by Ella James
Instead, he makes me feel that way. His hand smooths over my hair, his fingers spreading gently over my head, lightly massaging even as he shakes and pants.
“This is…just a phase of it,” he manages.
“Of course. It will fall away, and you’ll feel so much better.”
His grip on me tightens. I feel him struggling to breathe.
“Let’s lie down, darling. Is that all right?”
His eyes cling to my face as we lie on our sides. I cover him with my sleeping bag and reach beneath the blanket for his hand.
“You’re so strong,” I murmur, stroking his trembling fingers. “I’m so sorry we’re still here. I tried to get us out. I think we’re almost there.”
“It’s okay.”
He seems tired now, half asleep. I move a bit closer to him and tuck his fist between my hand and chest to warm it.
“How long since you’ve slept, my darling? Really slept?”
He blinks at me, and I push back the hair that’s fallen into his eyes.
“A while,” he whispers.
“How long?”
“Like…back in November.”
He’s shivering again, and I feel tears burning my eyes. “I think you need to sleep. Do you think that’s possible?”
“I don’t know.” His voice cracks.
I stroke his hair back, and his glazed eyes cling to mine. It’s as if there’s more he’d like to say and can’t, so now it’s bleeding out his eyes. My chest aches so sharply as we look at each other that I have to cast my gaze away.
“You’re always doing that,” he murmurs.
“Doing what?”
I look at his face and find his mouth tugged up at one side. “You don’t like…to look at me.”
“Untrue.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“No, I only worry for you, Sailor.”
“I’ll be better.” His eyes close as he exhales. His face tenses as he inhales.
“What’s happening when you breathe that way?”
His eyes open. His lips tremble.
I hold my hands out, hoping he’ll grab onto them. He flexes his fingers.
“Sweaty.” It’s more mouthed than spoken.
I wrap my hands around his wrists and draw both of his sweaty hands against my chest. His fingers are partially curled. I fold my hands around his. His eyes close.
“When we get out of here, you know, I’m making you soup.”
His lips twitch, and one eye lifts open. “Soup?”
“Just to show off.” I smile. “I make incredible turmeric soup…it’s pure perfection. Homemade bread as well. I know you’d love it.”
His eyes close again.
I stroke up and down his arms, running my nails along his damp, goosebumped skin. “Your arms are like carved marble,” I murmur, running a fingertip over the muscle. “It’s a bit ridiculous, you know.”
I spot some dot-like scars there at the crease of his elbow and, on impulse, drag a finger over one. I realize how they must have gotten there when his eyes open. Even dazed, he looks alarmed. When he shuts his eyes again, I can feel his shame.
I press my hand over the spot. “I don’t pity you, Carnegie. You’re too pretty for that—and you’re filthy rich.”
His lips twitch. He’s trying to smile, and that’s all he can manage. My throat aches terribly.
“Tomorrow, you’ll feel leaps and bounds better. I’ll let you swing the hammer while I watch with my heels up.”
I see him try to smile again. It looks painful. I watch as his face tenses and his breathing picks up. He breaths like the air is out of oxygen, like people do when they’re in horrid pain.
With his hands still curled against the base of my throat, I draw closer to him, wrapping one arm over his warm shoulders.
“You can do this, darling. I know you’re so poorly, but you’re so strong. Every part of you is strong.” I drag my nails down his nape, and Declan makes a low sound in his throat.
“Does that feel good?”
When he breathes harder, I do it again. He groans.
Relief streams through me. Finally—something I can do. I twist my wrist a bit and start to knead his neck in earnest. He gives a low groan, his body tensing against mine.
I follow my mental map of pressure points around his hairline, and he curls closer to me. Finally, his head is on my shoulder. His panted breaths tickle my chest, making me feel warm and oddly…needy. For what, though, I can’t say.
I rub with a bit more force; his breaths come fast and heavy. My fingers find a tense spot on his neck there, rubbing hard, and he stiffens against me. I hear his breath catch. Then one of his hands squeezes my shoulder.
