17. Blake

CHAPTER 17

Blake

E ven though I've been living in BC for the past two years, it always surprises me how little of the bloody province I've actually seen. I guess I can't really be held at fault when I've gone home to England every summer and over Christmas, but even so you'd think I would have taken advantage of some of the stunning scenery and destinations from time to time. Don't get me wrong, I love Victoria, even if it tries too hard to be "Little Britain" at times (and nowhere near as hilarious as the TV show), but the warm, Mediterranean climate makes up for it. Still, I hate feeling like there's a whole world out there that I'm turning a blind eye to.

That's one of the reasons I didn't hesitate when Amanda texted me about the weekend. The chance to get away was one I wasn't about to pass up. Plus, she would be there. Plus, she really does need to relax. Plus, well, I have to admit that the pressure is getting to me, too.

I don't want to tell her that though. If I acted anything less than confident, I know she'd put even more weight on her shoulders, and we all know serious Amanda isn't a lot of fun to be around. It's one reason why I can't help but piss her off when she gets that perma-scowl on her face. Relaxed Amanda is a fun Amanda, and fun Amanda is this heady mixture of sexy and adorable, something I can't get enough of, no matter how hard I try to rein it in.

And I have been. Even though my immediate answer was that the trip sounded great, all the warning bells were going off in the back of my head, the ones that are loud and blaring and telling me that I'm veering into unwelcome territory. It's not new to want to keep shagging a girl—if the sex is good, how can you not? But when she's all you think about, every moment of every day, well then, buddy, you have a problem.

I'm determined not to have a problem. But after seeing her come in public, in Mr. Mean, surrounded by people and the ocean and salt-tinged air, I'm starting to think wanting Amanda might not be a bad problem to have.

Then there's the fact that when we pull off the ferry and onto the island, Amanda directs me where to drive, and her whole demeanor changes right before my eyes. She's sitting up in the seat, leaning forward and gazing out all the windows, looking like a child on Christmas morning.

She's beautiful , I think to myself, and the thought catches me off-guard. It's not that I've thought of her as anything but, but for once she's not sexy with eyes full of lust or bitch-hot, like when she's calling me a pig (and god, do I fucking love it when she calls me a pig). She's beautiful in this wholesome, pure, wild way, like she's becoming the sum of all the beauty she sees.

"Wow, I remember that old church!" she cries out softly as the road winds past a small stone Catholic church flanked by old headstones, some draped with what looks like Mardi Gras beads.

The road curves away from the waterfront and sailboats moored out in the bay and heads inland toward an impressive monolith of rock presiding over the valley. "That's Mount Maxwell," she points out. "We'll have to go up there later, if Mr. Mean can handle potholes large enough to swallow him."

"We'll see," I tell her, knowing full well that potholes are my nemeses. As is Benedict Cumberbatch.

"Oh, and the vineyards," she says dreamily as we coast up a hill, vineyards and olive groves flanking us on either side, cascading down the slopes of sun-bleached grass. So far this place isn't at all what I was expecting. It looks more like Tuscany than Canada.

"We have to do a wine tasting one of these days. There are three wineries, a beer brewery, a cider house, and even a lavender farm," she says, her eyes dancing as she takes it all in.

"I thought we were supposed to be writing," I tease.

"It's inspiring."

"Drinking? Of course. Spoken like a true writer."

"Well, you said I needed to relax," she says. "I say we play tourist in the afternoons, you know, as a break. Or a reward."

If I can pull myself off of you , I think. Let's not kid ourselves, writing and wine and sightseeing are all good, but we both know we're spending this weekend with me deep inside of her, everywhere she'll take me.

But none of that seems to be on her mind just now, even though my fingers still smell like her cum, something I want to keep sniffing but don't want to seem like a total pervert, not when she's in this rare joyous element. Talk about a mood changer.

So I keep my dodgy perversion to myself as we wind our way across the island, past bucolic farms and stately houses hidden among towering trees. I swerve around swaths of bike riders who are pedaling their hearts out on the narrow road, something that looks like total hell, until we finally turn off the main road and head down toward the water.

"Can you imagine living there?" she says, sighing as we go past waterfront houses, their backyards a beach .

"I think you easily could," I point out as we come to the end of the road and head down a bumpy gravel driveway until we stop at what can only be her family cottage. "I mean, this is your family's, right? You'd live here during the summer, be in the city in the winter." I pause. "Naturally I'd have to live here too. Is there an outhouse I could reside in?"

She manages to tear her eyes away from the scenery and looks at me curiously.

"What?" I go on. "You would go crazy here without me."

