The Royal Inn

The Royal Inn

The leather of the steering wheel creaked under my white-knuckled grip.

One town over, huh?

Fuck, that's all the distance I could put between my life and the bomb Murphy had just detonated in the middle of it just yesterday after my ten-year-old son, Liam's, voice had been a cattle prod to my system from the bottom of the stairs with 'Mom? I'm home!'

Hell, one second, I'd been swallowing the last of Murphy's defiant cum, and the next I was shoving a dazed, half-dressed man towards my back door, my own throat raw.

Jaysus.

My foot pressed harder on the gas. I was pissed.

No, pissed was a polite, tidy word for the inferno raging in my gut. I was incandescent with a fury so pure it felt like a power source.

Murphy'd been stumbling, pulling on his jeans, his boots in his hand, when he chose that moment to fucking speak.

"I left her, Sam," he'd grunted as I pushed him against the laundry room wall because I had to get him out, no?

Liam was home and Hannah?

Shit, Hannah was like clockwork on Wednesdays.

My eyes on my map, I was almost there. The Royal Inn and its fucking joke of a name.

His words, though, they'd hit me like a body blow.

A flicker of something--pity, maybe, or a deep, sinking dread--had gone through me, and it went through me again.

I'd stamped it out instantly because vulnerability?

It wasn't a luxury I could afford--then or now.

"That is not my problem!" I'd grunted back, shoving him again. "Get. Out."

And that's when I'd seen it.

The sweep of the front of my daughter's car as it turned into the driveway.

My seventeen-year-old.

My sharp-eyed, nothing-gets-past-her daughter.

Panic, cold and absolute, seized me. I'd given him one last, desperate shove through the side door into the garage. "Go!" I'd hissed, pulling the heavy door shut. "Hotels exist for a reason!"

There was nothing royal, though, about the Royal Inn or its parking lot and I bumped over a busted-out speed hump, looked for room 207.

Murphy had texted me three hours after I'd pushed him out, told me he was one town over, and shit, this was no way to manage a problem now, was it?

Fury filling me, some fucking fear, too, my hand shook as I hit the lock button on the key fob of my car, his text landing in response to the one I'd sent as I'd pulled into the space.

Door's propped, come on in, his message said because of course it was.

It was Murphy and Murphy, the sweet-talking asshole that he was, was everyone's damn friend.

I didn't knock. I shoved the door open with enough force to make it bang against the stopper.

And there he was.

Christ on a cracker; shit on a shingle.

He was standing by the window.

He'd showered.

His hair was damp, and he was wearing the jeans from yesterday, nothing else.

He turned, and there was no remorse on his face. No anxiety.

Just a calm, infuriating certainty that made my teeth ache just as it punched me in the gut and more than royally pissed me the hell off.

"Took you long enough, Sam," he said.

The sound of his voice was a lit match. I threw my phone and keys onto the nearest bed. "You think this is funny? You think this is a game?"

"I've never been more serious in my life."

He took a step toward me. "I did what I had to do."

"No, you did what you wanted to do!" I jabbed a finger at his bare chest. "You blew up your life and threw the shrapnel all over my front lawn! My kids were there! My daughter might have seen you!"

"I know," he said, his voice dropping.

His eyes held mine, and they weren't apologetic. They were hungry.

A dark sparkle lit them from within as if he knew exactly what was coming, what my rage would demand of him.

My brain went quiet. All that was left was the burn in my gut and the need to wipe that look off his bearded face.

I closed the space between us in two steps, my hands hooking into the waistband of his jeans.

I didn't shove him. Not yet.

I just pulled, yanking him off balance, forcing him to stumble forward into me. His hands came up to my arms, not to stop me, but to steady himself.

The smirk was gone, replaced by a sharp intake of breath.

Good.

And that's when I shoved him.

Hard.

Like a little brat.

Murph stumbled backward, his legs hitting the bed, and he tumbled onto the mattress.

Body sparking, pulse beating, I climbed over him, straddled his waist, pinned him with my hips and my glare, my face inches from his.

"You will never, ever do that again," I snarled, my voice low and dangerous, my eyes even squinted.

His response?

"Okay," he breathed, his hips bucking up against me once, a blatant, desperate movement that was both a surrender and a demand, but then again, what the fuck?

"'Okay'?" I repeated because my fury demanded an outlet, and heavens to Betsy, his chest, the plains of his muscles made not from the gym but from hard work, screamed at me.

My nails, long, red, and real, did their job.

