Back to Wando Passo David Payne (find a book to read .TXT) 📖

spell? And what if the voice with whom she conversed wasn’t that of God, or from God, not that of some good angel? What if it was tempting her, as the serpent once did Eve in such a place? Would this not explain so much that is confusing now? For her, a woman of her class and station, a white woman, to feel such feelings for a slave…Could this have a natural cause? What if…oh, what if!

“Do you think it could affect me, too?”

Harlan blinks. “Of course…Of course it could! But has something happened, Addie? Have you felt…?”

“No,” she says. “No, nothing, I just…I…”

He takes her hand and presses it. “I understand, my dear. I understand. It’s natural to be afraid.”

“What is it she expects, though, Harlan? What is it she wants?”

“Everything, Addie. Don’t you see? Me. This. Wando Passo. She wants it for herself and for her children to inherit. Our children. Hers and mine.”

“Ah,” says Addie. “Yes, I see.”

“I left her and came to you by choice,” he says. “It was you to whom I chose to wed my future, to be the mother of my children. I love you, Addie. Love me back. Believe in me, and we will win.”

“I don’t know if I can love you now.”

“Can you not try?”

His expression queries and implores her. He touches her, tries to kiss her, but she pulls away. Yet his eyes linger, questioning and unconvinced. He tries again, and this time she does not reject his hand. And it is unlike before, when he went on ahead and left her by herself. Now, seeking to recover what he’s lost, he is with her. Harlan is completely with her now.

TWENTY-FIVE

I think we need to talk,” he said.

“I have a better idea,” said Claire.

Leaving the water running, she climbed out, dripping extravagantly on the tile. Her upper body was flushed, and she came toward him, grinning, like a confident madwoman who meant to do him harm. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, she kissed him violently, opening her mouth wide and sending her tongue probing. Ransom instantly went hard and felt some old, familiar disappointment at his cock’s lack of character. It was rare, though not unprecedented, for him to feel objectified by female lust, yet tonight was such a time. Having waited for this moment, dreamed of it, he had mixed feelings when it arrived, and, really, shouldn’t he demur? Claire had last night. Right when they’d been at the tipping point, she’d had the guts and self-regard to pull away and say, “How is this supposed to work?” And did he have any less? The answer, the sad answer, apparently, was yes.

“Do you love me for my heart and character, or only for my bod?” he asked her in a feeble effort to preserve some shred of dignity.

“Only for your bod,” she said, popping his shirt buttons as she rolled it off his back.

“Well,” Ran said, watching as she seized the zipper of his pants. “At least we’ve got that straight.”

Claire laughed, and he did, too, despite concerns that it was not a joke. He hadn’t seen her this uninhibited in quite some time, if ever. She seemed right there, completely without shame or subterfuge. And it would be wrong to say that her address lacked tenderness; it didn’t. He had to wonder why she was suddenly so turned on; not enough to ask, though. Even as they began, Ransom knew he would be mulling that question for some time. Right now, sacrificing any vestiges of self-respect, he was content to fuck his wife till they were raw.

With her hand on his cock, like a rosy infant both muscular and soft, Claire stepped into his boxers, which were hung up at his knees, and pushed them to his ankles, stamped on them, before dropping to her knees and going down on him. She took him whole into her mouth, and let her lips cling like half-moist crepe as she drew back and stood. Her tits, small and full, still hot from the bath, grazed his chest. Grasping his shoulders, she pushed him to his knees and put both hands behind his head and pulled him into her bush. Looking down greedily, she made little thrusts into his face, turned on not just by what he did, but by watching herself act. (Ran surmised this from fragmentary glimpses, as she let him up, occasionally, for air.) Too aroused to stick with one approach, she turned away and leaned across the vanity. Like an orphan who has stumbled on the factory where all the love and chocolate in the universe are made, Ransom stood and screwed his fists into his eyes, then wiped the wet that had spread around his mouth like lipstick on a drunk Parisian whore. Her eyes were waiting for him in the mirror, her grin, the happy predator’s. Reaching back, she guided him in, and as he fucked her from behind, her eyes in the mirror never left his face. Ransom watched the heartblood migrate to her face, saw the veins form and plump—throat, temple, brow.

“No,” she said, “lower, hold it, harder, there, like that.” Pushing from above, she forced his cock to mash her clitoris with every stroke, and then she pushed too hard and he washed out on a wave of secretory ointments. Looking down, Ransom saw the puckered circle of her anus and nudged experimentally.

“Is that what you want?” Undeterred, Claire fumbled the drawer open, took out the K-Y, and uncapped it with the same hand she used to smear them both.

“Oh, oh, gently, buddy, gently,” she said as he shoved in, but Ran felt madness coming over him, something careless and unstoppable, and he pushed hard, harder, with no gentleness at all. In the mirror now, her eyes were closed, teeth gritting, and her tits, her full little tits, jerked and whiplashed forward with each backthrust she made. His own face, when he glanced