, then another, listening to her sexy gasps—her erotic moans of pleasure.
I’m relentless—I can’t hold back.
Again. Again. Again.
For once in my life, my mind is free of bullshit.
She’s light to my darkness. Beauty to my ugliness. With each plunging thrust, I feel as if I’m cleansing my soul.
Strength. Rhythm. I’m inexorable. Harder and harder, I grunt each time I drive into her, slapping against her soft flesh with my thighs and hips. I feel ferocious—like a wild animal in a violent male rut. I can’t get deep enough. I can’t push myself into her hard enough, or far enough.
This is more than primal, animal need.
I’ve never known such intimacy. I feel wanted, powerful and complete. This, right here and now is the best a man can be.
I can think of nothing except the redemption and wonder of her. Passion and lust blind me. Every sense I have is in this moment. There’s nothing else, only here and now and her.
Chest heaving, we’re both panting and sweating. Excruciating ecstasy or euphoria… words cannot describe it. How can such a purely animal activity feel so spiritual and divine? Being in this woman’s arms makes sense.
It’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.
I’m fit and healthy and I haven’t had sex for over a year. I’m in no hurry to finish, yet the feel of Renata’s young, firm body bucking and writhing under my own overpowers me. I don’t doubt her arousal anymore. If I wasn’t wearing clothes, I’d have scratches all over my back and chest. As it is, I’ve lost buttons on my shirt.
The heady smell of sex, the sensation of driving deeply—my hips pressed between her soft thighs, her gasps, loud moans, murmurs and cries of her pleasure and my own—it all adds up to an explosive peak.
Renata cries out loudly. Her internal muscles clamp down hard upon me in tight, rhythmic spasms.
My cock jerks in a hard wet pulse.
I feel the sudden sensation of cramping, then an erotic blast of release. Throwing my head back and thrusting my hips forward, I climax. A powerful rush of exquisite pleasure flows through me as I empty myself inside her.
“Renata,” I call out thickly, in a joyous, mindless shout of possibility.
Every part of my body pulses in spasms; buttocks, back, shoulders, thighs, balls and cock. I’ve never known such a maelstrom of sensation. I’ve never experienced such bliss.
Every thought I have is gone completely.
My heart pounds and my chest heaves, rising and falling. I’m totally spent. After a night of no rest, ro
cked by the force of this never-before known physical and emotional release, I collapse almost to unconsciousness.
Why did she accept me? What does she see? Being with her is earth shattering. More like life shattering. Or life changing.
I’ll never be the same man again.
I’m drunk on this woman—intoxicated and addicted already. Better than the finest whisky, she offers me much more than oblivion. Renata gives me the first real sense of peace I’ve ever had.
Lying on her soft warmth, our bodies joined together, sleep pulls at me. Languid and content, I willingly surrender to its restful embrace.
Chapter 3.
“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”
— Albert Einstein
~~~
Renata Koreman
I’m officially blown away.
I have no idea what just happened.
Where has this guy in my arms come from? He has wide shoulders and narrow hips, set on a lean, muscular body. There’s strength and power in every line.
That wasn’t simply a sweet sexy ‘spark’ of chemistry we just shared—it was more like a raging forest fire. Some sort of blazing conflagration of pussy-melting, heart-stopping, erotic heat.
For a moment, I shut my eyes as a vivid sensual memory of him pounding inside of me fills my senses. Everything about him is hard as stone—particularly that punishing cock of his. Never in my life, have I experienced such savage need.
This sexy, potent man hadn’t even bothered to remove his clothes. Jeans, long sleeve shirt… he still has his cowboy boots on! Grant didn’t engage in foreplay—I wasn’t even kissed on the lips! Instead, the moment I gave him my agreement for sex, he’d thrown me across the bed. Then he fucked me fast and hard—harder than I’ve ever been fucked before.
Talk about rough sex. I’d be surprised if his thrusting hips didn't leave bruises. I’m sore, but not uncomfortable. It's more like achingly satisfied and satiated.
If any other man had done this, I’d consider him selfish, or perhaps just being a dominant who was using his submissive or slave.
With Grant? No way. Body and soul, I felt consumed by his intensity.
He’d needed me.
My racing heart begins to slow. Collapsed on top of me, Grant’s face and body are slack. Relaxed. Relieved. Released.
I lay here naked with a fully dressed man lying heavily upon me, the rasp of his breath hot against my neck and throat. I love the size and weight of him. I love the look and smell of him.
He’s deeply asleep, but I swear to God his cock is still thick and hard, twitching inside of me in the aftermath of his orgasm.
Grant Wilkinson.
Even his name is beautiful. Lazily stroking his back and shoulder with one arm, I cherish this enigmatic man at my breast. His touch had been firm and implacable, while raw lust had flared in his hooded gaze. My body responded, but I did little or nothing. Overwhelmed by his ferocious need, I simply held on, riding the storm.
He’s such a mystery. How did he get those scars? And why won’t he kiss me?
His body’s totally covered with his clothes, but he’s lost a few buttons. I did that—not intentionally. I’m pretty sure I was trying to get closer by clawing at his shirt. The thing is, now I can see just the hint of a colorful tattoo at the top of his shoulder, near his neck.
What kind of design does he have under there? Is it a picture, printed words or both? I wish I could see it—it might give me a glimpse… some insight into his soul. What would a troubled man like him have inked upon his flesh?
Flesh. Mmm.
The word triggers a vivid memory of Grant above me, his flesh driving deep and his body hard against mine. I shut my eyes once more as my pussy involuntarily clenches around him. Even unconscious, the man’s cock remains rigid, still pulsing with heat inside of me.
