Perfect Love (A Celestra Novella) (12 page)

Skyla is the cure for everything.

I’ve always known that.

And so has she.

Skyla

Present Day

They say when you’re sleeping is when you really live. Deep in your subconscious all of your carnal desires play out, dark and sultry, in the theater of your mind. Some people are lucky enough to control their dreams, navigate them in the direction they wish to travel and enjoy adventure after adventure, have an entirely different life from sundown to sun up, if they wanted. Other people don’t remember their dreams. They drift off to sleep and rouse from their slumber without any record of their nocturnal wanderings. As for me, I can neither control my dreams nor forget them. Lately they’ve been rather thematic. One naughty Sector and me, the tumbling of our flesh, the tug and pull of limbs and teeth—the steady sound of skin slapping over skin—the hearty grunts, our cataclysmic screams pollute the night air with their fornicating howls.

The hot sand of Paragon’s salty shore warms my feet as I wait for him to find me.

The shadow of a man strides toward me, fully dressed in a suit, that sexy snarl permanently set to his face.

“There you are,” I say, waving as he comes my way. Marshall is tall and stately—comely to the point of nausea. And each night, I need his body covering mine more than I need air to breathe. “You’re a little overdressed for the beach aren’t you?”

“What—and deprive you the pleasure of undressing me?” He hooks his sultry eyes into mine.

“You know me all too well.”

He dips his chin and stares into me with demonic intent. “Inside and out.”

“I wouldn’t want it any other way.” I pull him in by the waist. “Besides, I love it that you know me inside and out—especially the
inside
part.”

His chest thumps into mine. His lip twitches. “What year are we headed off to?”

He asks that very question every single time.

There always seems to be a light drive involved, and other than having steaming hot sex with Marshall, that’s the only other constant.

“We’re headed back to Clara.” I pinch at my red bikini. “But I thought we could have some
fun
first. Just you and me under Big Yellow.” I nod up at the sun.

Big Yellow?
I want to reach into my own dream and strangle myself for being so ridiculous. And who’s this Clara chick?

“I’m all for fun.” Marshall lands his hot mouth over mine, and not one sensation is lost on me, everything is alive, heightened, the scent of his cologne balanced by the natural musk of his skin. His tongue roams over mine, quick and lithe as a serpent. I try to drink this moment down as I work off his clothes, fast and furious as if they were about to combust on his person.

Here’s the thing. I like these dreams. As much as I hate myself for having them on a loop, I find myself still heady from his kisses when I wake up in the morning. My body aches to have him thrust inside me. All. Day. Long. And I find myself having to catch my breath when I remember how it feels as he brings me to the zenith of my existence.

Marshall pulls off my bathing suit bottoms nice and slow. He flips my top up with far less fanfare and reaches down and sucks my nipple with wild abandon.

I tackle him to the sand and wrench him from his boxers, thick and hard. He flips me over, and I take his weight, groaning with pleasure as his chest crushes over mine. My body writhes under his, my legs flex over his back while I beg him to impale me with his Sector eminence.

Marshall leans up on his elbows, a demonic smile building on his lips.

“You, my love, are everything I knew you could be. A vixen of the ages.”

He’s said that last sentence during a couple of our nighttime bump and grind sessions, and this realization startles me. It’s as if somewhere buried in his words is a riddle, or, at least, a red bloody flag.

“Fuck me.” I have no shame in this nighttime world. This whorish vixen I morph into routinely barks out orders, and he, of course, is more than willing to comply.

“Language, Ms. Messenger.” Marshall plunges both his tongue and his penis into me simultaneously, and a choking sound gags from my throat as I struggle to take his kisses and his thrusts. He pushes in time and time again. His fingers reach down and find me until I’m ready to hyperventilate, to pop right out of my body with the buoyancy he’s instilled in me. Forget what Brielle once told me about the bodily “sneeze.” This is an all-out orgasm building with hurricane force—Marshall and I are splitting atoms with our bodies—getting ready to detonate to the moon.

He pushes in harsh and greedy, and I dig my fingers into his back while begging for more. I want everything Marshall is willing to give me, and then that will never be enough.

His breathing pulsates loud in my ear as he growls and grinds without inhibition.

“Harder,” I command, and he covers my mouth once again with his. I soak in that fine vibration his body gives off as the pleasure builds inside me. It’s as if no one else exists in the universe—it’s just Marshall and me.

“
Skyla!
”

I jolt upright, shaking my tiny twin bed like an earthquake as the canopy overhead wobbles back and forth.

I give several blinks to find my mother at the door, her red hair set in rollers at the tips.

“Wakey, wakey! I made chocolate chips pancakes just the way you like. Get out of bed, sweetheart.” She presses out a forlorn smile while tilting into me. “I can’t believe it’s my baby’s first day of college. You must be so excited. I bet you couldn’t catch a decent wink of sleep last night.”

“Yeah, I had an indecent night all right.” A memory of Marshall’s viral assault sweeps through me like a nuclear heat wave. “I’ll be down in a sec. I think I’ll throw myself in the shower real quick.”

I cut a glance out the window. Paragon twists and quivers in the icy breeze as the forest of evergreens tower into the dismal grey sky.

“Everything okay?” Mom bears into me as if she’s onto the fact I just committed a dirty nighttime romp with my favorite naughty Sector.

“Everything’s perfect.” I wave as she closes the door.

More like perfectly
perverted
. I’m having hot sex with my high school math teacher in my dreams, and in real life I’ve yet to get to land on second base with my boyfriend.

I head for the shower.

Something tells me I’ll be confronting a hypersexual Sector later today and questioning him on his nocturnal wanderings. I have a feeling I know where he parks his penis these days between the hours of eleven and seven.

Well, fuck me.

That’s exactly what Marshall’s been doing.

