Page 9 of Room 13: Bred By the Bears

This was the fantasy I craved. The soft whispered lie. The one I couldn’t ever give voice to without freaking people out. Usually, I got the Obsidian’s and the Armel’s and obviously what they doled out did exactly as intended. But Ryker? It was as if he’d peeked into the anteroom of my soul and ferreted out a long-hidden truth that no one could see.

“You feel so good, Miele,” he whispered in my ear.

My name felt like a song on his lips. He even pronounced my name correctly.Me elle uh. Soft and lilting, in perfect Creole French.

“Will you come for me too?”

His beard tickled along the ridge of my ear as he continued to hold a conversation just for the two of us. My head lay cradled between his two hands, his elbows resting on either side of my shoulders as he boxed me in, nearly laying prone on top of me as he slogged his cock in and out of me at the most torturous pace. I’d already come twice, so I was in no hurry to rush up the summit again, however I remembered how painfully swollen his cockhead appeared as he’d jerked himself moment previous. How he could maintain so much control that he could carry on a conversation as if we stood in the grocery store was beyond me.

“You’re so soft.” He nuzzled against my breasts before taking a nipple between his lips and laving it with his warm tongue. “And even with all the other smells in the room, you still smell like an orange grove in spring.”

I’d never had sex with a man covered in as much body hair as these men had. I’d expected it to be abrasive, to irritate my skin as it rubbed against me. But Ryker’s chest felt soft against my sensitive nipples, the downy thatch that covered his chest tickled. The play of sensations were a complete divergence from the rough and dirty fucking we’d all shared. I wondered if he was always this sweet and quiet, or if it was in response to all we’d experienced already.

“I’m already almost there,” e told me, using his knee to press my leg open and change the angle. “Now I need to have another chance with you. If for no other reason than to show you I have just as much staying power as Obsidian does. And also, to make sure he doesn’t hog you all for himself again.”

Ryker’s lips were a heaven I wanted to get lost in forever. Soft, commanding, he led his kiss stealing nothing, a breath, a pass, entry into my mouth. The firm press of his lips made me want to open for him. To welcome his tongue’s caress, to fall helpless into every nibble and bite his teeth inflicted into my already kiss swollen lips. I could fall apart from his kisses alone, never mind the swollen shaft being kissed and sucked by my greedy channel.

“You love to kiss as much as I do.” He smiled, licking down to my pulse point and sucking as if he expected to feed from it. “Such a soft, responsive thing. If you let us, we’ll have so much fun playing with you. We’ll fill you up with so much cum, you’ll never be able to walk without feeling us between you again.”

Each syllable he uttered was like another rung on the ladder that carried me up a summit I hadn’t expected to appear. Surprise stole my words, but I drown in tenderness I hadn’t expected. I pulled him to my mouth, fusing our lips together as we pressed against one another, finding a perfect, fluid rhythm to usher in our conclusions.

six

It had beentwo long days since our playtime with Miele. Pornographic remembrances teased me on never ending repeat. I needed to see her again. I was sure we all did.

We hadn’t heard from her. After administering her aftercare, she’d slipped out with barely a glance over her shoulder, instructing us to connect with Chantilly if we wanted to get a hold of her. I must have left four messages with Chantilly and she’d yet to return my call.

“Where’s Ryker?”

Armel sat at our table, shirtless, a cup of coffee in one hand, and his tablet in the other.

“Warehouse,” he grunted before taking a long sip from his cup.

“At thewarehouse?”

He hadn’t been to the warehouse since our decision to come to New Orleans. He’d felt blocked, artistically. I suggested a change of scenery and some play time might help. Color me pleased I was right.

“Did he say what he wanted to work on? God I hope it’s the pieces for the hotel.”

“Yes, I’m his social fucking secretary, Obi. He and I sat down, and we had a long assed chat over our hopes and dreams and his vision for the future before he calmly collected his things and gave me a detailed list of intentions for the day.”

Clearly someone else was in his feelings over Miele’s lack of contact.

“Need help removing that burr from your ass?”

Armel grunted in my direction before engrossing himself once again in his email.

As exciting it was to learn Ryker had been swept away by his muse, as his manager I had the unfortunate honor of doing things like making sure he showed up to meetings with clients on time. When he got lost in the flow of piece it could be days before we saw him. Given the number of zeros the check from the Hotel Montmartre contained for his work; he would show up with bells on any time they called and requested a meeting. Which is what they’d done. With a fresh suit in hand and travel kit of essentials for a quick clean up, I went to collect him at his warehouse, muses be damned.

“You know how much I hate it when you prove me right.” I chuckled, his suit draped over my shoulder, shouting my greeting over the sound of Ryker’s tools.

“I need more metals,” he told me in greeting. “Copper. Bronze. Brass. Carbide. Anything you can get your hands on quickly.”

He stepped to the side of the piece he worked on, breathless from handling the heavy equipment he used to sand, buff, cut, and weld his giant pieces of metal together. Ryker wore his leather overalls and welder’s mitts. He was in deep. I wondered offhand how many hours he’d been at it to already be in the welding process.

“I can’t keep up with the flow,” he said, tossing the empty water bottle toward a giant metal barrel trash can in the middle of the warehouse.

Ryker had a gorgeous studio up in Bogue Chitto. A sculptor’s paradise outfit with anything his brain could ever fathom to want or need when creating. But I think the place was too perfect. Too put together. Providedtoomany options that it became stifling and overwhelming. I was no artist, it was purely supposition, but the dingy, ramshackle chaos of his warehouse work studio out by Pier 90 was a bare bones studio. It functioned with the most common tools he would need.Plas Kreye, Creole forcreative space, was a stop gap. Somewhere that he could rush to if a mood hit and he had an urgent need to create. However, he flitted around the space with the manic energy he had when he was about to undertake a project of epic proportion.

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