Till Death (6 page)

An hour later, my heart has forgiven him, aided by bottles and bottles of ice-cold Bahamian beer. The alcohol has loosened our tongues, words spilling across the table before either of us can hold them back. We have agreed, in one drunken toast, to open the vaults: either of us can ask any question and receive a full, unedited response. We started off friendly, but the questions had gotten dirtier and more personal as the beers kept coming.

Nathan flips a bottle cap in my direction. “Worst strip club client ever?”

I tilt my head. “My third week at the club, a husband proposed I join him and his wife for a threesome; I refused, the wife got offended, and sprayed me with a mini-Mace canister she had on her keychain. I looked like a crazy pyscho-stripper for the next three hours, my eyes bloodshot and face blotchy.” I grin at the memory, thinking about how close I came to quitting that night.

I bite my lip, looking at Nathan. “What’s the story on Drew? What does he do for you?”

He leaned forward. “Drew was a cop. When Cecile disappeared, I hired him to look for her full time. When Jennifer died, his job description changed. We came up with the plan to create a new Jennifer Dumont, and then he started looking for a suitable woman with the correct birthdate. You are his new job, or rather,
were
until you became too smart for your own good. He was supposed to keep you under control—happy. To keep you unaware.” He snorted. “A job he failed miserably at. But so what? Babysitting isn’t his forte. Now he is back to searching for Cecile.”

“And Mark?”

“I don’t like to be alone. You don’t like to sleep alone; I don’t like to be alone. A shrink would have a field day with that—blame it on Cecile’s abandonment. Whatever the reason, Mark handles most of the day to day business of the house and handles a lot of the overflow from my job—little errands that I don’t have time to take care of.” He shrugs, downing the rest of his beer. “Ever been in love?”

Now it is my turn to shrug. “I guess I never met the right guy. A few crushes here or there. But the last three years hasn’t put me in the right situation. Most quality guys aren’t interested in dating a stripper.” I tilt my beer his direction. “Case in point.”

He winces. “Touché, my wife.” The endearment rolls so easily off his tongue that we both startle at it. Then our eyes meet, and we laugh, him leaning forward, grabbing the back of my head and pulling me to him for a kiss.

Spark. I can’t kiss this man without my insides melting and my heart awakening, popping its head up from its sea of despair and starting a slow and steady beat. He deepens our kiss, his other hand stealing into my hair, tugging on pins until my hair falls free. Somehow, we are standing, arched over the table, our mouths colliding in frantic passion. He pulls away, and I gasp for air. “Let’s go. I fucking need you right now.”

We hurry, my heels removed, my hand tight in his, him pulling me down the halls, up the stairs and into the elevator, where my heels drop to the floor and his arms take me into his. Then, the doors open, and ten steps later, we are in our suite.

I drop to my knees on the carpet, my hands keeping him close, my mouth begging for a taste of his cock. He stops me, tugging on my arms, and I resist, looking up at him. “Nathan, I need this. Please. Sucking your cock has been on my mind for over an hour.”

He looks down at me, his face heavy in desire and want. “Trust me, I’m not stopping you. Move in front of the mirror so I can watch.” This time I move when he tugs, his hands pulling me over until we are both before the large mirror, his hands unzipping and reaching into his pants, my mouth dropping open when all of him is before me.

Good Lord, he is magnificent
. I move closer, devouring him with my eyes, barely feeling the tug of strings as Nathan unties the cords that hold up my dress, the material pooling around my knees when he is done.  I hold him in my hand, gently gripping it, feeling the skin move around hard bone, his breath inhaling sharply when I squeeze. I hold it up, the area around it neat and well-manicured, his obsession with control encompassing his nether regions as well, everything perfect, framing a package which I can’t stop thinking about.

I start at his base, trailing my tongue along the veins and bulges of his organ, my eyes glancing up to find him staring straight ahead into the mirror behind me, his hands gathering my hair, his expression strong and possessive. “God, I love … everything,” he groans, his eyes dropping to meet mine. “The curves of your back, the dimples above your ass … the feel of your wet tongue against my cock.”

My tongue reaches the lip of his head, swirling around the base, and then I take it in my mouth, sucking it in and out, my hand gripping and tugging on his shaft, each downward pump hitting his balls. I move my hands, placing them on his thighs, tugging his pants down until they hit the floor, my hands sliding back up his bare legs as my mouth takes him deeper, wet sucks taking him to the back of my throat. His hand, gripped in my hair, hold me still and he takes over the motion. Gently thrusting his hips forward, pumping quickly, and then slowly, his eyes dark as he slowly withdraws, my lips tight around him as his cock leaves my mouth.

“You will be the death of me,” he mutters, bending down and gripping my waist, lifting me easily up and walking me over to the bed. There, he repays me as we lay on our sides, facing each other. His mouth brushes my lips, kissing them softly, the hard length of him bumping tantalizingly against my legs as his fingers gently move over my pussy, teasing the velvet folds. My body arcs against him when he slips a crooked finger inside, the shot of electric pleasure causing me to gasp, his mouth curving into a smile against my neck, as his finger brushes gently over the spot that was made for this. My inner walls contract and lubricate, the spot beneath his fingers swelling.

My fingers run down the planes of his body, traveling over the hard bone of his hip, moving down the V of his stomach until I reach my goal, my hands wrapping around him, my own mouth taking on a smile, my hand moving on its own accord, admiring the rigidness of his member as I explore its length.  Our mouths find each other, a soft kiss turning deeper, our hands busy as we both move deeper into the sea of arousal.

I break the kiss, the intensity of my climax too great, my eyes clenching shut as my body tightens, a stream of words spilling from my mouth, the warm chuckle of Nathan only increasing the pleasure. “Fuck, Nathan, don’t you fucking stop your fingers, oh god, I can’t, I swear, Iamaboutto …” My head drops back and I moan, sweet, pure intensity radiating out from deep inside of me, satisfaction of the most intense kind, all body function freezing as I enjoy the complete perfection of it.

I am coming down from my high when his fingers stop, pulling out of me and I feel the wide girth of his head, pushing through my folds and thrusting inside, my wet hot center ready, expanding and contracting around him as he pushes deeper inside. I wrap my leg around him and he rolls, putting me on my back as his cock fully buries inside of me.

There, he takes control, his breath ragged as his cock sets a firm rhythm, his intensity taking me, as it always does, by surprise. Hard thrusts let me feel exactly how aroused he is, every stroke bringing a new burst of pleasure.

I have fucked Nathan countless times. Standing, sitting, bent over or on his lap. But never this completely, never without an emotional wall of some sort between us, constructed either by him or me. This time, as his cock thrusts, as our eyes lock and our bodies move as one, my wall crumbles down. In this moment, he takes my heart as well as my body.

For more of Nathan and Candace’s story, look for the fourth and final installment of The Dumont Diaries:

DO US PART

Available August 28
th
, 2013

I have discovered the witch who started this disaster, and her name is Cecile. She is the lock around my husband’s
heart; she is the barrier between me and everything I ever wanted.

I have decided to fight. For his heart, for my father, for the Jimmy Choos that rest on my perfectly manicured feet. The problem with a fight is that there is ultimately a loser. And in a situation like this, she has the advantage and a clear head start.

But I am here, and she is not. And I have not shared everything. I have some secrets and some advantages of my own. I will fight to the death, if not of my body, than of my heart. And if my heart is destroyed in this battle, I will find a way to survive. Poor planning may not be the final chapter in my story.