That wasn’t sex.
Grant had a need for release, yes, but what we just did together was far beyond need. It was consummation. Completion. Acceptance. Maybe even love.
Fondly, I stroke my hand down his muscular back. I don’t want him to leave. I want to spend all day with him—laughing, talking and making love. I long to know everything about this incredibly passionate man.
There’s so much I don’t understand about him and what happened between us. Grant has horrible secrets. André told me he’d been sexually abused by a man. My heart breaks to think of how his innocent trust was betrayed.
I know so little and I want to know more. Much more. Who was the bastard who hurt him? How old was he at the time? What were the circumstances and how did it end?
I hope Grant will be comfortable sharing his story with me.
Yesterday, I spent time in my safe place thinking about Grant and wondering how sexual abuse influenced and shaped his life. My own childhood trauma affected me and continues to do so even now. It's been such a struggle.
Our situations are different, but I can’t help but feel a bond.
I had no idea he’d be so scarred—or so scared. I’d wanted to like him… but I’d never expected this level of connection. How can I feel this strongly toward him, especially so quickly?
My heart melted at first sight.
I felt shredded by his pain. I wanted to banish the sorrow and hurt in his eyes—eyes that have seen too much.
Have I ever met anyone as isolated and alone?
Grant expected someone else—that was obvious. He’d been so angry, too. Angry people usually frighten me, but not Grant. I immediately saw right through that defensive façade. This big strong man had been afraid. Afraid of me!
Hiding one’s fear through anger is such a common human ploy.
When I saw him there—so vulnerable and uncertain—when I looked at him and touched his scars, I had the oddest impression.
I felt certain he’d been about to cry.
The way his hooded eyes drank me in and the way he almost seemed to worship me—I felt adored. Yet, I could recognize the sadness, loneliness and grief behind those intense, slate blue eyes. I could see it so clearly.
It was like looking at myself.
My throat aches as I remember the way he reacted when I caressed his wounds. Why had I done it? Some instinct compelled me. So much pain, so much sorrow… so much courage.
Scars or not, I did like his face. We’d shared something beautiful—an instant bond. I’m sure we both felt it. My eyes sting with the memory of that miraculous emotional connection.
I recall watching as he began to climax, I saw his face contort and his eyes squeeze tight. Then… in a wild and desperate plea or maybe more like a prayer, he’d said my name.
I felt ridiculously privileged to watch him come, and so honored. The way he called my name moved me deeply. I felt it like a jolt of pure happiness, right to my heart.
I know. Crazy, right?
It was just sex… but I swear to God it wasn’t—it was so much more. Now, if I could only figure it out. What the hell just happened?
Grant’s sexual release felt like absolution... and rapture. It was as if I’d been some sort of priestess granting forgiveness with love and acceptance.
I’ve acted as a sexual surrogate with two different men in the last two days. Both needed me. Both lacked finesse, each getting on top and hammering away. So alike, and yet so different.
Joshua Marks had been a virgin. My purpose had been to help him find a reason to date women. Despite his social disability, Joshua could never be considered to be damaged or broken. He’s healthy, happy and fulfilled in life.
This man was something else.
When I looked into Grant’s eyes I saw so much. Under his angry, invincible, tough guy exterior, I’d recognized a tortured soul. Somewhere inside of him is the confused and injured heart of a child—a child who’d suffered the agonizing pain of betrayal.
I’ve been with men that were far more sexually satisfying. Yet somehow, with Gran
t, I find myself more satisfied than I’ve ever been in my life.
Grant had needed me completely and utterly—mentally, emotionally and on a purely primitive level. I’ve never known anything like it. Intense joy surrounds me so powerfully, as if it’s a tangible aura.
I look at his lax body and I tingle with the memory of him. Something magical and important happened.
Now I just have to figure out what it was. Yet, holding this tormented man and giving him peace—it’s why I’m here. I’m caught by the wonder of it, this miraculous moment of life.
Grant’s body stiffens abruptly as he jerks to consciousness. He was only out for a couple minutes.
To my surprise, he rolls off me suddenly, his face averted. He gets up quickly and quietly, then strides into the bathroom without saying a word.
Huh. Shy maybe? Embarrassed? He had to dispose of the condom. I guess that made him self-conscious?
I hear the toilet flush, the sink faucet turns on, then off. After that, it all goes quiet. At least five minutes pass.
“Grant? Are you OK?”
Another couple of minutes of silence and then to my complete astonishment, the door opens. “Gotta go,” he mumbles almost incoherently and takes off.
“G-G-Grant?” I call after him, falling into an uncertain stutter. He doesn’t answer and he doesn’t stop.
Shit. I hate it when I stutter.
Impulsively I jump up and run after him. I’m halfway through the lounge before I realize I’m naked. I quickly run back to my bedroom, throw my bathrobe on and run back out as fast as I can.
“André!” I call out, hoping for reinforcements, but in a place this size he must not hear me as he doesn’t reply.
“Gr-Gr- Grant, come back! D-D-Don’t go. Wait! Wh-wh-wh-what’s wrong?”
By the time I get to the penthouse elevator, the doors are just closing. Grant’s inside, I can see his boots.
“Wait!” I manage to yell without stuttering… but he’s already gone.
I’m panting loudly, but I’m not really out of breath. I’m breathing hard from panicked anxiety. My heart’s racing and my chest hurts. My thoughts are scattered—I’m overwhelmed by emotion and sensation.