Invasion (12 page)

Attraction is nothing more

than hormones desecrating caution

Carly
:

The fucking doorbell! Really? Life sucks! Big time! With extra hot sauce, and not on the side either.

If this is Mark I swear to Satan I will castrate him today. Whatever he’s left behind is too bad, he can learn to live without it, or replace it, but these excuses to drop by unannounced are so suspect and beyond annoying. How do you get over a dude who refuses to exit your life and stay gone?

Wiping my tears I yank the door open, ready for battle, but it’s not Mark.

Hell no
, it’s definitely
not
Mark.

“Can I help you?” I demand, before my tongue decides to mutate, bonding with my palate, rendering me speechless.

He exudes presence, just standing there with the permafrost wind fondling his cargo pants into suctioning to his legs. I can’t help my once over. Meeting brown eyes ten shades darker than my green ones, I’m – fuck I can’t think, can’t focus, can’t function.

The power roiling off him makes me humble, subliminally ordering me to take the step down to his level – to rip his clothes off, to suckle every inch of him because he’s a god.

He
is
.

I imagine this is what it’s like meeting an immortal, you’re awestruck, stupefied, rendered intellectually defunct with immediate effect.

He’s incredible!

The air coursing over me is frigid with winter’s misery yet I’m so hot, my heart’s thrashing like a lunatic at a bonfire, my limbs fossilized as if any movement will make this apparition vanish, and I don’t want it to,
ever
.

Then he smiles, chiseling his features, carving him into supreme, into the effigy of the first angel forged from God’s nose, his eighteenth finger, fuck I don’t know, but the wind is cutting this man into angles and he’s got a package in those cargo pants that would put Thor to shame.

Commando and unashamed, or unaware of how the December gale is worshipping him with her ethereal tongue, shrink-wrapping his sweater to broad shoulders and slim waist, his chest muscles so prominent that I’m imagining him naked.

Blinking, inhaling, closing my eyes because he’s so beautiful he has my fallopian tubes wrapped around his finger when I want them looped around his tongue, I inhale, slowly, desperately trying to steady my thundering pulse.

He shifts, the rustle commanding, a summoning to look upon his glory, and I obediently open my eyes. Standing straighter his gaze barrels through me, soul spatter peppering across the pristine tiles of the entrance with the intensity in his eyes detonating my spirit in every direction.

He scatters me. I’m falling apart, remade only when he licks his lips, sucking me back into myself, leaning closer, my grip on the door paralyzing, coherence nullified, completely useless, my brain futile, nothing works but the wildfire searing viscosity to where I crave him, throbbing and wanton and yearning for penetration.

“Hi, um, I’m Gavin. I’m just going around the neighborhood letting folks know I’m available for odd jobs and maintenance. So if you need anything –” says the sensual baritone, so deep my hips hollow in the hope that the elixir of his words will whistle to my marrow.

“You’re a handyman?” I murmur, my voice vapid and wispy, gushing out of me in a benediction of exalted homage.

Nodding, just once in confirmation, he inches closer, excavating the heat from my womb to bury it under his ribs, reaching inside me with his stare, reading my veins, remapping them into crazy string, stifling my pulse.

It stalls, stutters, then booms so hard in my chest I release the door to hold my hand to the palpitation; lightheaded. I can’t seem to blink when his eyes are focused on mine, as if to do so would rob me of life, of
him
.

I have to say something, he’s waiting for me to speak, dropping his dewy cocoa gaze to my lips with such potency they feel the pressure, plumping with blood, surging the vein up my neck.

Some men look, some men stare, but sometimes when you meet a gaze and yours intersects theirs – something hallowed happens. Your spirit leaps out of you, mashing and smashing and fucking their essence in the gap between you, and they sense it, their eyes hold a knowing, a wicked secret, a naughtiness which coaxes the rebel out of your heart but shames you with their knowledge of your intimate guilt. He has that quality to his gaze, as if he’s read the book of my life in the akashic records and knows I was born to serve him, to suck him, to tease the ache from every muscle …
every
muscle, until it’s flaccid again, relaxed and spent, until there’s not a single cell left in his glorious body to create one particle of precum.

My gaze caught in his, our esprit molesting each other in the charged arc of ether between us … no words needed, speech is superfluous when lips quiver for connection, when arms ache to touch, when my whole world craves to step in and lay my head on his chest so his heart beating can remind mine what it’s supposed to do.

My thighs are so weak with desire that I’m tempted to slump, to bow down before him and call him my lord and master, and yes, I will follow you all the days of my life – to brimstone if need be, I don’t care. I don’t!

In this nanosecond of astral caressing I’d desecrate everything I’ve ever worked for to be free of those chains, to be
yours
.

The puissant stare reclaims mine, an eyebrow marginally questioning, and I can’t avoid it any longer, I have to … get him in here and lock him in!

Sagging against the doorframe, gripping to it to remain vertical, I smile, hoping it communicates the encyclopedia of ache rampaging through me, praying it transmits the million wishes and carnal urges he’s summoned from my core. “I’m Carly, and your timing is perfect. Come in.”

The expression in his eyes softens, the temptation in them enough to disarm my body of skeletal support. Time has crawled to a near halt, every movement categorized, branded into my soul, burned into the underside of my skin for me to read again in my dreams, in eternal replay.

