Against the Wall (18 page)

He swells in my hand, growing larger still. I get the feeling that he's shaken up, and I want to soothe him.

So I drop to my knees.

Water continues to rain down on us as I caress his exciting length. Instead of taking him in my mouth, I touch my lips to the
M
tattoo on his stomach. “Is this for me?” I ask, looking up at him through wet lashes.

He reaches behind his back to turn off the faucet. Then he grips the base of his shaft and rubs the tip over my cheek. “This is.”

I smile at his evasive answer and part my lips to indulge his unspoken request. He fills my mouth with a low groan. He tastes like fresh water and warm male skin, slippery clean. I swallow as much of him as I can manage, gagging myself a little. Chip always liked that, and Eric's no different.

The difference is that
I'm
enjoying it. I want to please him. It's a gift, not an obligation. He's accepting, not demanding. I lick and stroke him until he's rock-hard. He slides in and out of my tight mouth. I suck him sweetly, humming my pleasure. He traces the edge of my stretched lips with his thumb. Then he rubs my throat and I take him deeper.

He doesn't pull out to come, like he did three years ago when I was an ingénue. Now I'm experienced enough to swallow, and I do. I swallow with relish, making mmm sounds. His salty taste floods my throat. The last spurt paints my parted lips.

When it's over, he lifts me to my feet and kisses me. We leave the shower and dry off. My bed isn't big enough for two, but he climbs in with me anyway. He wraps us in a blanket and nuzzles my bare shoulder.

I fall asleep with his arms around me.

I didn't mean to drift off.

I was planning to hold Meghan for a few minutes and slip away. It's more than I'd usually do; every player knows that cuddling with a chick is asking for trouble. I just couldn't deny myself the pleasure.

When I wake up, it's already morning. She's facing away from me. My arm is draped across her waist and I can feel her soft, supple ass against my hard-on. I imagine what it would be like to slide into her, just like this, with no barriers between us.

Gritting my teeth, I ease off the edge of the bed and stand up. I torture myself by staring at her beautiful body. The blanket is askew, exposing one breast and half her ass. She has a slight tan line from the beach. I noticed that last night, when I was fucking her.

Damn.

I really…got into it. I've never been like that before, so rough and aggressive. Her passionate response surprised me. Not only did she enjoy my caveman act, she followed me into the shower and gave me the best blowjob of my life.

I drag a hand down my face and pick up the damp towel I left on the floor, wrapping it around my waist. I don't know how I'm going to walk away from her. I don't think I'll ever get enough of her.

I hit the bathroom before I head out to the garage for fresh clothes. I grab some boxers and a pair of basketball shorts from the laundry basket. My portfolio is inside. It's in a disarray, letters spilling out.

Someone read them. What the fuck?

I get dressed and leave the garage, my mood dark. Jenny's still asleep upstairs. I make coffee even though I don't like it. I'm searching the fridge for breakfast items when Meghan wanders into the kitchen, wearing her shorty pajamas. She looks smug and well fucked, which gives me a surge of male pride. I want to eat her for breakfast, but I can't.

We had one night, and it's over.

Pulling my gaze away, I gather some
salchichas
and eggs. As I set my ingredients on the counter, she comes closer and slides her arms around me. Her lips touch a spot between my shoulder blades. My cock stirs.

So does my heart, a far more vulnerable body part. This is what I was afraid of. I knew I couldn't rail her without getting mixed up. We have a past together, full of denied feelings and long-buried desires. Going to bed with her once barely whet my appetite. Doing it again will cause even messier complications.

I stand very still, as if she's annoying me. I don't know what else to do.

“What's wrong?” she asks.

“Did you read my letters?”

She lets go of my waist and I turn to look at her face. She's guilty. Beautifully guilty, with mussed hair and sleepy eyes. “I read one, but only because it was addressed to me. I was putting away your laundry.”

The invasion of privacy is a hot-button issue for me. There's almost no personal space in prison, so inmates guard the few items we have like precious gems. My portfolio is my life, my art, my salvation. I don't have to pretend to be pissed. “Can't anyone in this house let me do my own fucking laundry?”

She frowns at my outburst. “I didn't realize your laundry was off-limits.”

“Everything of mine is off-limits.”

Her eyes darken. “Everything?”

“Everything,” I repeat, brushing past her. I can't believe she read my letters. I feel like she's taken something from me. She's taken my heart, stolen it from me. I can't get it back, but I can take something else.

