Christa Wick: Curve Patrol

His breathing shallowed until he was taking the same halting gasps of air that fueled my final spastic thrusts. Freezing above me, Noah called me baby one last time. I felt the first jerk of his cock as his release spurted inside me, unleashing another long set of rolling contractions along the walls of my pussy. My muscles milked another thick shot of come from him and then another.

Noah started moving again, his climax spent but his cock still rock hard. Trembling beneath him, I felt my eyes start to roll back in my head. I clutched at his arms, pleading with him to stop before I lost consciousness.

He only relented after he tore one last, screaming orgasm from me.

Collapsing on his side, Noah threw an arm and a leg across me, his face pressed hot and moist against my neck. Squeezing my shoulder, he drew a deep breath in and held it for a few seconds.

"No more pulling away, baby. Promise me."

For all the good it did me, I promised. Naive little fool, I didn't stop to think I'd wake the next morning to find him already planning his retreat.

Accustomed to sleeping alone, I woke several times through the night to find at least one part of Noah covering me. He had an arm cinched around my waist at three am and a muscular thigh draped across mine at three fifty. Four thirty found half his torso along my chest and his hand cupping my breast, the thumb brushing at the straining nipple as he slept with his lips against my throat. Each instance sent me drifting back to blissful slumber.

At seven, the bed was empty.

Wrapping my robe around me, I went into the living room to find him quietly slipping into his clothes.

"You're leaving?"

Noah released a harsh sigh, concentrating on tying his shoes before he said anything. "Couple things I have to take care of today."

He was halfway to the front door before he bothered to look in my direction, averting his eyes the instant they met mine.

"What time…" I stopped before I could ask when he planned on returning — or if he planned on returning. I'd fielded too many calls from too many women asking where Noah was, their needy whines like razors down my back. I wasn't going to be one of them. I'd crumble quietly, in private, and then get back to building my life with him none the wiser.

"Phil's coming by later, you'll be home, right?" His hand was poised on the door knob, his gaze focused somewhere around my bare feet.

I was always home on Sundays. He knew that. Certainly I wasn't out on dates. Not that there weren't offers — but the guys all had the same basic fault.

They weren't Noah.

I glared at him, promising myself next Sunday would be different. "Yeah, but who's Phil?"

"Owns a security company." He was jiggling his car keys in irritation, chomping so hard at the bit to leave it seemed pathological. "Window locks…alarm system."

He lifted his head, locking gazes with me long enough I could see regret sparkling like tears in his eyes. "Patricia…I…"

Whatever he was going to say, he swallowed it down. I shook my head, refusing to be the "thing" he was sorry for. When it was clear he wasn't going to say anything more, I spun on my heels and left the room.

I stalked into my studio and threw the curtains open to let in the morning light. Listening to Noah's car start in the drive, I looked at the illustration I had been working on. It was the cover for a children's picture book — my twentieth and the third with this particular author. Contrary to my plans, I hadn't finished it last night.

I had five more days before I needed to ship it or face the infamous wrath of my publisher's art director — a woman who could not be placated with chocolate or flowers or even lolcats. My gaze tracing the last strokes I had put down, I knew I wasn't going to finish it today. It was a happy book with happy pictures.

I was too damn miserable.

Grabbing my sketchbook and a pencil case, I returned to my bedroom and propped the pillows against the headboard. I sat down, surrounded by the faint scent of Noah's cologne and last night's sex, and started to draw.

Zombies.

Zombies are good. Not in some wholesome sense, obviously. They are decayed potential — the destructive symbol of human will — and they suited my mood perfectly. My pencils moved along the paper without my thinking. Zombie people, zombie dogs, zombie caterpillars. I drew until I filled the sketchbook and then I took a nap.

I woke up on and off. Each time, my gaze landed and then immediately glanced off the cell phone. I was looking for the flashing little green light that meant I had a new text or voicemail. Part of me knew Noah wasn't going to call. Not today — not for several days. He had to work on his excuse for fucking me one night and dumping me the next morning.

At eleven, I went into the bathroom and washed the last of Noah Lodge from my body. Half an hour of hot water later, I was dried and rummaging around my kitchen. Casually inventorying what was available for dinner, I thought about making a southwestern pie — Noah's favorite. I wasn't stupid enough to think he'd show up for dinner, but that was fine by me. I'd make it for myself and freeze the leftovers.

Except I was out of black beans.

I looked at the wall clock before I realized I had no idea what time the security guy was coming over. I didn't even know what company Noah had called.

Swiping at my phone, I sent him a text.

Need to pick up beans for pie — what time is security guy coming by?

I no sooner hit send than I started cussing at my stupidity.

Desperate stupidity — I'd just told him I was making his favorite dish. If that didn't count as a feminine attempt at luring him over, nothing did.

Fifteen minutes later a woman from Darling Security called to make sure I'd be at the house at two. I told her I would and hung up, wondering if her timing was coincidence or if Noah was avoiding me.

A white van pulled into my drive around 2 pm. The man that got out was about thirty, with most of his features obscured by oversized sunglasses and a tousle of dark blond hair. He went around to the van's back door and re-emerged a minute later with a huge black duffel slung across his shoulder and a clip board in his hand.

As he got closer to my front door, he lifted the ID badge clipped to his belt. "Phil Darling, Miss Harper. Noah said you'd be expecting me."

Opening the screen door, I nodded. "Only I haven't discussed pricing with anyone."

He offered me a broad grin and a wave of his hand. "All taken care of."

The hell it was! A string of swear words lined up along my tongue. I would be damned if I was going to owe Noah a single penny or let him buy his way out of fucking and then dumping me.

No matter how many times he'd made me come.

I tried to explain the problem as politely as I could — minus the bit about the one night stand and multiple orgasms. "It isn't taken care of, Mr. Darling, because I haven't discussed it."

I felt the brief caress of his shielded gaze directed at my breasts and then he smiled again. Reaching along his belt, he unclipped his phone, slid it open and started thumbing at the keypad. "Please, call me Phil."

His head was tilted down as he stared at the keyboard. He looked up at me over the black frames of his sunglasses, his speckled blue irises haloed by a ring of dark gray. "Noah said you'd argue with me, said to tell you this is Mike's rate and-"

"You know my brother?"

"You don't remember?" Smiling wider, he pushed his sunglasses up to rest on the top of his head. "Used to live on Madison, went by my stepdad's last name — Wilkins."

I shook my head. Even as a teenager, Noah had been the only one of Mike's friends I'd ever paid attention to.

"Well, I sure remember you, Miss Patty Harper." I felt another sweep of casual interest emanating from his blue gaze and then he looked back down as a new message popped onto his screen. Reading it, he gave a little chuckle. "I'm also supposed to make you feel guilty about my coming out here on my day off to get this installed."