“Siren…” I rub harder, and his voice cracks.
“Just relax.” I drag my fingers up through his hair. “Let me keep on till you fall asleep.” I wrap myself around him, pressing his large body against mine in a tight hug.
My fingers play through his hair, then stroke gently down his nape.
He moans. “Siren…”
I feel his hips press up against me. Then his mouth catches my jaw.
For a moment, I’m suspended by his breath against my ear, his scruff against my cheek. Then it’s me who shudders, my legs shifting against his as he rasps, “Stop.”
The word leaps from my mouth before I can stop it. “Why?” My throat is tight, my eyelids heavy.
His forehead touches mine as he moans, “Feels…too good.”
I’m not sure how I know. Perhaps the oldest, basest intuition. I look down our bodies. Declan draws his rigid frame away from me, and there I see it, jutting heavy from his hips, straining against his pants: a rod that’s long and thick, outsizing what I believed possible. It’s so large, it can’t even tent the fabric of his shorts. The tip of it seems pushed against the shorts’ waistband, the thick shaft bent in its confinement.
As I stare at it, he reaches down, melding his hand around it. As my gaze sweeps upward toward his face, I see the bare tip of it trapped between his pants and chiseled belly.
For the love of all things holy!
Desire courses through me, making my breaths quicken.
I was right, then, back at Gammy’s. He’s endowed quite like a bull. Something clenches in the region of my hips. I press my thighs together as I blink up at him.
Declan’s hand spreads over his abs, partly hiding his sex from my eyes. But it’s so long and thick, he can’t completely shield it.
With his free hand, he kneads his forehead. “Sorry,” he whispers, eyes shut. “When it’s…like this—” His jaw tightens.
“Like what?”
He shifts his hips, his face twisting. “Getting clean.” His voice is breathless, almost groaned. “Everything hurts…but this.” He shifts his hips again, rubbing at the bulge of his sex.
“What does that feel like?” I swallow, my poor heart hammering as if it might give out. It’s surreal, this moment, in this place. It doesn’t feel like reality, and I’m not behaving like myself.
He wraps his hand around himself as best he can, squeezing. Hot saliva fills my mouth as I watch his jaw clench, his eyelids lift open slightly.
He’s breathing hard and heavy as he lets go of his stiff sex. I watch as his hands fist.
“Fuck.” He shifts his legs again in clear discomfort. “Get up, Siren. Go away and I’ll…” He sucks a breath back, grips his temples.
I feel as if it’s someone else’s voice that whispers, “You’ll do what?”
“Shit. What do you think? You rubbing on me—” He shakes his head. “It felt good.” His voice is hoarse. “Just…go. I can make it fast.”
As he says that, he cups himself, his raised knees spreading wider. I watch as his hand delves inside his shorts, and then he’s pushing them down.
His thick sex springs up, stiff and rigid, lying like a hose against his abs. I note the darkness of his glans, the bulbous thickness of it. At that moment, he wraps his hand around it, squee
zing as he tweaks the thick tip with his thumb. He tugs at it again, letting out a ragged groan. It seems to hurt…but perhaps not.
He wraps one hand around the length as the other delves down to— Holy virgin! Still swathed in his underpants, but those must be his testes. They’re…massive.
I have the thought how does he move about with those, and then he’s pumping up and down the rod of his sex, squeezing the tip as his hand curves around it, gripping himself just below and then stroking up and down while with his other hand, he’s stroking his awfully swollen testicles, tapping his fingertips against their sac.
I realize as I watch his face twist and his body writhe, his hands working frantically to find relief, that this was surely part of his discomfort. I know males swell and stiffen for the act, but this seems quite extreme. I’ve never heard of one so long and thick, not even during arousal.
Declan’s breaths grow ragged as he works himself into a fervor. His knees lift a bit, his chest pumping with frenzied breaths. I can’t tear my eyes away. How horrible that he’s in so much pain, because it’s quite majestic…and compelling.
As I watch, I feel my senses heighten, spurred by ancient magic; I grow warm and breathless, feel a needy clenching where my own sex would receive his…were we to copulate.