Maybe that seems too forward, but I don't care. I park the car at the end of the driveway and she opens the door and steps out, her body drawn toward the cottage like a tractor beam.

The cottage is not at all what I was expecting. Given Amanda's family and their wealth, I was expecting something grand and obnoxious, even though she had told me numerous times it was small and modest. Well, she was definitely right. It is small, can't be more than two rooms, and it's a step beyond modest. The first word that comes to mind is quaint. Which is one step above "rustic" and "dilapidated."

It's pretty awesome.

"Wow," I say, stepping out of Mr. Mean.

She pauses on the stone path, the squares cracked and worn, periwinkle and grass running between them, and looks back at me, her brow raised saucily. "Is that ever-present sarcasm I detect? Have I let you down?"

I close the car door and stride over to her, shaking my head. "Not at all. Honestly, the fact that this is your beloved cottage makes me like you just a little bit more."

"A little bit more? That means you must like me somewhat."

"You know I like a lot of things about you," I tell her, running my fingers under my nose and grinning at her. " Why don't we step inside and I'll show you more thoroughly this time."

She rolls her eyes, even though there's a hint of a teasing smile on her hot pink lips. I'm suddenly hit with a strange, almost guilty realization that I haven't kissed her today. I should have her magenta lipstick all over my face, my neck, but instead I got her off on the ferry without touching anything more than her pussy. There's something crude about that, and though that's a feeling I never shy away from, it just doesn't seem right anymore.

"Okay, so maybe the cabin is nothing special," she says as she continues down the path and stops in front of the wide covered back porch along a high bank of grass that overlooks the harbor. She spreads her arms out proudly and throws her head back. "But how can you not be impressed by this view?"

I am impressed. I briefly take in the family of quail running from the low hedges and toward steps that must lead down to the beach, the wooden stairway flanked by tall cedars. I notice the covered deck with Adirondack chairs and woven blankets, perfectly set up for the sunrise or star gazing, the stack of firewood in the corner.

I also take in her arse, perky and toned from her crazy (yet well-appreciated) addiction to running, her legs, her back, that gorgeous red hair of hers, forever bound in that ponytail, and finally, when she turns around to look at me because I've remained suspiciously silent, those lips again.

Before I know what I'm doing, I'm moving down the path like a ghost and grabbing her face between my hands. Her eyes are wide and wild beneath her glasses, and her mouth drops open, so sticky sweet, and I press my lips against hers, inhaling her taste, her scent, the lush softness of her mouth.

For a long, agonizing second she stiffens, unsure of what to do next. I know I've caught her off-guard with this kiss—it's caught me off-guard too. But before I can regret it or second guess it and step away, she's melting against me, her hands wrapping around my waist while mine drift from her face to her hair, to the back of her neck, holding her there while our tongues dance languidly against each other.

I press myself against her, my cock as hard as concrete and straining against my jeans, ready for release. She gives a soft gasp as I dig into her hip, a throaty sound that only makes me thicker. Getting her off on the ferry was one of the hottest things I've ever done and I'm surprised my dick has survived that case of blue balls.

But it won't last much longer.

"Let's go inside," I whisper to her, taking her hand and leading her to the front door.

She fishes a key out from under the mat.

"Really?" I ask.

She waves the key at me and puts it in the lock, opening the door. "Anyone who wants to break in has to hitchhike out here. Believe me, all the riff raff is in town and they're harmless for the most part."

We step inside. The cabin smells like old cedar and memories, and from the look on Amanda's face, they're all hitting her at once.

She walks to the middle of the small room by the wood stove and sits down on the couch, staring at the board games that are at least as old as she is.

Aside from a small dining table, two couches facing a coffee table, the wood stove, the kitchen, the bathroom, and the bedroom there isn't much to it. It's just enough for one or two people. But I can tell it's more than enough to Amanda.

I sit down on the couch next to her and let her take it in.

After a while I brush the hair back from her face and ask, "What do you want to do?"

At first I'm not sure if she's heard me, she has such a faraway look in her eyes, lost in a memory somewhere. Then she looks at me, blinking back to reality. She takes me by the hand and leads me to the bedroom. "I want your cock inside me. Everywhere."

I gulp, swallowing hard, more than ready.

I follow her, standing in the doorway before the twin bed covered with flannel sheets. She slowly strips in front of me until she's this pale glowing goddess, beckoning me to join her.

Where she goes, I follow.

I strip quickly, feeling fire running through my veins, a sense of urgency unlike any before, and then I'm climbing on the bed after her, prowling like she's the prey and I'm the hunter, or maybe it's the other way around because I'm in her pull, her power, and there isn't anything I can do about it.

