Page 64 of Road Refugees

Standing on tiptoes, Ford craned his neck to see over and into the crowd. He waved and shouted through the funnel of his hand. “Fox! Get your ass over here!”

“Fox speaks Spanish,” said Duji before loudly inhaling his refreshed drink.

Faux Pas added, “He was a lawyer in Taos before having to go undercover and becoming one of the globe’s best sicarios.”

Speaking of hitmen, I wanted to ask whatever happened to Santiago Slayer after being knocked off the train’s roof by a stray coconut. But someone was sliding their palms into my back jeans pockets, squeezing the globes of my ass. I was glad I wasn’t holding any more glasses.

“I have my blindfold,” whispered Heaven against my neck.

My dick lengthened and stiffened, and I had to raise my hand like a kid in class to ask Ford, “Can I take a short break?”

Ford grinned and lifted his chin in approval. “Go for it, prospect,” he allowed.

“Come, darling,” she said. “Eat my pussy while I’m blindfolded.”

I didn’t need another word of encouragement. I grasped her hand and led her back inside the house just as Fox Isherwood emerged from the crowd, ready for a mission to Cuba, I supposed. But would he make it in time to extricate Wolf from his fiery cage?

“I really want to fuck,” Heaven admitted as we rushed through the kitchen hallway toward the staircase, “but I want to make you work for it first.”

“Work for it?” I echoed. “That’s hardly work.”

“That’s one of the ten thousand things I love about you, Town. You’re a hard-working man.”

“Well, when the end result is worth it . . . “

Love of my life, don’t leave me. We had forged so much together. We were adopting a two-year-old boy coming from Russia next month. Ford had given us the cabin as a wedding gift. Shroom business was booming, thanks in part to Crybaby’s dogged pursuit of sales, Heaven’s creative propagation of new strains.

I couldn’t see how life could get better. But it proceeded to do just that in the next hour.

Heaven

I knew no old lady, especially the old lady of a prospect such as Town, was supposed to interrupt in any way, shape, or form. I just couldn’t help myself any longer. It had been a whole three days since we’d fucked. What with decorating, cooking, and shopping for the children’s gifts, I had been bone tired at the end of each day. Then of course harvesting and packaging the new strain of shrooms. Now I was raring to go. Our toddler was arriving from Russia soon, so there’d be precious little time for even the more mundane aspects of keeping house. Ivan would keep us on our toes.

I dragged my husband—my husband!—upstairs to our room. Crybaby, not knowing we were on an op sanctioned by the Prez himself, tried to shout, “Hey! Didn’t you get another one of those sheet cakes with igloos all over it?”

My husband just yelled back, “Later, Crybaby. Later.”

Once our bedroom slammed, I withdrew the blindfold from my cleavage, handing it to Town. But he was much too slow, with his lopsided grin. I whipped it back and put it on myself!

“I see what you’re doing,” Town said slyly I could hear him taking off his vest and thermal shirt beneath it. I automatically reached out to feel his silken chest, as smooth as butter, with just the right amount of chest hair.

“What am I doing?” I teased, ever so innocent.

The clanking of his metal belt buckle told me he was stripping off his jeans. Yet I remained clad. “You want me to lick that clit of yours until you splash me in the face.”

I felt myself blush. I had actually “squirted” Town last time. I had to google this unbelievable thing, but yes, it was a true phenomenon. I was mortified that at the moment of climax I’d felt like I somehow peed his face! But the reality wasn’t half as embarrassing.

“No!” I protested, wrapping my long arms around his shoulders to hold him close to me. I adored feeling the ridges of his tough scapula muscles, and the long, ropey trapezius. But today, I ran my palm down the hard slopes of his six-pack, unable to linger long before diving straight down to entangle my fingers in his bush. “I want a strictly sensual experience. I want to suck your big pole without my sight.”

“Oh!” he murmured, please of course. “If you say so. Though you know I can’t last long with your mouth—ah!”

In the twinkling of an eye I was on my knees. I expertly yanked the last pants leg from him as I gobbled his rod. Oh, the sandy-smooth feel of his glans against the roof of my mouth! When I squiggled the tip of my tongue in his slit, talk about squirting. My thumb, running the length of his undercock, felt the pulsating of precum bursting its way up the channel.

I shoved his butt against the edge of the mattress and increased my ministrations. I could tell by his groans, how he lunged his hips, how that channel throbbed against my thumb that he was right—he would not last long. But how I loved worshiping him like this! It was so far from the lewd, unfeeling acts I’d been forced to perform with Orson. I did not equate the two in my mind.

I remembered how Brighten would tell me the pain that comes with sinning is just the result of our conscious choices. God didn’t visit retribution upon sinners—we did. Now there were some of their fundamentalist teachings I could use in my everyday life. God cried for Israel’s suffering, for Job, for humanity’s misery. He gifted us with the choice to act independently, leaving us free to mold the conditions of our own reality. This could be a freedom or a curse!

I sped up my worship at Town’s monstrous cock, lathering his pole with my saliva, squirming my tongue back and forth against the jizz channel. Pausing only to suck a hard ball into my mouth. I was a cocksucker deluxe, and I didn’t hold back my own moans.