Joey W. Hill - Controlled Response.pdf - Joey W. Hill - renee2010

Controlled Response

Joey W. Hill

One

Forty-five miles. God, the only thing better than this was sex. Sex done exceptionally

well. As Lucas crested the hill, pushing the burn in his legs, he snagged his water bottle

to take a measured draught. Releasing the bike handlebars to coast hands-free, he shifted

his hips to negotiate the inevitable curve. No such thing as a straight line or a flat expanse

this deep in the Berkshires. Every downward slope followed by a challenging upward

one. Like the curves of a woman's body. Or her mind.

Ben had given him shit about hopping a charter here for the weekend when they were still

figuring out how to make the numbers work for the Mancuso plant operation. But it was

all bullshit, because Ben knew Lucas did his best problem solving while cycling, just as

the legal advisor did it by finding the prettiest ass available and immersing himself in it.

When they came back to the office Monday, Ben would fix the legal snarls, and Lucas

would crunch the numbers into manageable pieces. Hell, Matt should save the money on

their corner offices. Though Lucas had to admit he liked his Baton Rouge city view, with

the backdrop of the Mississippi River.

It was time for a lunch break and a stretch, if he could find the spot his buddy Marcus had

told him was right off the road around here. He was pretty deep in the Berkshire farm

area, but tourists did -have a way of finding the hot spots. Still, Marcus had stressed

"hidden," even giving him GPS coordinates for the exact location, give or take ten feet.

There it was. As he rolled across the shoulder, he saw the narrow deer trail. A couple

broken twigs and some spoor suggested the brown-eyed creatures had passed through

recently.

It was a short hike, so it worked as a good cool-down. The light racing bike was easy to

carry, even with his gear. Marcus had said the glade would have a stream, soft grass for a

nap, and a frame of trees for the sky that would make Lucas think he'd fallen into a nest

made by Heaven itself. Marcus was a gallery owner, brushing shoulders with New York

art types, so such metaphors were to be expected. Or maybe the description had come

from Thomas, his spouse, or life partner, whatever they called it. It sounded like a good

place and Lucas wouldn't dwell on what they might have done there. To each his own,

but his preference definitely ran to heart-shaped asses of a different gender. Skin like

cream, and tender pink lips hidden like treasure between not-too-firm, not-too-soft thighs.

Just like Goldilocks, he knew when they were just right.

Lately, it had been just okay. Some lovely ladies, intelligent, beautiful, and willing.

Business associates on the same time schedules, which discouraged anything deeper on

either side but ensured dinner dates and sexual release were no farther than a cell phone

call. He was CFO for Kensington & Associates, after all, so he didn't have trouble with

that.

But maybe it was watching Matt, the head of K&A, with his new wife, Savannah, during

the past year. The way they'd taken the leap of faith together, and their love just seemed

to grow and grow. Not like a molasses flood, drowning everyone in reach in gooeyness.

More like the quiet reassurance of the ocean's murmur. Timeless, clean, overwhelming.

Proof that there was a greater purpose here. Maybe Lucas was ready for something

deeper himself. Maybe that was why he was cycling and Ben was hip deep in pussy by

now.

As he stepped into the clearing, anticipating the tranquility, he came to a dead stop, his

thoughts scattering like a game of 52-card pickup.

Marcus hadn't mentioned the spot came with a half-naked girl on a motorcycle.

Either that, or Lucas had been run over by a minivan and didn't realize he was dead,

stumbling into everything Heaven should be. If so, he was profoundly thankful to the

minivan driver.

He blinked. Yes, it was definitely a woman, stretched out on the curved seat of a Night

Rod series Harley. At one time, she'd apparently been wearing black jeans with riding

chaps over them, for they were in a crumpled pile next to the bike, leaving her lower

body clad only in a pair of silky ivory panties. Her feet were braced on the handlebars,

legs spread, ass snugged down in the driver's seat while her upper body was arched over

the hump to the passenger seat. The toned legs and generous ass were taut, for her fingers

were tucked into the panties. Thanks to the blessing of filmy material, he could see their

individual movements.

She was wearing a corset. Ivory colored as well, with one strap falling off her shoulder

and elevating her breasts so they were accentuated by the slightest breath. Just a touch of

lace at the low decol-letage that tempted full exposure from the crescent stretch of her

torso. The corset hooked in front, so would lie flat under the heavy white T-shirt she'd

been wearing, also lying in the grass.

Tiny earphones for a music player were tucked into ears as delicate as porcelain, half-

hidden by her hair, skeins of white gold long enough to fall over the top of the rear tire. A

few strands were scattered across her face by the breeze, teasing wet, parted lips. Her

bare feet flexed against the chrome bars as she apparently hit a good spot, biting her lip.

Since her eyes were closed, golden lashes fanning her cheeks, he imagined she was deep

in some fantasy, picturing her fingers as someone else's.

Or perhaps she was thinking about someone watching her, getting hungrier for a taste of

the pussy she'd teased into a wetness that had soaked the crotch panel. Someone who

wanted to slide his hands under her, grip that delectable ass, and tongue her first through

the saturated silk. Bite her clit through her panties. Women loved that, the buffer to

stimulation that provided friction, helped warm them up, so that when he finally pulled

the cloth out of the way and tasted creamed flesh, they would be writhing, begging.

God, he loved eating pussy. Second best thing to fucking it.

A gentleman—not to mention a smart man—would have backed away. But he couldn't

make his feet move. This was undeniably a gift from God, and he was a devout

Methodist. Okay, at least when he went home to Iowa during Christmas and attended

church with his parents. Regardless, there was a higher power, a higher order. Hadn't he

just been thinking that? Maybe this was an answer.