She follows me down the hall and into the den. “What are you doing?”

I'm going to find
her
letter. I grab her bag and rifle through it. Jackpot. There's a sheet of folded paper with my name on it.

“You can't have that.”

“It's addressed to me.”

When she tries to snatch the letter out of my hands, I evade her easily and retreat to the garage. I'm more curious than ever about this letter. I've resisted reading it for so long. It represents some kind of tipping point to me, an emotional cliff. Maybe I can destroy it and take away its power.

She joins me in the garage, her cheeks flushed. “Give it back.”

I consider ripping up the paper and throwing it on the ground, but that won't satisfy me. “Come and get it.”

She makes a strangled sound and rushes forward. This is exactly what I want, a physical confrontation. I overpower her in seconds and wrestle her down on the cot. Although she puts up a pretty good fight, it's no use. I have longer arms. I'm bigger and stronger. I trap her wrists behind her back with one hand.

“Don't read it,” she cries out.

“Why not?”

“It's embarrassing.”

I wonder what she wrote that made Chip go into a rage. Was he really that upset about her claiming to love me? She said the same words to my face three years ago. I didn't say it back, and I've tried to block out that life-changing moment ever since.

Unsuccessfully.

I get the feeling there's something besides a love confession in this letter. “Tell me what it says.”

She squirms in my grip. Her breasts are heaving, nipples hard. I'm getting turned on, and I should probably be ashamed of myself. But I'm not—because I see my own desire mirrored in her eyes. She glances at the letter in my free hand, moistening her lips. “I already told you what it says.”

“Then there's no reason to keep it from me.”

A pulse flutters at the base of her throat. “I wrote that I think of you when I'm…you know.”

I have a pretty good idea. “No. I don't.”

“Just read it, then,” she says. “And fuck you!”

I like her sass. Almost as much as I like her ass. Tossing aside the letter, I release her wrists and crush my mouth over hers. She's braces her palms on my chest, resistant. I'm tempted to hold her down and take her, but I want to win her with finesse, rather than force. So I gentle my kiss, stroking her tongue with mine. After a few seconds, she melts against me. Then she starts kissing me back, moaning into my mouth and tangling her fingers in my hair.

She's easy. She's
mine
.

I break the kiss, rubbing my thumb over her lips. She's got a pretty mouth, full and pink. That's mine, too. “You thought of me when you touched yourself?”

“Yes.”

I tug on the hem of her top. She lifts her arms, helping me pull it off. Her tits are beautiful, nipples taut peaks. I remove her shorts next. She's bare beneath them. I'm hard as a rock at the sight of her. She puts a hand between her legs to shield herself from my hungry gaze. “Show me,” I say, reverent.

She lays back on the cot and parts her thighs for me. This is prison-fantasy material, straight from the porn pages. Only it's real, and I've got a front-row seat. I watch, my pulse pounding, as she slips a finger inside her pussy.

I swear in Spanish, adjusting the front of my shorts. My cock is throbbing. “You look so hot.”

She keeps going, emboldened by my response. When her finger is wet and slippery, she uses it to circle her clit. I study her, slack-jawed. Her mouth is a sexy moue, tits jiggling from her slight motions. Watching is fun, but I can't take it anymore. I brush her hands aside and dip my head to taste her. She's deliciously slick and sweet, like honey-salt. I flick my tongue over her clit and bury two fingers inside her, groaning.

She makes panting noises and grinds against my face. I don't know how Chip failed to get her off, because she's a fucking firecracker for me. I slow my tongue just to draw it out. She starts whimpering and writhing around, so I suck on her clit to finish her. She sobs my name, her pussy clenching around my fingers.

Damn. She's dripping wet.

I lick her taste off my fingers and fumble with the drawstring on my shorts. I'm about to take out my cock when I hear a faint knock at the door.

Oh fuck.

“Tío?”

“I'll be right there,” I say to Jenny.

Meghan jumps up from the cot and scrambles for her clothes. She goes out first, because I have a raging hard-on. After I cool down, I throw on a shirt and venture into the kitchen. Jenny is sitting at the table, ready for breakfast. I wash my face at the sink, needing both the cold water and the clean rinse.

Jesus. That was close.

I start making breakfast with Meghan. She takes the orange juice out of the fridge, glancing over her shoulder at me. I give her a dark look, full of unsatisfied lust. She puts an extra swing in her hips as she walks toward the table. Any adult would know we're fucking. It's thick in the air between us. It's written all over her face.

