Since I didn’t want to face Deloy again—I was already feeling like a massive hypocrite since it was I who needed to escape from an abusive asshole—I snuck on past the kitchen and into my bedroom. The house was in escrow, and Gideon had just thrown a few basic pieces of furniture into it. I had a bed, but no nightstand or dresser. My overnight bag lay open on the floor under a large window that looked out onto God’s country. I hadn’t really been thinking when I packed it. I’d just been planning to go from Provo to Bountiful, examine some young men for venereal diseases, maybe spend one night with my sister, and go back home. My excuse for coming down to Avalanche was that if the VD test came back positive, Deloy would need me.
What was Deloy thinking, joining an MC? Did they even want him? He was probably already heading for his needle and thread to sew a patch onto his new leather vest, and they had no idea who he was. Then it struck me. Deloy had always been a part of something bigger than himself. At first, he’d belonged in Cornucopia. Until he hadn’t. Then he was part of the street scene in Bountiful, reveling in the gutters with his fellow Lost Boys. When Levon Rockwell had scooped him up, he’d joined his sleazy empire.
Now he probably felt lost, adrift without a group to belong to. It made sense he’d want to follow his Lost Boy-in-arms, Dingo, into the brotherhood of the MC. They’d never let him in. He’d fail the first test, actually riding a motorcycle. I felt better knowing this.
Where was Mahalia? Sighing, I flopped onto my unmade bed. I was still wearing sweats because I hadn’t gone anywhere that day, just waiting as usual for the dumbass to call me back. Bored, I let my hand trail lazily down my belly. I allowed it to delve down the front of the sweats, over my mound. I pinched my outer lips together and rubbed, letting the slickness massage the bud of my clitoris. I may have even gasped. I knew I wanted more.
Men never bothered satisfying women. They pretty much expected you to get all excited, both mentally and physically, over a quick makeout session. They’d feel your boobs—almost nonexistent boobs in my case—and they’d tweak your nipples as though dialing a radio. I don’t know who all men have been toying with, but it must’ve been a blowup sex doll for it to get primed and ready over such feeble and fumbling manhandling.
Then they’d climb on top, wham, bam, thank you ma’am style. As a nurse, I know that a penis pounding away inside a vagina is not the most scintillating thing in the world. There are minimal nerve endings inside the vaginal canal. Fucking like that is more like an assault than “lovemaking.” It’s all about the clitoris, and for some reason our vengeful God designed us so that the clit sits a bit too high up to get much action during penetration. I’d had success using a vibrator while Giovanni—and a few boyfriends before him—did me dogstyle. Still, it always felt artificial and forced, so I usually just let him assault me, smiling weakly afterward.
I’d learned that self-love was the best, and now my fingers leisurely stroked my clit, already elongating and filling with blood. My free hand moved to my breast, where I lightly scraped my nail across the nipple. As I felt my body sink deeper into the mattress, my hips rocked rhythmically, as though I swayed to a bossa nova. My senses started shutting down one by one, my vision tunneling into blackness at the edges, my ears hearing nothing past my own heartbeat.
Yet every centimeter of my skin was alive in the best sense, and I sped up my attention to my clit. This was where images, of sexy actors and other men I didn’t personally know, came into the picture. After seeing Magic Mike, lately it’d been Joe Manganiello. Imagine my shock when the face—and cut torso—of Levon Rockwell insinuated itself into my fantasies!
After the initial shock, though, I made a split-second decision to go with it. I was already riding high on the orgasmic roller coaster. Blood filled my pelvis, and that indescribably tense yearning was building in my uterus and thighs. I wasn’t going to let an image of some asshole ruin it for me, so I went with it, allowing my fantasy Levon to strip off his flimsy tee and exhibit his ripped abs.
Oh yeah. This was working better than Joe Manganiello, maybe because I’d recently seen Levon’s buff torso with my own eyes. My hypothalamus filling with oxytocin, getting ready to let the floodgates roar open, as Pretend Levon did a coy strip tease, sliding his palm over the stunning bulge in his too-tight jeans, and squeezing.
It was the squeezing that did it. Bang, I went off like a firecracker. My thighs shuddered with the sudden release, my hips shimmying in a wild dance. The image of Levon evaporated almost with a loud pop as I felt my eyeballs roll up into my skull. Contraction gave way to new contraction, each one stronger than the last.