Under My Skin

  I lose all power of speech and thought as my hips begin to buck wildly. I’m seeking more, but I’m also searching for escape because it’s too much. I can’t think, it’s a miracle I can breathe, and at that moment, I exist purely in the realm of pleasure.

  He doesn’t give me any time to come down.

  His hands disappear, but in the next second his thick hardness slides between my sensitized flesh, spreading my wetness across my slit in light, teasing strokes. My back arches in a desperate bid for more because I need him to be stroking me somewhere else right now.

  More.

  I repeat my plea senselessly, endlessly, begging him to fill me.

  He slips his hand in my hair, wrapping it around his fist so he can yank my mouth to his. Right as his tongue slips between my lips, his cock stabs into me and he doesn’t stop until he’s seated to the hilt. My body’s in this surreal state of suspended pleasure, and I feel everything.

  The sensation of his body joined to mine, his warm, thick flesh impossibly getting harder, expanding within me. I feel myself stretch to accommodate him, accept him, receive him.

  He pulls his mouth from mine raggedly, his hand still fisted in my hair and dick still inside me, hard but unmoving. I stare up at him, and my only coherent thought is that I’m drowning in him.

  “Do you feel it?” he whispers.

  I can’t speak.

  Sex with Mark has always been mind-blowing, but this is more than just sex. This is all consuming and soul destroying.

  He’s making love to me.

  His lips cover mine, and he takes my mouth once more. His kiss is deep and drugging, while he begins to move within me.

  “Feel my cock, baby? Do you feel how hard you make me? How you make me crazy to fuck you until you can’t think of anything else?” With his hands on my hips to hold them steady, he slams into me.

  Words fall from my lips. It’s all disjointed babbling. He does it again, all the while murmuring how tight I am, how my pussy fits him like a silk glove, how my body was made for this—made for him. Every single thrust is torturously slow and each time I think he can’t go deeper, he does.

  The pressure that’s been building steadily inside me starts to radiate. I’m still babbling, but now my hips are slamming up into his, desperate for fulfillment. His beautiful features are all sharp, harsh angles as he clenches his jaw tight, powering into my body.

  “Oh God.”

  I’m not sure who says it—me or him, but the entreaty is a faint whisper, and then I stop thinking completely because it hits me. My body starts to tremble, and a low scream erupts from my mouth. I’m coming, finally coming and it’s endless.

  It’s beautiful.

  Mark

  He seals the manila envelope and slips it into his briefcase. “This is much bigger than I thought it was. Good work, Daniels,” he says gruffly.

  I nod. “Thanks, Chief. It shouldn’t be much longer now before it’s all over.”

  He looks at me with the same blue-green eyes that belong to Liz. I decide they look better on her, but there’s no way in hell I’m sharing that thought.

  “I think it’s about time you call me James, don’t you agree? You are dating my daughter, after all.”

  “Yes sir.” I can feel the dull flush overtaking my face. Not much makes me uneasy, but dealing with a man when you’re sleeping with his daughter makes me nervous as hell. Especially when the man has a whole arsenal of weapons at his disposal.

  He rolls his eyes. “Enough with the sir bullshit. I know you’re a good man son, and for the most part, I trust you with my only daughter.” This is said in a way that leads me to believe that trust isn’t one hundred percent, but I stay quiet and he continues. “Lizzie cornered me the other day and asked that I not harass you about this, but talking about my little girl isn’t harassment Daniels, is it?”

  I swallow and shake my head. “No.”

  He nods. “Good. Glad to see we’re on the same page.”

  “Yes—,” I’m about to say sir again when I remember his words, “James.” I shake my head. “Sorry, that just feels weird.” I take a sip out of my water bottle to wet my suddenly dry throat.

  He looks at me blandly. “No, what’s weird is having your eighty-something year old next door neighbor tell you on a daily basis that if her sweet grandson doesn’t end up coming to his senses and we all end up related one day, she doesn’t care if we live next door to each other, she’s hosting all of the Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners until she draws her dying breath.”

