The Healing of Adam Cross

Author's Note: This story is an original work of fiction, the third in a series of stories expected to include several parts; it is recommended the reader first reads parts one and two. Future additional spin-off stories starring some or all of these characters might also be forthcoming based upon response and demand. Certain characters featured herein may also be found in other works by the authors. Feedback is desired and greatly appreciated. Email comments to the address in our profile. Thank you for reading.

Copyright 2011 by Jack and Josephine Cutter.

This story stars: Adam Cross, Holli Coverton, Michelle Johnson, and Kelsey Cartwright, and features Tiffany McCullough, Dave Cartwright, Benjamin Lane, Heather James, Lindy Mills, Eduardo Moreno, Jessica Barnes, Tim Simmons, and Josie Haynes.

This story contains: male-female erotic coupling, male-female-female erotic coupling, cunnilingus and fellatio, anal and analingus, threesomes, closet masturbation, heroic flashbacks, sex addicts, teenage eavesdropping, jealous boyfriends, and a dream sequence.

This story begins post-prologue on Saturday, October 08.

* * * * *

The night they first met, she dismissed his advances. She was tired of men—stupid boys, as she called them—and the complications engendered thereby.

It was fortunate circumstance what brought them together in the first place, as many of these things usually are: a Lakers game, two unrelated pairs of tickets, four seats in a row, Jocelyn and her sister, Adam and an old friend named Ricky, and Jocelyn and Adam seated by merest chance in the two middle seats, next to each other. He was so struck at first sight by her beauty, he said nothing to her for the entire first quarter, and did not even look at her beyond that obligatory greeting smile when she first arrived.

He tried some small talk in the second quarter, having built up his nerve and having been encouraged by Ricky—who was quite comfortable with the ladies and had a girlfriend of his own at the time—but was rebuffed, politely, each try. At halftime, he offered to bring both Jocelyn and Jessica back drinks, a simple offer, no pressure, and while Jessica was clearly happy about the idea, Jocelyn said, politely, "No, thank you."

In the third quarter, he casually mentioned a play from the game, an exciting dunk, and left the statement hanging in hopes that she might respond, but no response came and the silence was deafening. When the fourth quarter rolled around, Adam had pretty much given up hope. The Lakers were up by twenty and the game was not very exciting, and Ricky was still grinning at his failed attempts, and so he threw caution to the wind and said, "I'm sorry for bothering you all night. It's not every day a man sits next to a beautiful woman. It tends to make fools of us."

Jocelyn did not respond right away—in fact, she hardly looked at him—but from the other side of her, Jessica giggled. Adam remembered that sound, half-sympathy, half-amusement, and he always wondered if, because of that one laugh, Jocelyn had felt a little sorry for him. She turned, their eyes met, and she opened her mouth to speak.

The rest was history.

Chapter 05: Ten-Forty-Two

There are some men who know what they want and know how to get it; Dave Cartwright was just such a man. He was thirty-one years old, successful and handsome, with more money than he knew what to do with, which meant that, in addition to knowing what and how, he had the resources—and ambitions—to accomplish his pursuits.

He did have some positive traits. He gave generously to charities and held the door open for old ladies. He always thanked his mailman or other hard-working service people and never swore in front of his mother. He escorted blind men across streets. He worked very hard at his job.

He was also selfish and self-serving, with a foul mouth in private company and little thought for concepts of morality—his notion of right versus wrong fell into what could only be considered a vast, amorphous gray area. For example, Dave was utterly unfaithful as a husband; he would not hesitate to commit adultery if the opportunity was there, nor flinch in the slightest if the woman he was sleeping with was married herself.

For all intents and purposes, what is important to know is that when it came to his sex life, Dave Cartwright would fuck any half-decent-looking woman he could find.

That said, Dave would nonetheless report that he was very happy with his relationship. He got along well with his wife after more than a year of marriage, although in truth it was easy to get along with someone who was calm, cool, and collected, not to mention adventurous and decidedly low-maintenance. She was also quite easy to deceive, perhaps because she was so independent herself, and much of his own happiness was derived from her obliviousness regarding his extra-curricular activities and the true conduct of his character. Lastly, she was devastatingly attractive—vital as far as Dave was concerned—and with her gorgeous face and mouth-watering body, his wife would have made one hell of a stripper.

