Never Enough(35)

I groan into her mouth as she strokes me, long and hard. My vision goes white for a second with the perfect, pure pleasure of Marisol naked in front of me, her legs around me again, my cock in her hand, and it's all I can do to keep myself from pulling her onto me and pushing myself inside her right there and then.

I don't. I run my fingers up her wet slit, circle her clit once and then slide three inside. Her hand closes around the back of my neck and she moans, her grip tightening on my cock as her hips move, her tight channel pulsing around me like she's trying to take me even deeper.

My fingers push deeper, stroking her inner wall. She moans softly, like she can't stop herself, her hips bucking and writhing, and I know I can't control myself much longer so I grab the condom, unwrap it, unroll it onto the tip and Marisol pushes it the rest of the way down as I take my fingers out of her.

We tumble together, a scramble of limbs, but then I'm on top of her and her hand's on my cock again, guiding me in, and as I sink myself inside her with a perfect, delicious thrust. She moans, the noise coming from somewhere low in her chest, her eyes fluttering closed.

Everything is white hot. I'm buried in her, tight and hot and completely perfect, and I bite her shoulder until she gasps, her fingernails on my back. I pull her knees against my body and thrust again, hard and deep and she cries out so I do it again, the same way, again and again until the noise is one continuous moan.

Marisol's got one knee over my shoulder. I don't know how it got there but it feels fucking good, feels like I'm deeper inside her than I've ever been in anyone, and all I want is more, for this to go forever and never end. We keep going, hard and deep, and I'm pretty sure we're both being loud as fuck and we might break this couch but I couldn't care less because with every thrust, her muscles grab me like she's pulling me in, more insistent with every stroke as they flutter around my cock.

She gasps, even louder. I drive myself deep, as hard as I can, and her nails rake down my back, her muscles fluttering and clenching around me. I keep going, not that I could stop if I wanted to.

This time she throws her head back and moans so loud it's a shout. Her muscles clamp down on my cock like a fist, and I thrust one more time and then I can't control myself any longer. I just fuck her as hard as I can while she shudders and moans, her whole body writhing, and I come into her again and again, as hard as I've ever come. 

At last, I'm spent. Still inside her, I can feel the aftershocks running through Marisol's body, her leg still over my shoulder. I stroke her thigh gently, kiss the inside of her knee. She opens her eyes and looks at me, removes her knee from my shoulder.

We kiss. I don't move, still inside her and on top of her, because I like being close to her, my bare skin on hers. I like her arms around my back, her fingers tracing slow patterns.

I like the way she smiles when I put my forehead to hers, as if the only world that exists is the two of us, right here on this couch in this hotel.

I like her.





32





Marisol





Gavin sits up after a moment, and I untangle myself from him, swinging my knee off his shoulder and wiggling my toes since my foot started to go to sleep. Not that I particularly care.

I sit up too and lean against his arm as he takes the condom off, ties a knot, and then tosses onto the coffee table.

"Oh, ew," I say.

He laughs and puts his arm around me.

"Sex is perfectly natural," he teases.

"But people eat off that," I point out. "You're getting ...fluids... on it."

"Someone will clean it," he says. "That's their job."

Right. Someone. For a split-second I picture the someone who'll be coming in here to wipe my vaginal secretions off this table. Since we're in Los Angeles, there's a good chance that someone is going to look a lot like me.

I stand, grab the condom by the very end, and head for the bathroom.

"Marisol, I'll get it," Gavin says, the couch creaking as he gets up.

I wrap it in toilet paper and then throw it in the trash, wash my hands, and come back.

"I wasn't going to leave it there," he says.

I wrinkle my nose.

"I know," I say. "I'm just weird about stuff like that."

He sits on the couch again, putting his feet on the coffee table, and I sit in the crook of his arm.

"Okay," he says. "No used condoms on the furniture. Got it."

I'm silent for a moment, trying to put my sudden squeamishness into the right words.

