MY PROTECTOR: The Valves MC Read online

  Once the house was back in order, I decided I should have a very light dinner, consisting of just plain yogurt and a granola bar. I felt too tired to cook and I suspected take-out would just make matters worse.

  All things done for the day, I prepared a bubble bath and undressed. Under a novel impulse, I threw a fizzy ball into the tub and carefully stepped in. I loved the smell of lavender in the evening and I hoped it would relax my unsatisfied need for Dawson Holt.

  As it turned out, lavender doesn’t work on sexual drive. The hot water gently touching my pussy and the fuzziness of the aromatherapy ball combined to result in my heightened desire and the decision that I should take care of myself if I wanted to have a peaceful night.

  So I lay my head back and reached between my legs. I found my wetness more than eager to be tampered with, but I told it in my head that we shall do by ourselves tonight. My fingers caressed around my clit, at first, pictures of Dawson and his generous member taking over my thoughts.

  I wanted to feel him inside me. I wanted to be taken by him. Hungry for his strong touch, I slipped a finger inside, a moan echoing through my minimalist-styled bathroom. Slowly I felt the pleasure rising and, although not even a close match to the real sensations that would have filled me if my fantasy were real, I brought myself closer to climax. The only thing resounding in my ears was by shallow breathing, which, paradoxically, seemed louder than ever.

  Then, my pleasure spiked, as I felt a strong foreign thrust. I opened my eyes to see Dawson bent over the tub, one hand pleasuring me and the other still holding the t-shirt he had taken off. I ground my pelvis into his hand, unable to speak. I needed his touch and it all seemed like a dream. I felt him change gears and pushing two fingers inside. He licked his lips watching me come undone around his hand.

  I came. I couldn’t hold it. My body stiffened and I would’ve slipped if his strong arm hadn’t held me so securely.

  “I don’t know how to take that,” he said, sucking his fingers clean.

  “What?” I asked, my voice raspy and weak.

  “Should I be offended you started without me, or proud that you couldn’t resist anymore?” he explained, smiling wolfishly.

  I felt my face flush and I looked away. The way he discovered me was embarrassing, to say the least. And he was in the mood for jokes.

  “All right. Come here. Let’s get you the real thing,” he concluded, lifting me out of the water and depositing my still shaking body on one of my biggest towels.

  He dried my skin with delicate moves, teasing my erogenous spots along the way. He followed with his mouth on my neck, trailing kisses to my breasts. I could only hold on to his broad shoulders, barely breathing. My legs were getting into the habit of parting by themselves and welcomed him between them. He gladly took his place and laid me on the floor. Bent on top, he took one nipple in his mouth, sucking it gently. I moaned, closing my eyes to focus all my energy on feeling him.

  He freed my nipple, leaving it swollen and eager for more play, and went to the other one, flicking it with his tongue until it became hard as a diamond. I whimpered, begging unintelligibly.

  “What?” he asked, his voice betraying his desire. I whimpered some more, his fingers sending shockwaves wherever they moved on my skin. “I can’t hear you, baby. How would I know what to do if I can’t hear you?” he teased, careful not to touch me with more than the very tips of his fingers.

  I growled like an animal in heat, trying to open my eyes. I reached a hand and grabbed his shaggy hair and pulled it as I moaned as loud as my state would let me, “Take me, Dawson. Take. Me.”

  He groaned, watching me squirm through hooded eyes. Then, he suddenly flipped me over and rose to remove his jeans and boxers.

  I looked up over my shoulder, hungry for him. As he kneeled between my legs, I raised my hips back towards his cock, exposing my wetness shamelessly. He pushed a finger inside me as if to hold me in place and he positioned himself with one knee up. He leaned his thigh on my hip and mounted me in one swift move. I screamed. “Oh, fuck!” was all I could muster, as I felt waves of pleasure shaking my core, preparing me to cum again, so soon. Too soon. I wanted to enjoy him more.

  He moved at a slow pace at first, careful to hit every spot inside my pussy, holding my ass cheeks apart to give himself a full view of my nether parts. His rhythm spun my head in place, concentrating pleasure upon pleasure towards my core. I couldn’t hold it anymore. My hands gave up and I lay my face down as I came again, a volcano erupting inside me.

  As my pussy clenched around him, he began moving faster and faster, a certain shadow of brutality woven into his need for release. Uncomfortable at first, I soon felt every inch of him and found myself pushing back to meet his forceful thrusts. Every time he hit my core, I released a high-pitched moan, and soon, I was on the brink of cumming again.

  He upped his pace even more and leaned on me, fondling my tits with fervor. Trapped under his force, I became one with him, breathing his breath, feeling his heartbeat, taking his cock deeper than I ever believed I was capable of, and we both tasted the pleasure of release at the same time, him squeezing my breasts in the heat of the passion, me clenching around his manhood to draw every drop of his cum inside me.