Dave would know: lap dances were one of his favorite hobbies.

His wife was not likely to take up that profession, however; Kelsey Cartwright used her physical charms to great effect as a residential real estate agent—between her excellent income and his own, they would never have to worry about money.

Dave was lounging around their expensive condo in Santa Monica, sprawled out on the couch watching college football highlights. It was a rare Saturday night with nothing to do, Kelsey was not home yet from a weekend house showing, and he was not very inventive when it came to entertaining himself, which meant Dave was bored.

Which is why he was happy when he heard the front door open and the voice of his wife echo over the hardwood floors. She was quite obviously on the phone, probably talking to one of her cluster of close friends.

"He did what!" Kelsey sounded excited and astounded, and her voice was breathless. "How? Where? Did anyone see you?"

"Hi, babe," Dave called out as she rounded the corner and her light brown eyes fell upon him. They narrowed and she did not respond, and her voice dropped to a whisper as she marched purposefully back into the bedroom.

Clearly, she was not happy with him—Kelsey was not the type to beat around that bush. He'd been out late the night before and had hardly seen her in two days, which probably had something to do with it, but it was nothing a few sweet nothings and a little make-up sex could not overcome. In fact, he thought, a good hard fuck would liven up the night nicely, and he still had plenty of juice despite getting a blowjob the night before, courtesy of some college slut.

When Kelsey returned a few moments later, Dave's excitement shot straight into the realm of significant lust: the beautiful woman was wore only her panties and bra, which put on prominent display her fantastic figure.

At twenty-eight, Kelsey was still as hot as she'd been at eighteen. Her lovely face was topped by dark red hair that fell about her head and shoulders, highlighted by those expressive light brown eyes. Her features were fine, her skin smooth and bronzed, and her teeth pearly white, but it was her body which set the woman apart from her competitors: her breasts were huge and round and real—32DD, as Dave knew and often revealed—her stomach was flat, her legs were long and lean, and her ass was a slice of apple-shaped perfection.

And here Kelsey was on glorious display, her butt swishing back-and-forth as she walked past him and into the kitchen. Moments later, she returned with a bottled water and went back into the bedroom, which was her usual signal that she wanted sex. Dave knew her little signs; he was going to get lucky with his own personal pussy tonight. She was smoldering hot, and she was all his—he knew that no matter how egregious his own infidelities, as long as she remained ignorant she would never cheat herself, and it was nice, as he often said, to know that there was at least one hot pussy in the world reserved only for him.

He rose from the couch and went into the bedroom, but found that Kelsey had already gotten into the shower and was cleansing herself. "Want me to join you, babe?" he asked with a cheeky grin on his face as he poked his head into the bathroom.

"No," she replied, simply and without trace of emotion.

Dave frowned. He had expected her to say yes. "Ok, I'll just wait for you in the bedroom."

"You do that," she called.

Dave plopped down on the bed and waited, and ended up waiting for nearly thirty minutes. By the time she emerged from the bathroom, he was at the end of reading an entire Sports Illustrated magazine, and this from a guy who did not like to read.

The wait, however, was worth it.

Kelsey was completely naked. Her breasts jiggled as she walked, the pink of her nipples shriveled into little points and the soft swath of red hair between her legs neatly groomed. It was a marvelous sight to behold, and despite all the sex he got on the side, the sight of his wife's nude flesh never ceased to excite him.

Dave was now achingly hard, but he did not mind the pain, knowing it would soon be alleviated; Kelsey would only flaunt herself so when trying to turn him on. Despite the cold front she was putting up, she had to be horny.

She moved through the bedroom and into the closet, and closed the door behind her, which was strange. Dave figured, after a moment of contemplation, that she was going to surprise him with some hot little outfit or lingerie get-up, which she often liked to do.

And so he waited . . . and waited . . . and waited.

Fifteen minutes later, she still had not emerged from the closet. Dave was still semi-hard, but it had wilted considerably, and the excited grin had curved down into a frown. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a female moan.