She lies beneath me, her hair loose now and spilling around her like a red halo, looking so flawless and pure and soft against the thick flannel. My cock juts out between us, bobbing as I move above her body, and the need to drive myself so deep inside her is more dominant than ever.

It's the need to claim.

To make her mine.

That primal, animalistic instinct to take and hold and possess. As alpha as it sounds, it's real and raw and it's an ache in my chest, clawing its way out of me.

It has been for a long time.

I lower my body onto hers, relishing the feel of her skin against mine, the heat we're already creating. Her legs open wider, parting for me as she raises her hips, but I'm not ready for her now, not yet.

I kiss her, electric, fast, and she slows me down, turning the kiss into something like satin, soft, drawn-out, and deep. Heat slides through my veins, my pulse quickening with lust.

"Turn over," I tell her, and she does. My words come out thick as I face this desperate, trembling kind of hunger .

With the smooth mounds of her arse facing me, I move down the bed and place my tongue on her cheek, making long, wide licks up and then down, back and forth, while I'm squeezing the other cheek. I switch places, paying attention to her signs, how much she wants, if she wants it.

Her hips are rising into me, her arse pressing into my mouth.

She wants more.

Even with my cock almost painfully rigid, everything swimming with this heady infatuation, I slide my finger down her arse cheek, parting them gently.

"Do you like that?" I whisper. Everything is wild and tense.

She makes a sound, tight and breathless, that sounds like "yes."

I draw the finger back up, and she stills for a second before relaxing.

It's the "no, I shouldn't like this" and then the "but I do."

I lower my head and gently blow on her.

She stiffens again, then presses herself back.

More.

I slide my tongue in slowly, my heart intent on climbing out of my chest.

Amanda sucks in her breath sharply; the exhale is a low groan I feel rumble through me.

I slide my hand around, finding her clit and lightly petting it until she's moaning again, her hips circling for more.

Her legs spread wider, giving me greater access in all ways and I'm experiencing her in a way no one has before. If this is akin to claiming something, then I'm planting my flag. But more than that, she's opening up to me, putting her pleasure in my hands, and offering herself. She's vulnerable, something so rare for her, and I want to drown in the feeling .

I can feel her close to coming. She's panting, her body growing warmer, on the verge.

"Oh my god, Blake," she says hoarsely, and I nearly lose my fucking mind. "Keep going."

I do. My tongue plunges in, so tight, and my fingers stroke and circle. She's panting, breathless, needy.

She's incredible like this, about to throw herself over the edge.

And then she goes. It happens quickly, and I feel her unravel under my tongue, my lips, my fingers. She tenses for a split second and the world seems to still, tipping on its axis, and then she's shattering, arching her back, crying out my name.

I lift my head and get off the bed, standing at the end.

I don't give her any time to recover. There is no time. I'm that close.

I grab her hips and flip her over, then reach down around her waist, my hands so large against her, and yank her down toward me until her arse is at the edge of the bed. She stares up at me in a daze, and I know her cunt is still pulsing, the orgasm slowly abating.

Her legs go up along me and I grip the back of her thighs. She manages to reach for my cock, just her touch causing my eyes to close, the breath to leave me.

With a firm grip, she expertly guides me to her entrance, and when I open my eyes she's staring at me with wonder and need and then I'm pushing inside…

Losing myself.

I'm losing myself.

And I don't care.

I groan, the fire building inside me as I push in to the hilt, the pressure reverberating through me.

She's so tight.

A fist of raw silk .

So good.

So good.

And that look in her eyes, the way she won't look away. It holds me captive as I work her, sliding in and out, deeper and deeper the higher she raises her hips. My body gets warmer, tighter, and that coil builds inside, layer by layer, until I know I don't have long.

"Oh, keep going," she manages to say, her head rolling to the side, her mouth open and gasping.

I wish I could go on forever.

I wish I had her forever.

Because being inside her now is different. It's not just fucking. It's becoming something else.

I'm starting to know her in so many ways, inside and out.

My lower back tightens, and everything inside me cracks.

I come, back arching, pushing into her so fucking deep as I grunt loudly, sounding more animal than man.

She's coming again with me, her noises so soft compared to mine, and we're rocking together, joined, until everything inside me is gone.

She has it all.

I collapse on the bed beside her, the flannel scratchy against my cheek, and I pull her into my chest. Even though it's early in the day and we have a weekend ahead of us, there's nothing I would rather be doing than lying right here, listening to the waves, with her in my arms.