I pinched one of those nipples of his with the intent of pinching it off like the bad little shit that Murphy was.

"Who the hell says 'okay' in a time like this?"

Murphy hissed when the other hand mirrored my first.

I nearly pinched that second nip right the fuck off when I twisted it.

"Fuck, Sammy, fuck!" He cried, but he didn't try to stop me, and let it be known, okay, that at any point Donald Jacob Murphy could stop me; he could.

He was twice my size except in the dick department because my clit felt bigger than his dick most days.

"Someone who likes what he's about to get," he grunted, his hips moving up, grinding between my legs, against that swollen clit and pussy that already wanted him, that already needed him.

"You put my life in jeopardy!"

The anger tore out of my mouth and let go of just one nipple, grunted as I covered it with my mouth, and when I licked it as I sucked it, heard him grumble deep down inside, I felt my clit pulse.

"It wasn't your life, Sam. It's not like we were facing off, seeing who would pull that trigger first. You weren't dying."

I dropped that now sopping wet red man nipple out of my mouth and I stared into those crystal blue eyes, my anger there, but that other feeling blooming in my chest.

"Fuck your semantics!" I dismounted his lap, found his other nipple.

It was red from being pinched and he hissed when I bit it but then growled when my tongue lapped that pain away.

"Fuck me in different ways, Sam," he sounded drugged.

Sexy, drugged, lost.

I felt his voice in my nipples and yeah, I ripped at the button of his jeans, dragged the zipper down.

I grabbed his cock, hard and ready, and my grip was a vise.

He groaned, his head falling back against the cheap comforter.

If the guys he worked with, his family--shit, if they fucking knew what Murphy liked, his life would be over, and yet there he was, that look only pleading with me.

I clawed his dick and balls and scrambled off the bed as I listened to his howl--yes, in pain, and yes, in pleasure.

I kicked my kicks off, rolled my left sock down to the floor, the right one into a ball in my hand.

I stalked towards him.

"You will keep your bitch mouth shut," I didn't just purr it, no.

I took my balled-up sock and I stuffed it in his mouth, and the air that shook from his nose more than told me it was okay.

Then I looked at his hand, how it touched his hard little dick.

Eyes on him, I plucked my t-shirt off.

"Nope," I grabbed his defiant hand, the one that tried to get extra pumps in, and I pulled it over his head next to the other hand, my t-shirt tying in place around them.

"Bad boys don't get to jerk off while they watch the show because they pissed me off, fucked my life," I fumed, his eyes never once leaving me, his cock never once shrinking, my butthole never once forgetting how he felt in it.

I wiggled slowly out of my soft pants, his eyes lasers into me, and then I did it.

Bottoms totally gone, I lifted one leg on the bed, let him watch as I pulled my pussy hair, and when those eyes followed my one hand up to my tits, I made him pay.

Standing in front of him, I cupped my breasts through my blue bra.

"Are you trying for more punishment, Murph, huh? It's eyes on mine, not my pussy, not my ass, and certainly not my tits," I barked.

And those eyes?

Yep, locked to mine.

The breath out his nose, not so much.

It was ragged and jagged.

I stepped closer, unhooked my bra.

"I should blindfold you so you can't see what I have here," I ground it out, slow-dropping my bra, my hands already palming my huge tits, his breath coming out even rougher.

But Murphy?

He was a good boy, kept those blue eyes locked on mine even though I saw his sweat forming on his brow.

Both tits heavy in my hands, I was next to him, my body curling and uncurling on the inside.

My trigger?

It was always fast. It was always uncontrollable.

Barely sitting next to him on the bed, I tugged that dirty sock out of his mouth.

"Do you like what you see?"

I pushed my jugs together, let him get a good look.

And Murphy was smart. He knew not to talk.

He nodded, those hands still tied behind his back.

"And should I reward you, Murphy, huh, give you a little taste?"

I milked my own breasts, rubbed them, made sure he saw them because, Jaysus, Murphy the fucking construction worker, got off on this.

"Yes, ma'am, it would go a long way towards our peace accord," he replied, a smartass tip of his lips that, honestly, I shoulda paddled out of him, but I just couldn't.

Murphy was cute. He made me feel lightheaded and dizzy.

And he made my teet feel amazing.

My hand supporting one heavy boob, I fed it to him, let him give it a good lick to start, and then that plume took over my clit, my body convulsing through that first mini orgasm as he sucked my nipple.

"Mmm, Murphy, you like that?"

He did not need to tell me that he did.

I knew he did.

