Page 69 of The Perils of Paulie
“Well...” I said slowly, considering my options. I leaned down to nip his lower lip. “Perhaps some gentle words of apology, along with well-placed touches and one or two twirls with your tongue would ease things along—oh, bloody hell.”
We both looked at Dixon’s phone, which had gone off with an alarm we’d set the night before. It buzzed along with blasting “The Imperial March” fromStar Wars.
Dixon reached for the phone and turned off the alarm. He gave me a long look. “We should get up. It’s six.”
I nodded.
“We said we’d get up faithfully every morning at six,no matter what we were in the middle of.” He looked at my breasts, his eyes hungrily considering them. “No matter what.”
“We should get up,” I said, wiggling in such a way that he moaned and dug his fingers into my hips. “We can’t let the Esses get ahead of us. God knows what sort of traps they’ll set for us if they get the jump, and I know they couldn’t have been very far behind us last night.”
“That is sound thinking,” he said, nodding, but his fingers moved around my front and dived downward, touching me in all those aching parts of me that so desperately wanted us to ignore the alarm and get down to business.
I leaned forward again to kiss him. “How fast can you be?”
“You mean at sex?” His brow wrinkled. He glanced at the phone, then obviously did some mental calculations. “Ten minutes. We can have ten minutes if we don’t eat or take showers.”
“Deal,” I said, kissing him, and instantly slid downward to take his penis in my hands.
He looked startled. “Do we have time—”
“You get two minutes. Then I get two minutes. That leaves six for general shenanigans with my burning crotch. Sound good?”
“Sounds... glarm!” He grabbed the sheets with both hands when I put both hands on him and swirled my tongue around what I knew was sensitive flesh. He started to babble in another tongue while I allowed hands and mouth and even my breasts to go to town on him, all of which made me feel wonderfully powerful and filled with the feminine knowledge that men were putty in our hands (and mouth and breasts).
Then Dixon called time, and I was suddenly on my back with my legs over his shoulders and his whiskery cheeks rubbing on the inside of my thighs. His fingersdid a delightful dance of their own, and by the time he bent to kiss intimate parts, I was doing my own babbling. “I’m putty, too! I’m putty, too!”
He looked up and cocked an eyebrow. “You’re what?”
“Ignore me—my brain is talking straight through my mouth without checking with me first,” I said, feeling as if I was a top that had been wound to the breaking point. “Hurry! There are only six minutes left. You used extra time on me.”
“It was worth it,” he said with a knowing grin, and crawled over me, his mouth kissing and nibbling a path upward.
I wrapped my legs around him and tried to pull him exactly where I wanted, but he resisted—damn him.
“Condom?” he asked, ignoring the demands of my legs. “Do we have time for me to find one?”
“Screw the condom!” I almost shouted, desperate now to have all my tingling bits sated as only he could sate them.
“I’d make a rude joke about that comment, but there’s simply no time for it.” And with that, he slid into me, and all my intimate muscles threw up their hands in joy and shimmied around him in a time-honored dance of utter happiness.
His hips seemed to have their own dance going on, and we moved together in an intense, if not technically perfect, unison. Fortunately for us both, it didn’t take but a few minutes before Dixon’s movements lost all grace and I began to thrash my limbs around in a desperate attempt to urge him on faster.
“Well,” I said a few minutes later, exhausted, sweaty, and pleasured to the tips of my toenails, “that was a hell of a thing, wasn’t it?”
“It was.” Dixon panted, rolling off me. He looked like he’d just run a marathon. “I can’t wait to do it again. That is, I can wait, because I think it would kill me to do itagain without proper rest, a couple of solid meals, and a truck full of vitamins, but my anticipation of our next quickie is sky-high right now.”
“Kind of makes you a fan of doing it fast, huh?” I got out of bed and hurried to the bathroom, where I had a superfast wash at the basin before pulling on my undergarments. “Can you do up my corset, please?”
Dixon was brushing his teeth. “I can, but it will mean I don’t have time to shave.”
“I like your stubble. I’d rather have it than no corset, because I don’t think I can fit into my dress without it.”
And so it was that seven minutes later we arrived at our car (which we’d placed in a secure parking lot with an overnight attendant), I in a dashing blue-and-white-striped skirt, red vest, and lacy white shirt with navy bolero jacket, and Dixon in a gray suit and a pair of red goggles. “I was saving these for photographic situations,” he said, donning them and striking a pose so I could take a picture with my phone. “They’re quite dashing, aren’t they?”
“They’re something—that’s for darned sure,” I agreed, and turned to face the car. That’s when I saw it.
“Hey. Where are all our tires?” I pointed to the rear of the car. We’d already gone through about half of our spare tire stock, and Roger, having seen the writing on the wall while we were midway across the U.S., had ordered new ones to be waiting for us in Astana when we arrived. I did a count. “There are only seven here, and there should be eleven—five on the side and six on the back.”
