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I moan and thrash and writhe, and my head rolls from side to side as Curt continues to suckle me, his mouth doing things to my body that shouldn’t be possible.
I feel myself dissipate, dissolve until I am nothing more than a throbbing mass of ecstasy, a collection of firing nerves whose only purpose is to experience the pleasure that Curt’s mouth gives me.
I feel one wave surge on top of another, a steady increasing pulse that builds and builds until I can stand it no longer, and my back arches off the grass, my hips shining and my belly trembling and my legs moving on their own volition into Curt’s waiting palms as my belly convulses and my body bucks and my mind staggers on its axis, finally torn asunder by a detonation of ecstasy so intense and bright and perfect that I-
Just like that, I’m awake, in my bed, still being slowly pleasured by a tongue that might as well have come from heaven. I open my eyes and turn my head to see Curt in between my legs, still suckling while my orgasm rages. The man of my dreams is looking at me as if I’m some kind of angel fallen out of the sky.
I shiver and try to press my knees together, but his hands move up and open me wider, making the orgasm even more powerful. I shriek and my body folds in half under him as he keeps my legs open, preventing me from squeezing and releasing the overwhelming pleasure that he drives into me. Finally, my body gives in, my legs opening to let his tongue continue its work. "Curt…”
That’s all I manage to say before he’s inside me. Then I close my eyes and give into the dream.
Chapter Seven
Curt
“You feeling all right, Curt? You look like you’ve suffered a death in the family.”
I look up to see Garrett, the sergeant of the company, staring at me with a mixture of concern and amusement. I smile at him, and his concern disappears, leaving only amusement. “I’m feeling great,” I tell him. “Just got caught in thought a moment.”
“About the girl?” he asks.
I lift an eyebrow in surprise, and he laughs. “Come on, Curt. It’s as plain as the ass above your legs.”
I chuckle at his odd choice of metaphor and say, “Well, yes. It’s about the girl. How could you tell?”
“Did you not catch my comment about as plain as your ass?”
“I did,” I reply. “I just chose to ignore it. I don’t want to have to think about what it might mean that you chose that response.”
“It means you’re clearly head over heels for that little street musician you’ve been seeing the past few weeks,” he says. “What’s her name? Delilah? Darlene?”
“Denise,” I reply, “And yes, I’m falling in love with her.”
His eyes widen, but he doesn’t question my assertion. One trait that all shifters share is a certain comfort in our own skin. Since much of our life is governed by instinct, we have to fight harder to rule ourselves by logic and order, and in order to do that successfully, we need to be confident in our choices.
So he doesn’t respond by telling me that I’m foolish to think I’m in love. He responds by telling me that I’m foolish to be in love so soon.
“Don’t think of me as a dick for not congratulating you, Curt,” he says, “but are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Well, it’s not like I can help myself,” I reply. “I didn’t exactly decide to fall in love with her. It just happened.” As soon as I say that, I remember my run three weeks ago when I decided exactly that—to fall in love with her and make her mine—and I redden slightly but don’t correct myself. “And no, I don’t think it’s a good idea. That’s why I look moody.”
He nods, and I can see him weighing his response. Finally, he decided to just be open with me about his thoughts. “I don’t know you very well yet, Curt, since you’ve only been with us a few months, but what little I do know about you suggests to me that you appreciate structure and order in your life. You like knowing what’s going to happen next and not wondering about what the next day holds for you.”
“You know me so well,” I reply.
“The thing is—and I’m guessing you realize this—Denise seems a lot like the kind of girl who thinks of plans as torture and a goal as a prison cell. I’m not judging. She’s happy living like a leaf drifting on the breeze, stopping to rest only on a whim and living from day to day. Hell, there are moments when I wish I could live a life like that. It would certainly make things a lot easier for me. But I don’t think you’ve ever once romanticized the life of a rambler.”
“No,” I admit. “I consider a life lived for the moment a life wasted.”
“Well,” he says, “Can you see how that might be a problem for someone who considers a life lived according to plan a life wasted?"
I don’t respond right away. I can see exactly how that might be a problem. That’s why I’ve been staring moodily at the calendar on the wall of the fire station’s dining room rather than eating the beef stew in front of me.
But then I remember the feeling of Denise’s soft lips against mine, the way her delicate fingers tangled in my hair, and the way her body pressed against mine in our moments of passion. I can’t imagine a life without her in it, but I also can’t imagine a life without structure and order.
“I know it’s a risk,” I finally reply, “But I’m willing to take that risk for her. She’s worth it.”
“What risk exactly?” he asks, “the risk that you might give up your life of structure and order and live from moment to moment or the risk that you might ask her to give up her wandering ways and she’ll refuse?”