  I nearly spit out my water. “What? Grams said what?”

  “You heard me son. I don’t know how serious it is between the two of you, but if what she says comes to pass, you might want to think about adopting your offspring. I don’t know what the combination of Bertha’s genes with Liz’s will do. Likely it’ll mean the end of the human race as we know it.” He laughs to himself and pats his belly like he’s congratulating himself for a joke well told.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say. I’ll talk to Grams,” I promise.

  “How serious are you two?”

  The question flies at me from out of nowhere. “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “It hasn’t been very long, but what I can tell you is that I care for her very much. I more than care for her, actually.”

  “She’s crazy, you know. I love my daughter, but the girl has no filter, and when she’s not reacting out of pure emotion, she’s planning something Machiavellian. She scares the shit out of her brothers, you know. You sure you ready to take someone like her on? If you were smart, you’d run the other way. Can’t say I’d blame you,” he mutters.

  Any anxiety I have dissolves in an instant. I set the bottle down on his desk and lean forward. “I guess I must not be very smart then, because I wouldn’t change anything about her. I respect her, I admire her, and she challenges me on a daily basis. I can’t imagine my life without her,” I say honestly.

  He visibly softens and blinks rapidly before closing his eyes and sighing deeply. “She’s smart as hell, you know. Does she suspect anything about what we’ve got going on?”

  “Not a thing.” The words leave my mouth with absolute conviction. “I’ve been extremely careful around her and with her. The only thing that worried me was whether or not she’d catch on that every time I take her out, it’s not in Sheffield, but she hasn’t said anything yet. It’s doubtful that anyone suspects and I’m under surveillance, but I don’t want to take any chances with anyone connecting us and using her to get to me.”

  “I appreciate that,” he says heavily. “It wouldn’t have done any good for me to tell you two to stay away from each other because once my daughter has her mind made up about something, it might as well be inked in blood. All I can ask at this point is that you’re careful with her.”

  “Always, sir,” I vow.

  “What did I tell you about the ‘sir’ bullshit, boy?”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  “Now, what about the future? I know you’re not going to be in Sheffield forever. What does that mean for you and my daughter? And what are you going to do when she finds out the truth?”

  Liz

  “So Bertha dropped by this morning,” Mom says nonchalantly while she flips through a rack of semi-formal dresses at Nordstrom. We’re out shopping for the annual policeman’s ball, which is coming up in two weeks. Sheffield has less than five thousand people so while our police department isn’t terribly large, it’s still nice to get all dolled up and more importantly, honor the men and women that put their lives at risk every day. I’m reluctant to admit it, but I’m sort of excited. Over the years, Mom has offered to let me go with Dad in her stead but I’ve always felt it was sort of their thing, so I’ve always declined. Now, I’m glad I did, because I won’t be going as the Chief’s daughter, but as Mark’s woman.

  I roll my eyes. “Mom, Bertha’s over every morning since you retired.”

  It’s true. One of the perils of living next
door to Cruella is that she has a habit of dropping by unannounced, and now especially that Mom decided to semi-retire (meaning she’s free most mornings), Bertha and her cane make their way down her driveway, around the hedges separating her property from my parents, and up my parents’ driveway.

  Of course, it doesn’t really matter if you live next door to her or not. I’ve had an awkward encounter myself when she’s decided to show up at Mark’s door at the crack of dawn with a basket full of breakfast muffins. Mark had already been in the shower when I’d crawled out of bed, desperate for coffee before heading to my shift. I’d been staring at the coffeepot, images of the night before replaying in my head like a movie reel. I didn’t know how we’d evolved from vanilla sex into role-play, but let’s just say that the public defender had enjoyed getting schooled by the hardened homicide detective a little too much.

  I’d been so lost in my musings, it took around a minute before I’d processed the rapid, urgent knocking at Mark’s door.

  Turned out my processor hadn’t been up to par (I blame it on the coffee) because the next thing I know, I’d flung open Mark’s front door and stood there in the doorway, clad only in one of his white V-necks (which might seem slutty, but it’s actually longer than most of my nighties).