I'm in deep trouble.

I don't have much of an appetite, so I wrap up a burrito for later. Then I duck into the garage, which I swear smells like pussy.
That's
what I'm hungry for. I change into jeans and work boots before I head back inside.

“Where are you going?” Jenny asks.

I put my sack lunch in my backpack. “To the junkyard.”

“Can I come?”

“It's just a bunch of rusty old cars. You won't like it.”

She gives me a hug goodbye. I don't say anything to Meghan. On my way out, I notice her letter on the ground. The fucking thing is haunting me. I shove it in my pocket, hop on Noah's bike, and take off.

I pedal hard to the junkyard, as if the devil's on my tail. I need to figure out what to do with Meghan. This morning's argument didn't discourage her. Somehow I ended up with my face buried in her pussy again. That's no way to break up with a girl.

I'm helpless to resist her. My only strategy is to keep my distance.

I forgot to call ahead, but the gate is open. Scrappy says he had a family emergency and leaves it at that. He looks even more disheveled than usual. I start working and don't ask questions. For every two hours I'm on the clock, I get two hours off to tinker with my Chevelle. It's a big project. Although she has a straightforward system, like many old muscle cars, I can't take her apart and put her back together in one day.

I'm on my way to the Chevelle when I hear the telltale rumble of Junior's Impala. He parks his car in a grassy area nearby and gets out. I wipe my hands on a rag and step forward, grinning. We do the CVL handshake. I know I have to avoid my old connections in order to stay straight, but it's good to see him. Junior understands me better than anyone else. We grew up on the same streets, shared the same hard times.

“I brought you a present,” he says.

He opens his trunk to reveal a suspension kit. It's exactly what I need to take apart the Fury and remove the chassis. I'm sure Scrappy has all of these tools, and Noah might have some, but now I don't have to ask either of them.

“Fuck yeah,” I say. “Where'd you buy this?”

“Some tweaker sold it to me.”

I don't point out that Junior is a tweaker—or at least a casual user. I wouldn't be surprised if he was dealing, too. The meth business is the dirtiest way to make money outside of pimping. It's nasty stuff, like crack. But you can get cash quick with it as long as you don't smoke or snort up all your profits.

Junior frowns at my hesitation. “You're too good for stolen shit now?”

“Hell no. How much do you want for it?”

“Give me a
chupe
and we'll call it even.”

I laugh at his vulgar comeback, shaking my head. “I could use some help, if you have time.”

He nods his agreement, and we spend the rest of the morning taking apart the salvage car. I don't bother to use finesse because it's all for scrap, so the process isn't that difficult. By noon, we're almost done. “I read a book about a Plymouth Fury,” I tell him.

“Christine,”
Junior says.

“You read it?”

“I've seen the movie.”

I didn't know there
was
a movie. “Was it good?”

“Yeah.”

“What did the girl look like?”

“Super hot. Small tits.”

I wipe the sweat off my forehead and start putting away the tools. We're both filthy, streaked with dust and grease. “What would you choose, the girl or the car?”

Junior doesn't even have to think about it. “The car.”

“Why?”

“It was a killing machine that could rebuild itself overnight. It was loyal to the end, too. The girl fucked his best friend.”

“She did?”

“I'm pretty sure.”

“You're making that up.”

He smiles, taking a joint out of his wallet. “You'd choose the girl?”

I would. I read all of the kissing parts of that book twice, and the girl was sexy. Virginal and sweet, but horny for cock. She didn't get any, if I remember correctly. The characters were like real teens, always frustrated. “I don't know.”

“
No mientes, güey
. You love pussy more than cars.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing.”

I consider what Junior loves most. Power, I guess. He's always been addicted to power. He'll take it any way he can get it. Through intimidation, manipulation, or straight-up force. Loyalty is important to him, but girls are dispensable. The only female I ever saw him with more than once was his sister. Junior never talks about her.

Neither do I.

“You're going to smoke that out here?” I ask, glancing around for Scrappy.

Junior sparks up the joint. “Where else?”

I gesture to his car. He climbs behind the wheel, seeming amused by my discomfort. Maybe he's trying to push my buttons. It's hard to tell, because he doesn't always understand the difference between appropriate and inappropriate behavior. When I get in the passenger seat, he offers me a hit. I decline. I'm on parole, and this is my place of work, shitty junkyard or not. I can't get high here.

“How are you getting along with the cop?” he asks, holding in the smoke.

“Better than I expected.”

“You like living there?”