Free Honey Moon by Arlene Webb

all earnestness. I ejaculated into not only her, but the land of happy-ever-after. The chemical draw, covalent bonds formed when I plunged in balls-kissing-ass deep, then those magnetically charged bonds bending as my cock withdrew against her clamping muscles, left me wishing I could freeze time. Hold to a fucking moment of spontaneous combustion, an impossible attraction of fitting together that I’d never achieved before.
    I yearn to recapture that moment when two bodies became as close as they could possibly be without devouring the other. Before my erupting cock and her contracting warmth and spasms warned the cliché is true, that all good things must cum to the end.
    And once the haze of satisfaction lifted, damnable reality intruded to rip apart bonded souls from both sides and within the rainbow. Grounded here on a lonely Earth, I must find her—have her again. See if it— she —is as real, life changing as I think she is.
    Sweetheart—are you out there? Reading these words? I want you. Your lips on my mouth, my chest, my cock, my ass, then resting over my heart. I want to hold and have and have and have you safely in my arms for a lifetime. I want to cherish you. Until death…
     
    Jesus, Dexter, snap out of this. He jerked his hand up to slap himself upside the head and slumped. He was parted from the woman whose name he didn’t know, and not by death or a prison cell—yet. There wasn’t a damn thing a good man would do about it. His hands wilted over the com-desk as his dick followed suit to sob against his thigh.
    What the fuck was he playing at? Christ almighty. His dick wept for a love at first plunge that had lasted all of ten frickin’ minutes? He snorted and scrubbed his face, wiping away tension while his hand shot out to delete every maudlin word.
    His stomach clenched as he erased all but the picture of the pair of swans. Beneath that, he slapped up a disclaimer saying sorry, but he was closed to comments until further notice. For the first— fuck it, shut up —time he logged out of his blog so he’d not even know how many readers attempted to comment.
    He couldn’t leave the woman clued in to this unsubstantiated conspiracy any means to persuade him he should risk her neck as well. Super-idiot had to fly solo. He glanced at the time—12:05 a.m.—and damn soon. Activating every spyware safety protocol he knew, he began surfing.
    Two fourteen a.m. and Sam closed out. He hadn’t paused until he had what he needed, despite his growing thirst. He pushed to his feet, walked two feet and opened the mini-fridge. Bypassing the glittering bottle of Cristal, fresh in 2030 from the polluted vineyards of France, he grabbed the second most expensive item in the place—a quart bottle of Russian vodka.
    Some things never seemed to change. Pockets of snotty Americans pretended as if borders to Mexico and Canada still existed, shoddy product from Asia filled discount stores worldwide and the priciest, most lethal alcohols came from the UKE, United Kingdoms of Eurasia.
    Cool and sharp, the gulp of liquor slid down to hit his gut with a splash of acidic courage. He set the bottle on top of the mini-fridge and wiped his brow. His hands clammy, a shallow inhale filled his lungs with the stench of fear. The musk of a moose about to have a pack of wolves—mated pairs working side by side—launch into his hindquarters then his throat, settled about him.
    He sighed. He had many regrets, and the most recent one was washing his face and hands before the numbing hours online. He raised his right hand beneath flared nostrils, drew a sharp breath and swallowed hard. Not a trace, a single sugar and spice whiff of the most beautiful woman, remained on the fingers he balled into a fist.
    Stop thinking about her, asshole. He had to forget women, the woman, the one, love at first sight, taste, feel—tight and wet and perfect… shut up. He grasped the bottle and downed another swig. Time to concentrate on the