Next thing I know, I’m coming because he has me so worked up for a fourth orgasm, which he incites it with his cock’s invasion.
“Oh, fuck, babe,” he growls. “Keep those legs wrapped around me. You’re squeezing the life out of my dick.”
My mouth runs away from me. “Please move, Rett. I need you to move. So deep. Fuck! I love it, Rett.”
Rett does just as I beg and seals the bond between us.
“Mine, Johanna. Forever mine.”
And that’s more than okay with me.
About Carey Decevito
Born and raised in small town Northern Ontario, Canada, Carey Decevito has always had a penchant for reading and writing.
A writer of erotic romance, paranormal romance, romantic suspense, and member of the Ottawa Romance Writers, this lover of food will throw in a bit of heat, a dash of sass, a pinch of comedy and a dollop of real-life experience in order to provide her readers with a story that will mess with their emotions from start to finish.
Family and friends are her lifeblood, but Carey also enjoys conquering the outdoors, sports, traveling and playing tourist in Canada’s National Capital region. When life gets crazy, she seeks respite through her writing and submersing herself in the latest addition to her library. If all else fails, she knows there’s never a dull moment with her two daughters, her goofy husband and their cat and dog who she swears are out to get her.
Out of the Blue
DD Prince
As a paramedic, saving the life of the sexy, rich guy was just another day on the job. But now, he's kind of obsessed with me. — Out of the Blue
Out of the Blue
Christina
“You’re in very good hands, Hunter,” I say, ready for him to be moved down the corridor, but with reflexes he shouldn’t have in his current state, he reaches out and catches my hand. He holds it only for a second, but it feels longer. Our eyes lock and I note that his chocolate brown ones are filled with emotion. This is something I see often. C’est la vie when you’re a paramedic. I see life, death, hope, and fear in their eyes. Daily.
It’s usually fear.
I do all I can do to get them here alive. If they’re conscious, I try to comfort and calm them until I hand them over to hospital staff. I strive to ease discomfort and worry while we boogie through traffic with lights and sirens. My mission is to get them into the competent hands of the medical professionals who will save them, stitch them back together, and hopefully get them back to their lives.
Today, I wasn’t confident he would make it to the hospital alive. Fed by adrenalin, I refused to give up when he flatlined in the ambulance. Persistence paid off. I hope he gets his life back, or maybe a life where he doesn’t drive so fast, putting himself and others at risk.
The jaws of life were used to extricate him from his mostly crunched-up sportscar that’d slammed into a guard rail on Highway 400. That road takes a lot of cottagers to their summer getaways, is bumper to bumper on most summer Fridays, but it’s now approaching morning, which would mean the opportunity to go fast because those roads are pretty empty.
By the damage, I’d wager he was flexing the muscles of his sportscar. Hard. And it nearly did the job of killing him. Thankfully, it was a single car collision. Mercifully, he’s still alive here in the ER.
I often get looks of gratitude blended with fear as they’re wheeled through this corridor. The look he gives me says neither. I’m not sure how to translate it. He squeezes and releases my hand and then he’s saying something, but I don’t hear what. He’s gone, wheeled through the automatic doors by competent staff who all look not only weary, but ready to hand the reins over to the dayshift. It’s been a long night.
I meet up with Donald, my partner, at the water fountain where he’s taking a long drink. I give him a tight smile as I peel my gloves off and chuck them in the bin.
I no longer ask questions after the fact, like I did in my first month. I’d come back the next day or sometimes just a few hours later and ask a doctor or nurse how someone was doing.
Sometimes I’d check the obituaries to learn more about the people that couldn’t be saved, too. Big mistake.
I’ve learned the hard way not to ask. Now, I just walk away with hope.
Donald straightens up at the fountain and swipes water off his chin with the back of his hand. “If we wait fifteen minutes, we’ll probably get to clock out. If we don’t, we’ll probably get dispatched again.”
I know by his face what he wants me to say, what he always wants me to say. This isn’t an infrequent exchange between us.
“No rest for the wicked,” I say instead. “Just a quick bio-break first.”
I see his shoulders slump as I step into the staff washroom, hearing him mumble, “Yeah. Take your time.”
I get it, he’s exhausted. And he’s right…we’ll get dispatched to another call before we clock out and each call can last hours. But I’d never be able to live with the guilt of sitting down, shooting the breeze while people wait for their ambulance to arrive. Every minute, every second counts for them. I know this from direct experience. I lost someone once and if the ambulance had been faster…
Whether it’s a true emergency or someone who thinks an ambulance ride to the hospital will mean they jump the queue over sitting in the waiting room for hours in the ER, I’m 100% focused when I’m clocked in. Donald is dedicated, too; he puts everything he has into it, but he teases me that in a couple years, my green shimmer will dull just a bit.
I hope I never lose the zest for saving lives, don’t ever lose the sense of urgency, won’t ever pick chatting with some nurses for a few minutes during shift change over the chance to save a life.
Four minutes after we’re back in our ambulance, we’re dispatched to another call. We wind up clocking overtime because of an apartment building fire. It’s a bad one. Not everyone survives, but some do, by the skin of their teeth, and I know it’s because of Donald and me, who got there quickly.
Christina — A month later…
I drop my keys in the dish beside the door inside my apartment and see my roommate April, wearing a shit-eating grin. She jerks her thumb toward the table. “Another one.”
Ugh.
Another dozen flowers in a pretty vase, this time: blue roses.
I got a dozen red roses yesterday and two days ago a pale pink bunch. They’re pretty, colorful, and an absolute waste.
“Today, there’s a note,” April announces with unconcealed excitement.
You’d think they were for her or something.
I open the envelope.
I’d love to have dinner with you. Please meet me at Bistro Bleu at 7 o’clock tonight. The reservation is under your name.
“God, I hope you don’t have a creepy, ugly stalker,” April says.
“Just a creepy gorgeous one?” I counter.
“Finally, the mystery man will be revealed.” April is reading over my shoulder.