  I don’t know what I’d expected at that point, but Bertha just stared back at me, her rheumy blue eyes wide with shock. Too bad for me her shock lasted only mere seconds, because in her next breath, she’d hissed “hussy!”— right before thrusting a basket of muffins toward me.

  I’d called upon every ounce of patience I had and reluctantly invited her in. She’d looked wary, but she accepted the invitation. I tried to pretend that she hadn’t called me a hussy, and we attempted stilted, awkward conversation.

  A few minutes later, Mark had emerged from his shower, looking all yummy with a dark towel wrapped around his lean hips and droplets of water still clinging to his skin.

  “Princess, I think we should—“

  “Mark, your grandmother is here,” I’d rushed out quickly, hoping he’d get the message prior to verbalizing any dirty thoughts he might have been thinking.

  Smile frozen, he’d turned to where I gestured toward the couch.

  “Mark,” she said stiffly. “I thought I’d bring some breakfast over for you. Lemon poppy-seed muffins. I didn’t know you had company over.”

  She’d made company sound like ghonnorhea.

  Jesus.

  It was an honest to God miracle that I hadn’t been foaming at the mouth by the time she’d left. Even Mark had been impressed, so much so that he’d felt compelled to reward me with another orgasm minutes before I had to leave.

  And now that I think about it, that orgasm took place five minutes after Bertha had walked out the door…which means she could have been eavesdropping. I can’t decide what’s worse—being caught in flagrante delicto via sight or auditory senses.

  Gross!

  I sneak a glance at Mom from out the corner of my eye. Clearly she brought up Bertha’s visit for a reason. “So, what did Bertha have to say?”

  Please don’t let it be about me fornicating with her grandson.

  She pulls a floor length strapless gown off the rack in a gorgeous blush pink color. “Honey, this is going to look fabulous on you. Try this on.” She tosses the dress in my direction, leaving me no choice but to catch.

  And Dad wonders where I get my personality.

  “Try on this one too, it’ll look great with your hair,” she murmurs thoughtfully before she sends another strapless dress, this one short and fire engine red, sailing in my direction.

  “Jeez Mom,” I huff. “I think I can pick out my own dresses.”

  She plucks a pretty bright purple dress and holds it against her frame before draping it across her forearm. “Question for you darling,” she says casually.

  A little too casually.

  I’m wary as hell and my anxiety only grows as I wait for her to speak. Seconds tick by but by the time she talks, it feels like hours. “Tell me, did you enjoy Bertha’s lemon poppy-seed muffins the other morning?”

  Oh snap!

  My face is so hot, I’m positive I can’t escape this debacle without third degree burns.

  “What?” I squeak.

  Finally she meets my gaze. Her eyes are lit up with a glee I can only describe as unholy. To give her credit though, she does try to fight her smile for several seconds until it finally breaks through. She erupts in full-blown laughter so much so that she gasps when she tries to inhale her next breath. To add insult to injury, she tosses her dress at me so I can hold it for her so her hands are free to clutch her sides as she doubles over in laughter.

  My tan skin is now literally crimson with mortification while my mother laughs at me being caught by my boyfriend’s grandmother post A.M. coitus.

  “Mother,” I hiss. “Control yourself, please.”

  She raises her head to look at me, her eyes wet with tears seeping out of the corners. “It could have be—been worse,” she gasps between laughs. “Bertha did say you were wearing one of Mark’s shirts which was more modest than half of your wardrobe.” She erupts into hysterics again, completely unsympathetic to my plight.

  In fact, she’s part of my freaking plight.

  Most people don’t discuss their sex lives with their parents because it’s intimate, personal, and well—there’s some shame associated with it because most normal parents would be aghast. I never did because I didn’t have a sex life to begin with, but even if I did, my embarrassment is borne out of the fact that my mother is not normal. She has no boundaries whatsoever, nor will she hesitate to find humor in it.