  We collapsed together and I shifted so I could rest my head on his muscular chest. He held me close and kissed my head. We lay there, embraced, on my bathroom floor, oblivious to the cold tiles, oblivious to the world.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Intent on not repeating the same lameness of the first weekend with Ginger, I wanted to make this one perfect. As they say, high expectations can only bring great disappointments and I was beginning to understand how one never knows what sayings really mean until one is faced with a particular situation.

  It was already Sunday morning again and everything I had in mind had failed miserably. Jenga seemed to have been received with a tad more enthusiasm but it lasted only for so long. An hour, to be exact.

  I looked around the kitchen, trying desperately to find an idea for an awesome breakfast, but came up empty, just as I already felt. I sighed, and resigned to making boring pancakes. I knew she loved her father’s but I also knew her father had set very high standards. I was hoping that the blueberry sauce I found at the farmer’s market could save the day.

  “Good morning!” Ginger startled me. She seemed cheerful and energetic.

  “Morning, dear. How did you sleep?”

  “You look bad,” was her answer and I couldn’t disagree. I must’ve posed a great contrast with her high spirits and the thought brought me even lower. I tried a smile, having lost my last shred of hope for the day. “I know what you need,” she announced, and climbed on the same barstool her father preferred.

  “You do?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

  “Mmhmm. But now it’s time for pancakes. Pancakes always make you feel better. Did you know that, Mari?”

  I nodded, thinking agreeing with her would be best. She was as bossy as her father and, although I loved her cleverness, I wasn’t feeling quite up to dealing with too much smartassery. Maybe a quiet day indoors really was a good idea. Maybe I’d try her with some stories again. Wouldn’t hurt.

  She tasted one bite of the first pancake and chewed it carefully. I actually held my breath for the verdict and when she dove into her plate, I relaxed significantly. Enough to actually start the conversation I didn't feel like having. “So, what do you have in mind, then?”

  “For you? I think you need some girl time.”

  I couldn't help but laugh. “That’s exactly what I had in mind! Where did I go wrong?”

  “Stuffing me with stories and cartoons and games is not girl time. You need to relax.”

  For a second I felt like I was talking to a grown-up. I was amazed in the strangest way and the feeling that I should keep the conversation going kept nudging me. “Oh, I see. What is proper girl time, then?” I expected her to present me with an array of British inspired hobbies like tea making, scone d
esign and other such things I knew she loved but no.

  She slid down to her feet and walked around the table to me. “Mari, listen to me.” She looked me dead in the eyes. “You need something serious. I don’t know just yet what, but I think we should watch the fashion channel.”

  That didn’t seem so far-fetched and I wanted to slap myself for not thinking of it myself. “Okay, baby. We shall watch the fashion channel, then.”

  She nodded, thoughtful, and went back to finishing her breakfast. After we ate, she helped me with the dishes, then took my hand. I was being guided towards the living room, where she took charge of the remote control and flipped through numberless channels until she decided on a particular one. The show, something about makeovers, was near the end and Ginger looked like she was waiting for something. Once the commercials were over, she cheered as a wedding show began.

  “This is what you have decided on for me?” I was honestly surprised.

  “Mmhmm. Wedding dresses make every girl feel special. Look! She looks stuffed, that one,” she pointed with the remote at a rather plump woman trying on a much too ornate dress. She was right; the woman did look stuffed. If I ever doubted her artistic talents, this was the moment I became sure the child was some sort of prodigy. She then proceeded to explain why one dress didn’t go with another woman and why the groom should have chosen another color for his boutonniere. It didn’t go with the bride’s smile, she said.

  Slowly, I really got into the whole bridal fashion debate and even dared to state that pure white works for both brunettes and blondes. She argued that blondes look better in a warmer tone and I had to give her credit for that. At one time, I regarded her with the greatest interest. I had always believed I did fine, even better than most, when it came to style, but Ginger could’ve put me to shame any moment.

  I made the mistake of liking a dress she believed would look terrible on me and I had to back down because she really seemed hurt by my choice. It was just a hypothetical exercise, after all, but that didn't stop me from daydreaming. For a second, I saw myself in “that ugly bathrobe,” as Ginger called it, and, right next to me, Dawson would’ve been nervously fidgeting with his salmon and white boutonniere. I wanted big boutonnieres and I wanted them to match with the ribbons in all the women’s hair.

  “Ribbons?” I asked myself. I guess Ginger’s ideas were rubbing off on me.

  I heard her giggle to my side and looked quizzically for the reason why. “You look like you’re dreaming about something. Are you?”

  I blushed and instinctively looked away. How could I tell her I was picturing myself as the bride of her father? She, however, didn’t seem fazed one bit. “I know!” she suddenly jumped to her feet. “Have you made your dream wedding yet?”

  “My what?”

  “Dream wedding. It’s a thing girls are supposed to do. I think boys should, too.”

  “I agree, but I have to disappoint you, dear.”