His cock was so hard and that pre-cum was more than a dot.

Plus, he rumbled deep in his chest with each suck and lick.

"Yes, ma'am, very much." His mouth actually made a noise when he broke his seal and I threw him a bone.

I released my second tit to him, leaned back, and let him feast, hot hot breath and that tongue on my nipples, sucking, pulling, biting, a fresh orgasm building.

That fucker had once played with my tits for more than an hour, acted as if my tits were the thing that made him exist.

"You're in luck, too," I told him as he hollowed his cheeks as he sucked on my left nip, his teeth grazing it as he looked up at me.

I took my tits and I rubbed them against his tiny cock, let my wet nipples tap up the side and Murphy was wise not to talk, the same way he was smart to let me tug his pants totally off and onto the floor.

Naked, hands tied over his head, I did the thing I was no fan of: I swung my leg over him, hovered my sopping wet pussy over his mini dick, let him feel it.

"You know when I ride you I have no clue when you're done, huh?" I reminded him, my pussy lips parting as I slid down and over him, his cock going right inside, right where it felt so good.

Murphy cleared his throat as he filled me, his head dropping back for a second, the soft squelching sound of his cock through pussy lips then into my hole making me hornier.

"Yes, ma'am, I understand what that means for me," he agreed, my hips already moving, his dick hot and inside of me, my hands on my tits.

My body fucking sparked.

This.

This right the fuck here is what it was built for.

Fucking.

I leaned back, rode him, the slaps of my body against his echoing his name.

My nails leaving red marks on his chest, my orgasms rolling, one then another, the feeling of victory a reassertion of our rules and every single gasp he made?

A win, a score.

I brought Murphy to the edge, I let him beg, and then I took him back down, my orgasms crashing down in waves of sweat and rage because I couldn't feel it when he came and shit, I'd ride him until I bled.

But not today.

Today, I slid off after my sixth pop, my body limp, my body on fucking fire.

I tugged at the shirt still clinging to his hands and I pulled him up to his hands and knees.

I was spent, tired.

"You act like a bitch; I'm going to treat you like one," I barely garbled, the high from the sex, from the fucking orgasms, too much, yet I had to finish. I had to make things right.

I was behind his huge six-foot-three body, the same one that panted and heaved like mine, and he dropped his head.

He knew what I was going to do and that thrilled me even more.

Body behind him, I spread his asscheeks, his asshole right there in my face, and I licked every fucking thread of it.

"Shit, Sam, shit!" he yelped; there was an actual cry in it.

I flat-licked his hole as I touched my clit because he was amazing.

"I love your asshole, Murph," I crooned, my hand finding his cock through his legs, and then I went to town.

Hand tight to that cock, I jerked him as I rimmed his asshole, my tongue occasionally pushing in, making that cry from his mouth even sweeter, and then when I pushed in, just the tip of my finger going in the hole?

He came so hard I felt it in all of his muscles, his cum sliding over my hand, my finger sliding into his ass.

And Murphy turned, his hands somehow free; he cupped the side of my face, pulled me to him and when he kissed me, he didn't kiss me like I'd just eaten his ass; he kissed me like he'd needed me to eat his ass and like I--

Well, like I mattered.

For a moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing because--

Well, because who did this, huh?

What middle-aged people did this?

I pulled away first, swinging my legs off the bed, my back to him as I started to fix my clothes, to reassemble my armor, because shit, I had to give this up; I had to move on.

"Okay," I said, my voice cold, all business now. "Here's the plan. I'll help you with some money, get you home, figure shit out. Do what you need to do. But you do it there. Not here. This is over."

I waited for the argument, for the anything, but it didn't come.

I turned around.

He was propped up on his elbows. He looked at me. The lust was gone, replaced by that same, unnerving calm.

"No."

It was all he said.

It was simple and it echoed a bit in my ears.

"No? What do you mean, no? That's the deal."

Murphy's gaze never off me, he sat up.

"That was the deal," he corrected me, his voice even and calm. "We're not a deal. Not anymore. I'm not a problem for you to manage with money."

He stood, naked and unashamed. "I made my choice. I chose this. Now you have to make yours."

I stared at him, the blood draining from my face.

He wasn't begging.

He wasn't pleading.

He was stating a fact.

He had willingly taken the consequence of his actions and was now calmly rejecting my solution. He had absorbed my anger and was now handing me the full, terrifying weight of his decision.

"I'm not leaving San Diego," he said, his blue eyes holding mine, clear and resolute. "I'll wait. It's your move."