Dave rose, wondering just what the hell was happening, and moved to the closet door; so close, it was easy to hear the moans of his wife from within. He officially had no idea what was going on, and so he opened the door and looked inside.

What he saw both shocked and aroused him to great degree.

Kelsey was on the carpeted floor of the closet with a dildo shoved inside her pussy. She was on her knees with her ass was in the air, her shoulders down against the ground, one arm splayed off to the side while the other was curled up from between her legs, working the dildo in and out, deeper and deeper. A thin sheen of sweat covered her skin, her limbs trembled with pleasure, her brilliant red hair was pooled around her hair, her eyes were closed, and her mouth was open as she panted and moaned. Clearly, she was nearing orgasm.

"What the fuck?" Dave asked.

Kelsey opened her eyes and looked up at her husband, and said in a voice that wavered with the pleasure she was giving herself, but held beneath a fiercely rigid resolve, "Do you mind? I'm about to cum."

And so she did.

Her words trailed off into a wail as the orgasm crashed over her, her limbs quaking violently as her pussy twitched around the invasive plastic cylinder. The wails turned to whimpers and her airborne ass toppled over to the carpet as she pulled the saturated dildo past her pink folds.

Dave watched his wife creaming herself with an utterly flabbergasted look upon his face. If she had wanted to cum, why had she not just fucked him?

Kelsey opened her eyes again and saw him still standing there, watching her. "Do you mind?" she said in that same tone that balanced the edge of the knife so subtlety. "I'm trying to enjoy my afterglow."

And so Dave left and closed the door behind him—wondering all the while exactly what it was that she was mad at him about, because she had to be mad about something to be acting the way she was—and headed for the bathroom in search of a cold shower.

At that particular moment, there was nothing he needed more.

* * *

The manager of the Café Montenegro in Beverly Hills was a man named Eduardo Moreno, and he had managed of that establishment for more than twenty years. It was a glamorous and ritzy restaurant, well-decorated with deep, dark colors, and catered to a clientele that was famous and wealthy and powerful, and often times more things even than those. It was nearly impossible to get a reservation; tables were books weeks in advance. Wait times for those

with

reservations were known to exceed two hours. This was due in large part to the walk-in business of the famous, who were always granted tables immediately, and part of the layperson's experience at Café Montenegro was said layperson's close proximity to such people.

Which is why it came to no surprise on that particular Saturday night when a handsome young man with two beautiful young women draped on his arms walked with supreme confidence through the door, announced he did not have a reservation but was looking to be seated, and was taken instantly back by Eduardo himself to one of the more secluded booths.

An older man who had waited several weeks to bring his wife to the restaurant, as well as forty-five minutes past his intended reservation time—but who had now witnessed a handful of stars, starlets, and politicos breeze in and out of the place, and was incredibly happy for that reason—leaned over and whispered to his wife, "That person must be famous."

And as the party of three walked through the primary dining room, heads turned to watch them pass, even the heads of the famous and powerful, for it was not every day that Eduardo himself escorted parties back to their tables, which meant this particular man had to be a really big deal.

Which also explained why the women on his arms were insanely beautiful. On his right arm was a goddess, a statuesque beauty with flowing chestnut hair that fell in rivers over her shoulders and two blazingly bright blue eyes. She wore a form-fitting black dress cut low in a curve in the front and lower to a point in the back: ample amounts of cleavage were visible, as well as almost the entire sleek track of her spine. On his left arm was another gorgeous specimen of femininity, a little blonde bombshell in a pure white dress that left little to the imagination. Her blonde hair cascaded off her head like an explosion, her skin was golden brown, and her eyes were also big and bright and blue. While her breasts were not as large as her counterparts, they were huge for her petite size and looked like mountains rising from her chest. The white dress was short and barely covered her rump, which left her toned and tantalizing legs on excellent display.

Eduardo escorted the man and his guests back to the table that was reserved for only the highest of profile guests. It was a booth in one of the back corners of the restaurant with a curtain that closed to effectively shut out all possible viewing. He smiled as they walked; heads were watching their little procession with amazingly curious expressions. He wondered if they would be disappointed if they knew the truth.