  “No!” she cried, making a spectacle of stretching the ‘o’ as long as she could. Shoulders slumped, eyes round with disappointment, she looked truly upset. I would’ve been fooled if she hadn’t decided it was better to right the situation than to dwell in it. “Do you have fashion magazines? Cute fabric? I will also need some glue and scissors. You can cut for me, just like in class, but Daddy lets me make my own collages. He trusts me, you see?”

  The torrent of words coming from her took me by surprise. I didn't know what to take on first. Should it be the obvious hazard Dawson allowed around her? Or the fact that she knew so much about fashion collages? Or, maybe, her bossing me around “for my own good,” as she put it.

  There were too many options so I resigned myself to laughing and following Ginger’s lead.

  “I believe I might have something of that nature in a box in the attic. From my childhood. I used to sew dresses for all my dolls. Fashion magazines I don’t have. Maybe a couple of Marie Claire somewhere in the guest bedroom,” I said, rising to my feet.

  “That’ll do. You should really have more fashion magazines, though,” she couldn’t help but reprimand me on my apparent lack of girly appreciation.

  I decided to nod along and showed her to the guest room. I scooped the magazines out of a box with miscellaneous items and made her promise me she’ll behave until I come back from the attic.

  She looked upset with not getting to see the treasures that were supposed to be up there but I explained the stairs were shaky and I couldn’t bear the thought of her getting hurt.

  I took as little time as possible, concerned with what excitement she might feel from the old magazines and afraid she’d start cutting out pages by herself. I managed to find one of the many boxes labeled “Childhood memories”, only hoping I got the right one.

  On the living room floor, she was deep in thought over a vintage ensemble showed in black and white.

  “Here you go,” I made myself noticed. She looked up and her expression changed to pure excitement in a split second. It was so obvious that I felt it, too.

  Getting her hands on the heavy box, she decided against moving it from where I temporarily had left in and dug right in. I didn't have time to warn her before the dust rose in the air. She didn’t seem concerned with such meagre things. Elbows deep into the exciting contents, she kept throwing back various items that didn't have anything to do with her vision or with the idea of fashion. I just stood around, watching her react in the most beautiful ways I ever saw a human have before.

  “Aha!” she finally exclaimed. “I thought you lied about sewing.”

  I smiled, curious about what had satisfied her requirements. I had been so taken by the look on her face that I didn’t notice a pile of fabrics and dolly dresses growing beside her. She gestured towards it in a way that said “behold” in the most theatrical manner.

  I moved closer and benefited from the most intricate bridal tutorial a five year old could gave. She helped herself with various pictures from the two magazines I managed to supply and ended up co-opting me for the creation of my very first wedding journal.

  I had turned an old notebook into the actual journal and we spend our afternoon cutting, gluing and combining the best possible outfits and arrangements for my dream wedding. Naturally, it turned out to be more of Ginger’s dream wedding, since most of my choices seemed to be the wrong ones.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Why did Wednesdays seem like the longest days of the week?

  I kept thinking about this phenomenon as I was trying to decide if I was hungry or not. During recess, students were in the cafeteria where I usually joined them, together with the rest of the teachers. Today, I wasn’t sure I wanted to eat. I was more preoccupied with the newest book I had bought and hadn’t even moved from my desk.

  A call interrupted my train of thought. “Hello!” I answered, a wide grin stretching my lips.

  Hearing Dawson’s voice made me feel energized. Without too much preamble, he asked me if I could come outside.

  I feared someone from the school might see us so I suggested the parking lot across the street, then darted through the hallways. I checked my watch to make sure I had enough time to enjoy his presence.

  Hurrying outside, I saw him pacing lazily on the sidewalk. He looked impressive in his riding gear and I smiled like a little girl. I felt like skipping and twirling around but I refrained from doing so as I crossed the street.

  “Hi…” He didn’t let me finish. He shut me up with a kiss. “What’s the occasion?” I inquired, when I was able to breathe again.

  He shrugged. “I wanted to see you, that’s all. Is it a bad moment?”

  “No, not at all. Want to grab a coffee while you see me?”

  “Why, sure,” he laughed and took my hand. “I saw a food truck close by. Are you hungry?”

  I thought for a moment. “Now that you ask me, I think I am. Is it the Mexican one?”

  “Mmhmm. I already had some taco from there. Let me tell you, it was the best I ever had!”

>   I approved wholeheartedly. These guys were geniuses when it came to food.

  Discussing the science behind Mexican flavors, we walked hand in hand towards the food truck. I noticed that my hunger had become more noticeable so I got the lunch special, which was a hefty meal with dessert, and a coffee.

  “Are you sure you can finish that?” Dawson asked.

  “You have no idea.”

  We sat at one of the wooden tables that the guys from the food truck placed around their car. I dove into my food with greater interest than I expected while Dawson was watching me curiously, waiting for his coffee to get to a drinkable temperature.