§§§

Downstairs the scent of burnt toast permeates the air, and the sound of a baby screaming starts my head pounding. I don’t remember ever getting as many headaches as I have since my little sister, Misty, was born a couple of months ago. She cries nonstop. Her voice has the magic ability to travel through wood, and drywall, and steel, and no matter how many freaking pillows I pile over my head, I can still hear her hunting me down with her knife-sharp octaves. The only thing that keeps her quiet is my mother shoving a mammary gland in her face.

The house fills with silence just as I step into the family room. Mom is at the dining room table with her boob tucked in Misty’s content little mouth while baby Beau, my stepbrother’s one-year-old who she sort of kidnapped as her own, sits next to her in a highchair. My stepfather, Tad, sits at the end of the table with his nose buried in his laptop. I’m not sure if he could pick any of us out of a lineup, he’s always off in his own crazy world. Tad is nothing but a big ball of human frustration. Actually, he’s a Count. Technically, there’s not a human in this house.

Mia and Melissa sit huddled at the other end.

“Look at you.” Mia growls it out as I head for the coffeemaker. I peer over at my sister and marvel at the fact she looks more and more like a carbon copy of me with each passing day. Well, if I were a ninth grader, pounding at the gate to be let into West Paragon High.

Melissa is Tad’s daughter and my sister by proxy. Tad also brought Drake and Ethan into the fractured-family mix. Drake is eighteen, like me. But Ethan, well, he’s sort of been a bit of a mystery ever since he appeared in our family after a rather lengthy absence. Up until a little over a year ago everyone presumed he was homeless and dead by de facto. I think he’s a year older.

“What
about
me, Mia?” I ask, pulling the creamer from the fridge.

“You look way too conservative. I thought you’d look way hotter since it’s your first day at Host.” Mia rakes her eyes over me, up and down, as if I’m about to unleash a fashion felony on unsuspecting coeds.

“
Yeah
.” Melissa snarks. Her widow’s peak looks far more pronounced this morning. Her eyes narrow in on me, dark and hollow, and for a minute my heart skips a beat because she’s just managed to scare the shit out of me. “Are you going to hang out with a bunch of college kids or head up a young Republican’s meetings?”

The two of them break out in cackles as I inspect my brown cords, my navy sweater and pearls.

“Crap, you’re right,” I mutter. “But it matters not because I don’t want to skank out on the first day. I want get there and see how all the other girls dress, and if it’s a totally casual environment, I’ll bust out the Daisy Duke’s and flip flops.”

“Oh, Skyla.” Mom rolls her eyes, and it’s only then I notice she’s unleashed her other boob as baby Beau pecks his mouth in her direction.

She faux breastfed him in the past, and it was twelve kinds of freaky. In a way I’m glad Misty was born and saved the day because ever since she’s arrived my mother put away the plastic pouch she had duck taped to her body. It’s like she lives to nourish people through her boobs.

“By the way…” Mom scoops Beau into her lap, and he latches on—and holy hell, she’s nursing them
both
now. Good God, I have seen it all.

Melissa screams, pointing at Mom’s breasty malfeasance, and Mia joins in on the howl-fest as if a snake were wrapping itself around her neck.

“That is so freaking gross!” Melissa looks as if she’s ready to overturn the table.

“Where are these pancakes I was promised?” I bark it out in an effort to revert everyone’s attention from my mother’s boobs. If she’s in such a nurturing mood, I think she should at least point me to the carb carnival she promised. And once she does, I fully plan on taking them to go. Leaving is the only logical way out of this lactating Landon hell.

“In here, and they were
delish
.” Tad rubs his belly, unremorseful to the fact he just ate my breakfast. “Get used to having no food because if you chain yourself to that linebacker he’ll eat every damn thing in the house.”

I avert my eyes. For Tad’s information, I do plan on chaining myself to that
linebacker
. Gage already has my heart, now all that’s left to do is gift him the rest of me. Besides, Gage is all the food I need, and I can’t wait to feast off his body.

I feel bad that Tad dislikes Gage so much but as much as he can’t stand him, Gage’s mother can’t stand me. Last week, Gage bought me flowers and Emma got wind of it.
Emma wasn’t merely seeing innocent flowers being exchanged as a small token of her son’s affection, she was seeing innocent lilies morphing into a dozen vaginas and penises. This was a sex trade of the highest order. The closer Gage gets to my pants, the sweeter he seems to be. To Emma, flowers and candy are simply orgasms in the making.
Even if it is true, it’s none of her damn business.

Mom shakes her head. “Sorry about breakfast. I burnt them,” she mouths. “And girls,
really
?” She shoots an irate look to Mia and Melissa as if she’s ready to rip them a new one. “Some day, when you have your own children, you’ll understand the importance of giving them quality one on one time. If you don’t like what you see, I suggest you look the other way.”

“Yeah, well”—Melissa snarks, pushing her chair back—“I won’t be feeding body parts to
my
children or anybody else’s. Put him down or I’ll call the police! He’s not even yours. You’re probably going to give him some tropical titty disease and kill him.”

“Sounds like you girls need a lesson in milk maids.” Mom fumes as if her idea to school my sisters on boobs-for-hire is enough to quell the threat of social services.

“We’ll pass.” Mia gets up and comes over while Melissa flies upstairs. “What time do you think you’ll be home?” She wrinkles her nose, and my stomach pinches because I happen to have a habit of doing exactly that when something bothers me.

“I don’t know, why? Is something wrong?”

“Just wanted to see if we could,
you know
”—she shrugs—“talk.”

Talk? I happen to know for a fact Mia got her period when she was eleven because my mother ranted for weeks about the “damn hormones in chickens,” and, being we’re past the menstrual phase of our relationship, I’m not really sure what there is to
talk
about.