I’m about to turn away—all this is well beyond improper—but at that moment, he grunts and shifts onto his side, his hand releasing his sex as the other rises up to knead his shoulder…that right shoulder. He lets out a long, unsteady breath—it makes his thick sex jut toward his navel. When he inhales again, the hand on his shoulder moves to cover his face.
I hold stone still until he resumes stroking himself, one hand pumping his shaft as the other fists his hair. I tear my eyes away from his member and realize he’s clenching his jaw.
At that moment, his eyes open. “Finley.” His face still looks tired, but his voice is hard. “What are you doing?”
My cheeks burn so hot, I feel my eyes tear. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“You were watching,” he says darkly.
I look at my feet, and then I start to turn away.
“Why?”
I freeze. Why? Because I love to watch you all the time…
That forbidden thought sends shockwaves through me.
“Siren.” His low voice is clear and quiet. “Have you ever seen a man without his clothes on?”
I shake my head, unable to turn fully around to face him. My eyes throb. I bring a hand to my forehead, clutching. “Please don’t be…offended.”
“Not offended.” He sounds husky.
“I’d be mortified if someone looked upon me that way. I’m terribly sorry.”
My gaze affixes to the pale glint of the stream. I start to move toward it when he laughs. “The more you look, the easier it is.”
His words drop like weights inside me, as if I had swallowed them. I hear my own unsteady whisper. “I’m not sure I—I don’t understand.”
“Turn around, Finley.”
I obey with bated breath—and find his maleness covered with a blanket.
“Have you ever touched yourself?”
His question pierces like an arrow, making my eyes well with tears of shame. I shake my head…then, to my horror, I feel myself nod. Looking at him, with his desperate face, one thick forearm still snaking down behind the blanket, I find myself incapable of deceit, even what’s needed to salvage my wayward sense of shame.
His lips twitch. “You liked it, didn’t you?” His voice sounds strange, a bit too low. I note his arm is moving; he’s stroking his sex as he speaks. “It’s supposed to feel good, Siren. There should be some pleasure, don’t you think? Something to ease the pain.”
His eyes close as he says that. His arm moves more quickly.
I sense myself in motion half a breath before I am, moving slightly closer to him. Declan’s eyes open to meet mine. He looks dazed as he strokes himself behind the blanket—eyelids heavy, his face more relaxed now.
“So…it feels good?”
I watch his throat move as he swallows. “Yeah.”
His eyes are closing, even as he strokes. I realize that I’ve crouched beside him.
Time freezes around us as his breaths grow faster, heavier. I can see his jaw tighten, his features tense as if he’s deeply focused.
Then he shifts his hips. The blanket falls away, and I’m stricken to my core by what I see in front of me. His thick sex is fully revealed, his underpants tucked behind the mighty orbs below. His long sex looks painfully engorged, its dark tip pointed toward his navel. Around it, his thick hand curves, moving back and forth from tip to base, each long, solid stroke making his swollen testes bounce and wobble.
“Ohh.”
The noise slips from my lips, and Declan’s gaze moves to mine. I should look away, but I find I’m not able. I look instead down at his sex, at his hand around it, pumping smoothly up and down. I watch the way his fingers twist over the tip, tugging upward as his knees spread wider and his slack face tautens. I see a mist of sweat along his hairline. Now there’s color in his cheeks.
And I can’t look away.
I have never seen a sight like Declan pleasuring himself. As I look down at him, my knees tremble. His hand slows its frenzied pacing, squeezing his glans. His molten gaze licks up and down me.
“Come here, Finley.”
I kneel by his muscle-corded leg. My breath is caught in my throat. My pulse races as his eyes hold mine, and his hand squeezes the thick tip. I watch as he swallows, his eyes half closing. Then he lets himself go.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! The way it stands out, pointing proudly upward. It’s so…thick. My gaze traces a vein from tip to base. It’s a marvel—the perfection of it.
“Go on, Siren.” His voice rumbles. “Touch it.”
