Page 11 of It All Began at Dixieland

Efa 9.

Hissing, my stomach clenches painfully, my body automatically folding itself into the fetal position. Shit. Literally. IBS is the worst, and I should have known eating Chinese food last night would do this to me.

In the dark of the room, it takes me a minute to remember I’m in a hotel, in bed with the Marathon Man. My pussy protests my movement as I slide out of bed. I feel around the nightstand for my phone. As silent as possible, I click on the flashlight and move gingerly searching for my clothes. I double over near the door, my shoes in my hand. I stare forlornly at his bathroom, but quickly shake the thought from my mind. It’s bad enough I’m gonna have an IBS attack in that farce of a bathroom in my own room with my mom, I’m not subjecting this beautiful stamina-blessed man with the heinousness I’m about to expel.

I’d like to leave him with sensually erotic images of our naked and sweaty bodies writhing together on every available surface of his hotel room. My mind conjures memories of me riding him in bed, his hands and face occupied with my tits while he filled me so completely. The way he tossed me around, throwing me to my back and plowing into me, flipping me to my stomach and pulling my hips up before surging back in, caressing my cheek, and wiping stray tears from underneath my eyes while I happily choked on his girth.

Yeah. I’m not ruining any of that with fecal matter.

With the light of my phone, I find the hotel notepad on the desk with a pen. Hastily I scribble my name and phone number. A spasm in my lower back indicates I’m running out of time. A cramp steals my breath. I spin on my bare feet and with ass cheeks clenched, I speed walk out of the room, leaving the most incredible man I’ve ever met behind. I can only hope that he’ll feel the same and that he meant all of the wonderfully possessive things he said to me as he owned my body.

The elevator takes forever, but finally I’m quietly entering my hotel room, praying I don’t wake my mom. When I softly close the door, I turn around, ready to run to the toilet, but I stop in my tracks. Mom is sitting in the armchair, her face pale, eyes wide.

“Mom?” I rush over to her, stopping a few feet from her when my stomach cramps again.

“I’m fine. Go.” She knows me too well. Forgetting my hatred for using the restroom in earshot of others, I devastate the toilet all the while pretending my mother has temporarily lost her sense of hearing and smell.

I decide to shower when I’m done. My heart aches as I wash away his scent, the ghost of his lips against my skin, the heat of his cock as he impaled me over and over. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I’m not crying. It’s the shower.

I hate that I left him. I hate that one look at my mother, and I know we’re leaving immediately. This was too much for her. Standing in front of the ridiculous surround sight mirrors, the large vanity mirror as well as the full-length mirror directly in front of the toilet, I smile like a love-sick fool at the bite marks, beard burn, and fingerprint bruising that dot the landscape of my body. I didn’t wash him away after all. I get to carry him with me a little longer.

A towel wrapped around my body; I leave the shit-out at the MO Corral at dawn to dress. “Mom,” I say softly. She glances at me, her eyes roaming over my visible skin. Her lips curve into a salacious smirk, but she doesn’t say anything. I can feel myself blush, but I’m 31. I have sex. Not often. But I certainly made up for it last night. “Get dressed. I’ll pack us up.”

“No, we can—”

“Mom.” She cocks an eyebrow at me when I use her “mom voice”. “You are in pain, and it’s time to get you home. Let dad nurse you back to health.”

She chuckles, her face still pale and strained. “I don’t want to cut your weekend short.”

I sigh, content and happy. “It was magical, mom. I promise. Let’s leave on a high note.” I look at her and wince. “My high note. You, not so much.”

“Your gentleman—”

“Has my number.” I shrug with carelessness I do not feel at all. “If he wants to see me again, he’ll call.” And if he doesn’t, then…my Kitty Crusher and I will certainly be spending a lot of time together. No other man has ever fucked me like Foster. Can’t imagine anyone ever will.

Foster 10.

I slap my hand against my desk, growling at the empty inbox of my Facebook messenger. Three private messages. Two to the email she has listed on her account. Three weeks and nothing. Just a wham, bam, not even a thank you…sir.

Efa Blevins turned my entire world upside down and left me alone to put it back to rights. Only I can’t. I can’t get her out of my mind. Her laugh. Soft skin. Dark berry-colored nipples. The scorching wet heat of her pussy. There isn’t a thing about her that doesn’t do it for me. But apparently, I’m alone in this infatuation. If my hotel room didn’t reek of sex and rubber from the condoms, my dick wasn’t sore and balls shriveled up like raisins, I’d swear I imagined the whole thing.

“Foster. I love you, but you break that desk, I’m gonna break you.” I glance up at my sister and try to muster up a smile. Her flowy skirt and peasant top flutter as she walks toward me. While I’ve lived a life of military regimentation, Emery Nichols has lived like a free-spirited hippie who sells literary porn to the masses.

Of course, in the last several years, she’s brought me over to the dark side. I jumped out of airplanes for a living, never thought I’d be posing nearly naked for a romance book cover. Especially one written by my baby sister. And now, I’m designing the book covers myself, as well as logos and ads.

“Hey.” Emery places a soft hand on my shoulder, her eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Are you alright? Has she responded?” She knows about Efa. I’ve done nothing else but talk her ear off since that morning I woke up alone and irrevocably changed. I shake my head, her lips purse. “I’m sorry, Foster.”

“Me too. We had a connection. I know we did. You can’t fake that kind of chemistry. But then she left. Left like it was all nothing.”

Em plants her ass on the edge of my desk. “Maybe she left because you ruined her for all men, and she was scared.”

“If I ruined her, then contact me and let me continue to ruin her every day…twice on Sundays.”

“You’ve always disliked football.” Em concedes, knowing I don’t fill my Sundays with pigskin. I’d much rather fill Efa.

“Give it some more time. You’ll find your way back to one another if it’s meant to be.”

“This isn’t one of your romance books, Em.”

---