  “Mom, it’s not that funny. Come on, I don’t have much time anyway. We still need to try on dresses, and then I have to leave because I need to pick up books for the semester.”

  She’s able to rein in her laughter, but she smirks at me when she says, “Nice try honey bunch. Jeannie already told me that Sophie was going today and was picking up both her order and yours. No getting out of this one, dear.”

  Have I mentioned I really dislike Sophie’s mom?

  I scowl and thrust her dress back at her. “Carry your own dress,” I grumble, stalking forward to another rack of dresses. After checking the size and price tag, I pluck the gray dress off the rack and add it to my pile of dresses to be tried on.

  The light laughter behind me stops in an instant. “Put that back,” she orders.

  Mom hates gray.

  I narrow my eyes at her. “I promise you Mommy dearest, you don’t drop this then I’m going to buy this dress, and I’m wearing it to the ball. I don’t care what you say.”

  She pauses and stares at me thoughtfully.

  “I’m not playing around Mom.”

  Her lips twitch. “Okay,” she agrees cheerfully.

  I sigh and put the gray dress back on the rack.

  I’m fully aware my reprieve is going to end the minute my credit card is swiped, and I’ve got a dress she approves of in a shopping bag.

  Liz

  Mom’s eyes are still a little too bright for my liking when we sit down for lunch in Vittorio’s.

  Plus, the fact that we’re sitting down at Vittorio’s at her insistence that it’s her treat when it’s not even close to being my birthday has me on orange alert.

  The moment we step into the restaurant, Carmine Vittorio sweeps us both into his arms. “Ahhh, the lovely Irish Connor sisters!” he exclaims.

  My mother still blushes, even though he’s greeted us with the same salutation since I was six and still needed a booster seat.

  “Carmine,” I grin as he envelops me in a huge bear hug¸ meant just for me. He’s around an inch shorter than my own petite five foot three frame with a paunch that rivals Santa’s. Wiry gray hair rims the perimeter of his otherwise bald head, and his look is completed with a wide smile that takes over his entire face. It’s a good thing he’s a jovial person because he looks like he should be a jovial person.
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  If he were a complete ass, it’d be a shame.

  He releases me from the hug but he keeps a hand on each of my shoulders so he can look at me. He’s always pretty happy, but his eyes are twinkling. “You look well, my Elizabetta!” he says. “Does this have anything to do with the handsome, strapping police officer who orders all of your favorites to go every Thursday evening?”

  Jesus.

  My blood is lava. That’s how hot my skin feels, and without a doubt I am as red as a Maine lobster. A strangled sound escapes my throat, and my mother laughs and pats me heartily on the back.

  “She’s a little embarrassed,” she confides in Carmine in a stage whisper. “It’s still very new.”

  “Ahhh,” Carmine says, like he’s some wise all-knowing sage. “Elizabetta has always been full of life, but now she glows. This strapping young man is good for her.”

  Oh my God.

  I hate living in a small town.

  I stand there, mortified while my brain runs through all the reasons for my new ‘glow.’ Fifty percent of them aren’t appropriate to discuss in polite company, and I’m standing there with Carmine, who’s like an uncle to me, and my mother for crying out loud.

  Mom finally takes pity on me. “Carmine, is our usual table available?”

  He acts offended. “Of course! I always keep my table open for my beautiful Connor girls.”

  He’s lying through his mustached mouth, but it’s hard not to love Carmine—even if I am about to expire from extreme embarrassment.

  He pulls out our chairs, seating first my mother, then me. He drops a kiss on my head. “I bring wine. We have a new Chianti, you will love.”

  He sets menus down on the table then vanishes.

  After all these years, I don’t even know why he bothers. I’ve gotten the Chicken Milanese for lunch since I was sixteen. It’s a savory, tender breaded piece of chicken served on a bed of spicy arugula. Vittorio’s always tops it off with yummy cherry tomatoes, fresh real mozzarella, and a drizzle of their special creamy balsamic dressing.