Yes, Lucas. In your search for a deeper relationship, God has sent you to a private photo

shoot from Penthouse.

Hey, crazier things had happened. Like his spontaneous decision now to become part of

her fantasy. As he moved forward, he hoped she wasn't armed.

Oh, she'd so needed this. Cassandra didn't like being away from home, but she'd had to

come to Hartford to close this deal. Two days of managing the negotiation had been bad

enough, but she'd had to deal long-distance with crisis after crisis at home, from the

minor issues that came up with her younger siblings to a frantic call from the nanny

saying her black-sheep brother had gotten as close as the security gate. Fortunately, the

guard had sent him on his way. Everything was okay there, and she'd been waiting to fly

home to Baton Rouge in time to listen to her baby brother Nate sing her a new song he'd

learned. That had been before the general manager had put in a frantic call telling her the

deal she'd just finalized had unraveled. Knitting it back together had involved a trip back

to the Hartford office and some corporate diplomacy, along with a little tactical bullying

of the key players for having almost dumped asixty-million-dollar contract over some

childish perceived insult.

That detour had kept her in the area an extra day, so when she'd passed the motorcycle

dealership and saw that they did day rentals for enjoying the Berkshire scenery, she'd

thought, why the hell not? She'd chosen the Night Rod and headed out with a map.

Finding this glade had been an extraordinary accident. Pulled over to take a break, she'd

seen a pair of deer slipping into the forest. She'd brought a camera, wanting to take some

pictures for the kids, so when she'd followed their path, heard the inviting rush of water,

she found a stream with a small waterfall, a spot too far off the beaten path for anyone to

find. Perfect. Even though she was far from home, the idea of being far from anyone, out

of the eye of the world completely, was exactly what she needed.

It seemed sometimes that all she dealt with were children. She much preferred her

siblings to those well into supposed adulthood. Was every man in the world looking for

Mommy? Did any of them know how to use their brains and take charge, hold the reins

comfortably? She'd met precious few like that.

As she'd sat in the grass, leaning against the comforting bulk of the bike, she'd closed her

eyes, imagined that hard bulk as such a man. Lying back between his legs, the two of

them enjoying the quiet beauty of the setting. His hands would slide up to cup her breasts,

tease the nipples with relentless skill as he pushed her hair aside to kiss her throat,

holding her fast as her legs moved restlessly in the grass, needing his touch between

them, something he held just out of reach to drive her need higher.

In a house of five kids, with her responsibilities as their guardian, there was little privacy,

even to do this. Often she felt like a bottle of soda, shaken to the point of near explosion.

Jesus, she'd even resorted to adolescent metaphors for her sexual frustration.

She wanted to stretch her body out on the seat of the muscle bike, strip down to nothing

but panties and corset, and make herself come, imagining herself as the pinup of some

virile god's fantasy, watched by him through the trees. She'd know he was there, so her

movements would be provocative, blatantly carnal, until he couldn't resist any longer and

came to her. He'd turn her over the back of the bike, bind her wrists to the pedals, spread

her legs wide over the rear tire, the sun's heat on the chrome burning her flesh, and oh,

God, she'd be dripping for his cock. But instead he'd kneel first, go to work on her with

his mouth, until she was screaming, begging . . .

She'd put on her ear phones so she wouldn't worry about every rustle of woodland

creature, the snapping of twigs. No one was out here, and she didn't want to care anyway.

Truth to tell, it wasn't a bad fantasy, imagining someone stumbling upon her. Someone

whose name she didn't need to know, who wouldn't let her negotiate or get away with

anything. Who would see through every ploy and sweep her choices away.

"Please, let me . . ." She knew she'd spoken it aloud, a whisper, though she couldn't hear

it over the hard bass line. When her eyes opened on a brief flicker to let in sunlight, they

stayed open. Widened.

Apparently, some perverse nature god had answered her silent plea.

He was outlined by the midafternoon sun, but the shadowing only enhanced everything

she wanted to see. Tall, which she liked, because she was five-eight. Golden blond hair

pushed back, highlighted with darkened streaks from sweat. He was shirtless, the muscles

glistening as if oiled. She'd seen bodies with swollen and bunched muscle, but he was as

compact as a spring. Flat pectorals, one or two faint veins following the curves of his

biceps. The small silver medallion he wore, perhaps a religious symbol, fell in the ridged

vee that divided the pecs and coaxed the press of her thumbs. There was nothing wasted

on him. While the arms were muscular, she could see the architecture of his collarbone

and rib cage, the frame it provided for the tight stomach that wasn't a six-pack, just a slab

of smooth muscle, with an indentation of navel that looked as firm. Tanned, he wore

nothing but a pair of tight bike shorts and biking cleats, showing off a pair of calves and

thighs also roped with taut muscle.

He was a young god by anyone's standards, but the shorts and shoes said he was

definitely of her species. A man who'd interrupted something embarrassingly personal.

She wasn't the type to jump up shrieking over it. Kind of beside the point now, anyway.

She was the type to tell someone to fuck off and let her get on with it, and watch him run

in terror. But unlike some of the infantile examples of manhood she'd been dealing with

the past couple days, he didn't strike her as the bolting kind. It interested her, made her

blood ratchet up a few degrees, her body obviously enjoying the view as she weighed

what to do next. Or maybe she'd just see what he did next.

While she waited, her gaze lifted to his mouth. The lean, athletic face which matched the

body confirmed he didn't play—he competed. He had the long, sloping jawline she

imagined an Egyptian prince might have. Lips with a touch of sensual fullness to them,

Joey W. Hill - Controlled Response.pdf

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