He blinks and I watch those long eyelashes knit together, slowly opening by tangling, and I imagine my legs wrangling with his just like those lashes, and when he steps closer onto the step inside and I’m forced to arch my neck to hold his sacred stare - his aura wraps around me, locking my eternity to his, sealing us in silent rapture, in pure nexus.

“What needs fixing?” he asks, his breath baptizing my cheeks, and I inhale him like an addict in a cocaine windstorm, weakened and euphoric.

What needs fixing?

You can start with me, right here, right now.

Just bend me over the kitchen counter and fuck me so hard my pelvis fractures against the pressure of the marble.

Staring up at the stranger arriving on my doorstep as if he knew I was in need of assistance, answering my call because only his subconscious can hear mine, we’re the only two on this frequency, and it’s destiny or fate or a celestial contract we made in the lifetimes we’ve met before, over and over into infinity and eternity because we’re stuck in the same soul orbit, I spin around him and he spins around me, twin suns burning out together, our dance locked and bound by heaven’s decree, suspended in the cosmos, incinerating, eating up every element to burn for another day – for each other, and I’m so dizzy the only thing I need is surrender.

Let me surrender, to
you
.

Let me wear your bruises, fill me with your kisses, break my mind with your whispers, hurt my throat with your cum, just, please, catch me because I’m falling into the vortex of your voice, plummeting into the sphere of your gravity, spilling my soul because I can’t contain it with you right here, it aches for you, it’s leaving me so it can stroke yours.

If it was night there’d be a meteor shower marking this auspicious moment, shooting stars blazing heat across the ice cold landscape of space the way your energy sears fire through the cold crypt of my chest.

I thought I loved Mark, I thought I was in heartbreak, I thought so many things and I was wrong about
all
of them.

This is instant chemistry, a frisson of incandescence sizzling the ozone around us, igniting suppressed needs, reanimating forgotten hopes, resurrecting the ineffable.

He’s with me, so close my arm hairs steeple to touch him, and every step is a struggle. My blood has oxidized, my arteries clogged with rust, unable to pump blood and oxygen because I am seized and broken now.

Get a grip, Carly!

Walk, one foot in front of the other, there ya go. For chrissake girl you’ve been doing this on your own since you were two, just because the almighty and mystical strolls beside you doesn’t mean you don’t work.

But I don’t. I need him inside me.

I need his body to follow his soul, into me, so deep I forget who I am, I forget
what
I am, I become simply an extension of him, lost in the ethereal mist of euphoria. I need him impaling me, spilling his overwhelming blessedness into me, reawakening strength and vigor and vitality with his charisma.

It’s an obsession, a compulsion I’m fighting.

Fixing, something, something fixing. Oh yes!

Clearing my throat of the lust haze, of the salivating for his taste, I mutter, “Leak.” I gesture toward the laundry, losing the ability to communicate the basics.

I’ve said leak, but I want to catch it on my tongue, I want to watch it drool when he’s hard, I want to kneel naked between his legs staring up his immaculate form, my mouth open, catching the first eager drop elongating slowly because gravity wants to steal his quintessence from my greedy mouth. I want him to leak, for me.

My instinct is to stop, grab him, curl my hand around his nape to cup the back of his head, to crank the tower of muscle down, to lick my tongue across his lip, to bite it so he bleeds into me the way my heart is bursting my aorta for him, then rape that sexy vessel with the most invasive and cruel kiss of the century.

It’s taking every ounce of focus to simply walk to the kitchen, painfully aware of his magnetism compelling me closer to him, pulling me into his forcefield, obliterating decorum. I’m crabbing like a drunk so veer to the coffee machine, refilling it like it was my intention all along.

In two minutes I’ll have something hot to wrap my hands around, something bitter and black. It’s not a dynamic and tall tower of power, nor will it have any of his creamy scrumptiousness in it to flavor it, but it’ll have to suffice. It’ll give me something to sip on, something to hold, something to distract my chaotic hormones.

Glancing up into his eye fuck, into his gaze of all knowing all seeing amusement at how debilitated he’s made me, I indicate the laundry room, playing a charade of normalcy. This one hook of his focussed eyes with mine and my skin erupts in a frenzy of sensation. On a cellular level he’s calling to me, it’s demonic and supernatural, the yearning to pivot into him, to connect with harsh urgency, to collide and smash and break and ravage.

The corner of his mouth tilts into a sardonic curl, his gaze dropping for a brief moment, and I absently hold my neck, covering the titanium hard nipple pointing at him. He saw it, but it’s cold out and I was standing at the open door talking to him, I can blame winter.

Frazzled, suppressing a smile, I sashay into the room barely big enough for a washer and dryer and counter for folding. When he fills the doorway, blocking me in, air squeezes out of my lungs in the electrified atmosphere, the tension wound around us a catalyst, scalding my blood, heating my cheeks, and I lick my lips, breathing through my mouth in a pathetic attempt to inhale enough to stave the lack of oxygen in his proximity, my boobs becoming heavy and full and uncomfortable with arousal.

Closing my eyes, gripping the counter, I hope for mercy.

Heaven, just give me the strength to get through this without throwing myself at this man.

But when I reopen and engage his stare every chaste intention flees, the faint scent of my stimulation perfuming the air in the confines of the sterile room.

Oh god, can he smell me?

Does he know?

He exerts influence with his mere presence, it overwhelms me, I’m in his thrall. Consummate to consecrate. Please. Pretty please? I’ll beg, I will.