Heat zings through me—so much heat I’m sweating. For a moment, I can’t find the words. They stutter out. “I…can’t.”
“No?” His hand strokes, lazy, down the shaft, then spreads below to cup his swollen sac. He squeezes slightly, and I nearly die from desire.
Jesus himself help me, but I want to touch it. Heat suffuses my face, and I’m realize I’m now panting. I scoot back, but I can’t wrench my wanton gaze away. I watch his big hand play it like an instrument, his savvy fingers rolling his testes then tugging upward on the thick shaft.
“You don’t have to.” His eyes close. “Knowing you’re watching is enough.”
His fist grips beneath the flared tip, moving firm but gentle, up and down. His legs fall open wider. He does something with his hand—his thumb stroking over the tip in precisely such a way so I can see a tiny slit there at the top…and all around it, something wet and shiny.
I’m leashed by propriety, by twenty-seven years of Catholic learning. I am bridled by my past, by proper vows and chastity and even simple decency. He is not mine.
And yet…I know before I reach for him that I will. Not because I want to touch him but because I must.
Declan moans as my hand covers his. Then his hand moves over mine, urging my fingers around his sex. I gasp at the feel of it—so hot and soft. As he urges me to stroke, his silky skin glides over the core of steel beneath. He exhales, and I feel him swell in my grip.
Holy virgin…
I adjust my hand. My fingers can’t reach all the way around him, but I think the grip should be firm, as his own appeared to be. I glide toward the base, and then back up, and he moans.
“Fuck.”
I spread my fingers, rubbing over him with the skin between my thumb and forefinger until I reach the tip again. I trace the rim, and his hips jerk. “Siren.”
“Does it hurt?”
He shakes his head, but still, I feel unsure until he juts himself against my hand. His hands stroke up and down my arm, and I explore the little slit, prompting a ragged groan.
I’m afraid of hurting him, so I return to what his hands suggested: stroking up and down the marble-stiff length. When I reach the
base this time, I hold it with one hand and use the other one to test the swollen sac below. I feel it draw up at my light touch. Between my own legs is a yawning ache.
Declan shifts his hips again. His hand presses my palm against those tender globes, as his other starts to pump his sex again. Gripping him gently, I join in. Can he feel my fingers shaking? I watch his hand, turning slightly as it grips the thick shaft underneath its tip.
I tickle his sac, and he groans. “Shit.”
I move with growing confidence up and down him, stroking the shaft as his thumb tweaks his tip. With his other hand, he grabs my arm.
“Finley.”
I stroke him again, and his hips lift off the floor.
“Squeeze harder.”
I do.
“Harder…please.”
I grip him harder.
“Faster.”
I stroke so quickly, so firmly, I’m afraid I’ll hurt him. His hand grips my shoulder. I can feel him shaking.
He moans. “If—” My hand stills, and his urges it to move again. He shudders. “If you don’t stop soon…I’m gonna come.”
I find his warning leaves me undeterred. I feel eager, almost frenzied, with the urge to see him come undone. I’ve only heard a bit about what techniques men like most, but I act on the knowledge.
I look into his eyes as I run my hand up and down his swollen sex. I can feel it throb as I do.
“Relax,” I whisper as his breaths begin to come in tugs. “What do you like?”
I trace my hand from top to bottom—teasing, languid. Then I grip his tip, as I saw him do, and I rub my thumb over the tiny slit as I cup his balls.
“Finley…”
“I like this.” I sway them a bit and his backside lifts off the floor. I stroke from mid-shaft to the tip and feel more moisture.
“What can I do?”
“Rub…your palm around.” He’s grunting.
I do as I’m told, rubbing over the wetness. With a gentle squeeze, I release his heavy sac and stroke his sex. His hand rubs over my arm, the fingers trembling as he drags air into his lungs and groans it out.
“I’m close.”
I quicken my stroke, run my thumb over the wet spot where he’s leaking, and then, when I’m positive he’s just swelled further, when he starts to writhe and grab at me, I close one hand around his sac and pump my other up his length again.