And the truth of the matter was that the man Eduardo was escorting was not famous, nor wealthy, nor powerful. His name was Adam Cross and there were few beyond the circle of his friends who would know that name.

Eduardo, however, knew that name; it was the name of the man Eduardo had thanked and thanked and thanked again in his prayers every day for the past five years. He remembered the moment like yesterday . . .

. . . Sarah was a precocious young girl, always prone to getting herself into trouble, but her father loved her dearly. Her mother passed away eight years earlier—when Sarah was just five years old—but out of tragedy grew a deep bond between father and daughter; they were best friends.

Which is why when they were standing one day at the far end of the pier in Santa Monica and a mob of unruly young boys chasing each other around crashed into them, sending his beloved daughter Sarah hurtling over the side and into the churning waters below—on a day when there were tide warnings, heavy wind, and big waves—the whole of Eduardo's existence flashed before his eyes, for he could not swim and could not hope to save her.

And he remembered the scream that ripped then from his throat in that moment, when all was lost, which was described to him afterward as the purest sound of agonized fear ever created.

And he remembered the crowd of people who rushed for him, not understanding that his little girl was drowning beneath their feet.

And he remembered the soft voice that spoke urgently in his ear by the one person attentive enough to have recognized what happened, a voice that said, "Don't worry. I'll bring her back."

And he remembered looking up into the face of Adam Cross in that moment, the moment just before the man plunged over the side of the pier after his daughter, risking death of his own, and seeing in the man's eyes such a calm resolve that immediately Eduardo knew that everything would be all right.

And he remembered the moment when Adam emerged from the waters below, Sarah clutching tightly to his chest, frightened but unharmed in every way that mattered, and the moment when Adam returned Eduardo's daughter to him.

And he remembered in that moment his solemn vow to forever help and support the young man standing before him, whom he would come to learn was only nineteen years old, and who from that moment would be considered a part of their family.

* * *

Adam Cross let the ladies take their seats, which allowed him time to linger a moment with Eduardo before he sat down.

"How's Sarah?" he asked with a smile.

Eduardo beamed. "

Excelente

, my friend," he replied. "She graduates in June and starts UCLA in the fall. She earned early acceptance! She wanted to stay close to home, you know." His voice dropped softer then, for he was to broach a subject that hurt them all. "I am happy you have come, Adam. I have not seen you since the funeral. Sarah misses you."

Adam nodded. "I've been away too long. Tell her I'll come to dinner one of these nights soon, ok? I promise."

"I will tell her, she will be very excited," Eduardo said, then grinned. "Now, let me leave you to these two beautiful ladies. You will have to tell me the story of them over dinner another time."

Adam grinned right back. "Indeed," he replied, and took his seat.

"You have a lot of explaining to do, mister," said Holli Coverton with an arched eyebrow. She was impressed and amused in equal measure; it was not often someone she knew was on speaking terms with the manager of Café Montenegro, and could walk in without a reservation.

"No wonder you like him," said Michelle Johnson, Holli's girlfriend and lover. She'd only met Adam a few minutes earlier.

Adam shrugged. "We're old friends," he replied.

Holli did not buy it. "There is more to it than that," she said. "When we walked in, his face lit up like he'd seen an angel from heaven. You're a very interesting man, Adam Cross."

"Cute, too," said Michelle.

"There is more," Adam admitted, "but that's a story saved for another time and place. I've wanted to meet Michelle for several days, and now that I finally have her in person, nothing will stop me from telling her how beautiful she is."

Michelle giggled.

"See what I mean, sweetie?" Holli said.

"He does seem to know how to use his mouth," the blonde replied thoughtfully.

"You have no idea," Holli said with a laugh.

And so the dinner progressed and the conversation flowed, and three new friends came to know each other better—very much liking all the various avenues they explored—and in the back of each of their minds was the thought that theirs would be a friendship to last a long time to come.

* * *

Benjamin Lane was amazed by the world of endless possibilities opened up to him by Dave Cartwright and Trent McCullough. There was pussy everywhere, and readily available if only one knew where and how to find it. His guilty conscience weighed on him briefly—but then two young sluts in Vegas spread their legs, and from that point on Ben went with the flow.