"My mom cleaned hotel rooms when she first got to the U.S.," I say. "Or, when she and my dad first became residents, I should say. She picked strawberries outside Oxnard on a migrant worker visa before that."

I swallow, still staring at the tiny wet spot on the coffee table, because I don't share my parents' story a lot. People love to praise diversity, and God knows that in law school I've met tons of people who think it's so great that I'm a first-generation American, but no one wants to think about who cleans their hotel rooms or how they get strawberries.

My parents still can't eat them, by the way. The smell reminds them too much of days spent bent over in the sun.

"I wasn't thinking," Gavin said, and I shake my head.

"It's fine," I say. "I just... have a thing about leaving places clean. She's told me some gross stories and I'm sure I haven't even heard the worst."

Gavin's quiet for a long moment.

"I've trashed a few hotel rooms," he finally admits. "Not trashed. I've never thrown the telly out the window or a chair into a pool, but I've certainly left some bad messes behind."

"How rock and roll."



       
         
       
        

"Liam's the one who would just fucking wreck a place, though," Gavin admits. "And it's not as if I ever stopped him. Though he only threw the TV into the pool once and he did wind up paying quite a hefty fee for it."

"It probably became the pool boy's problem at that point," I say.

"I've no idea who had to fish it out," Gavin says. "As well as a chair and, I think, a suitcase full of clothing, though that last point is hazy."

"Why'd he throw it into the pool?" I ask.

"Because cocaine is quite a drug," he says. "And there was someone on TV he didn't like, so he solved that problem by throwing it off the balcony and into the pool, and then that made a lovely splash so he followed it with a few more things until hotel security came barreling in."

"And you were helping?"

"I was sitting on the bed laughing hysterically, also high as a fucking kite," he says. "Though I think Liam started drinking a few hours before I joined his party and he can be an unpleasant drunk."

I wiggle my toes, feet resting on the coffee table, and hesitate for a moment. I've only met Liam once, the time he set my book on fire, and he didn't make a very good impression. Gavin only talks about him obliquely, when he's telling me a story about something else, and I don't know what to make of it.

They were friends. It sounds like they were best friends, practically brothers, judging by Liam's presence at every stage of Gavin's life, but Gavin never brings Liam up directly. It's like he's trying to avoid thinking about the other man.

I'm not sure I blame him. I haven't asked yet about the details of Liam's downfall, how he almost died and then got kicked out of Dirtshine, but I know Gavin's still hurt about it. I think he's avoiding the topic of Liam because they were so intertwined, and because Liam was so present for... well, everything, but especially the years Gavin spent as an addict.

"Did your parents meet in the states or in Guatemala?" he asks.

"They met on the truck from the worker quarters to the strawberry fields," I say. "My mom was nineteen, my dad was twenty, and he was aghast that her family had let her come to the United States alone to earn money for them with no one to protect her."

"If your mother's anything like you, I don't imagine that went over too well," Gavin muses.

"That depends on which of them you ask," I say, grinning. "My mom says that she politely informed him that she was the oldest of four children, her father was too crippled to work, and the family needed money so off she went." 

"And your dad says?"

"My dad says she gave him a piece of her mind about a woman's place in the modern world, the whole truck went silent and simply stared at her, and that's when he fell in love."

"Who do you believe?"

"Him, of course," I laugh.

"Have you found them a house yet?" he asks.

I close my eyes and lean back against his arm, because I still haven't quite told Gavin the whole truth. He knows I agreed at the beginning of this so I could buy them a house. He doesn't know that they're being evicted in two more weeks - before I even get the million dollars - and despite our best efforts, my sister and I still haven't found them another place to live.

I've almost told him a dozen times, but he's already giving me a million dollars, and if I tell him I'll feel like I'm asking for charity from him and that's the last thing I want. Especially now, naked on a hotel room couch together.

"Not yet," I say. "I'm still doing the research part."

"It is your favorite."

"I find information very soothing," I say.