Page 58 of The Oscar Escape
This wasn’t a quick fuck in an alleyway behind a bar or a forgettable fast screw in a hotel room. This would be his first time making love to his best friend—his perfect match.
“Let’s see if I can help with that,” she said with the ghost of a grin as she guided his cock to her entrance.
He lost himself in her sky-blue eyes. Giving in to her, he was acutely aware of a titillatingly overwhelming quality that surfaced when one’s most powerful desire was about to be met—a kind of meet-the-moment energy. But Aria’s touch tamed his nerves and grounded him. She wanted him as he wanted her. Finding his focus, he eased himself inside and made good on his promise to watch her take him inch by inch. He couldn’t look away. He let the sensory storm wash over him. Aria became his world. He absorbed every hitch of her breath, the erotic sound of her voice, humming her pleasure as his hard length stretched her tight, hot core.
He cataloged the sensation of filling this woman in the most sensual way. He pulled back a fraction, then rolled his hips. It was a snug fit, and she gripped him like a vice. Eye to eye, he eased back and forth, working her sweet center in delicious strokes. The friction sparked a palpable jolt of lust. His body trembled, but now it wasn’t from nerves. It was the animal inside him, ready to take what he wanted and deliriously driven to satisfy his unrestrained carnal urges.
The bed banged against the wall with each powerful thrust.
“I don’t know if I can be gentle,” he bit out.
With her chestnut locks fanned across the pillow, she looked like something out of a dream. She reached for the wrought iron spindles on the headboard, gripped the rod, then flashed a wicked grin. “I don’t want you to be gentle. I want you to be you.”
Another surge of fiery lust tore through him. He gripped the iron rod above her hand. His little finger hooked with hers. That slight connection was all it took to flip a switch in his head. He pistoned his hips, stoking the heat between them. They moved as one. The bed creaked with every thrust and every punishing pound of his body meeting hers. A sheen of sweat coated his skin. Slick with exertion, he moved with the sole purpose of making the woman he loved come hard on his cock.
He studied her, in awe of her sensual beauty. “You look so damned gorgeous when you’re taking every inch of me. You like it like this. You love feeling me fill you to the hilt.”
She answered by gifting him with another sexy-as-sin smirk as she tightened around him. “And look who’s a dirty talker.”
He could barely hold back. His muscles quivered like a bow being drawn as he covered her mouth with his.
“I’m so close,” she rasped against his lips. Her breathy utterance cut through the sound of the bed banging against the wall and the scratch of the legs wearing away at the old wood planks.
He wrapped his hand around her neck, just below her chin. He could feel the thrum of her hammering pulse. His fingers pressed against her cheek as he buried his head in the crook of her neck. Pumping his hips, he raised his torso and altered the angle of penetration.
“Yes, I’m there. I’m there. Don’t stop, Oscar,” she moaned.
Wild horses couldn’t hold him back.
His breathing shifted from heated exhales to primal growls. She circled her legs around him, bucking and thrashing. He moved his grip on the iron bar and threaded his fingers with hers. She squeezed his hand, riding into oblivion. He hovered on the cusp, so close to joining her. Summoning his muscles to catapult him over the edge, he thrust his hips, going deep, so damned deep. Awash in the throes of passion, his orgasm hit like he’d been struck by a mighty tidal wave. He was everything and nothing. He was whole, flesh and blood, for one second, then scattered like billions of molecules of water.
“Aria,” he cried into the charged air, holding her close, feeling her quake with pleasure beneath him.
He’d lost track of time. They could have been making love for twenty minutes, twenty hours, or even twenty millennia. The only thing that mattered was holding her in his arms. Nearly spent, he slowed his pace as the sex fog lifted. He returned to this earthly plane like a feather floating to the ground. The creaking bed quieted. He stilled, and silence had never sounded so sweet. But it wasn’t silent—not completely. His documentarian mind focused on the woman in his embrace. Gathering information, he noted the rise and fall of her chest, the slick heat cementing their bodies, their audible, ragged breaths mingling in the low golden light that held the room in a suspended glow. He released his grip on the iron rod and brushed a few wisps of hair from her cheek.
“That was . . .” she whispered, breathless.
He shifted his body to take the pressure of his hulking form off her lithe frame. The bed creaked as he moved, but it appeared to be in one piece. They hadn’t destroyed this island artifact. The iron headboard bumped the wall as he settled in next to her. “Yeah, it was . . .” he began, searching for the words to describe the best sex of his life, when something sharp poked him on his left butt cheek. “Ouch!What the hell is that?” he yelped.
Aria leaned forward and lifted the object off his aching ass. “It’s a framed photograph.” She held it up. “It must have fallen off the wall when you rolled over.” She gasped.
“What is it?” He rubbed his ass cheek as she studied the frame.
“If it’s damaged, this one’s on you,” she teased, then drew her fingertip across the bottom of the frame. “The inscription says this is a photo of Homer and Evangeline Havenmatch and their pet lobster, Clawdia. The picture’s black-and-white, but this lobster looks different. Maybe it wasn’t red?” she continued, then giggled. “The plastic lobster’s name really is Clawdia.”
“Why would you think that?” he replied, giving his poor bum one last rub before settling beside her.
“I recognize the couple from that Love and Lobsters flyer. Evangeline must have been a pianist.” Aria turned the frame so he could view the old photo. He stared at a woman in a dress with a high collar sitting at an upright piano. A man holding a lobster stood next to her.
He eyed the plastic lobster on the table. “Lobster threesomes might be a thing here.”
Aria giggled, then shivered.
He stroked her arm and felt the goose bumps. “Are you cold?”
“A little.”
She wasn’t the only one. It was drafty in the cabin. October evenings on Havenmatch Island were often chilly affairs. He recalled that from his last visit.
