by Ella James
“Dammit, woman.” My hand wraps around my cock, and Finley saunters closer. “What’re you trying to do to me?” My words sound hoarse…like it’s me who was the virgin.
She runs her hand up my chest slowly, tickling with her fingernails, but her brown eyes are wide. She’s watching my face.
I run a hand into her hair and kiss her cheek, and then her lips. I’m going to kiss her and then tell her she doesn’t have to fuck me all day, but I can’t seem to stop once I get started. We kiss until we’re both panting. When I pull away, her face looks startled.
“You okay?”
She nods, still wide-eyed…but they’re glazed now. Like she wants it.
I rock my dick against her leg. “That’s because you’re fucking beautiful, and you feel so good. When I’m with you, I want to be in you. Every time.” She reaches between us, running her hand up and down me. Fuck. I take a deep breath as she strokes me. Force myself to go on. “You don’t have to, though. Okay?” My hand cups her shoulder, squeezing lightly as her hands send pleasure rolling through my belly, down my legs. “Anything we do…is enough.”
She gives me a solid tug and whispers, “Is it, though? What’s wrong with more?”
I don’t want to hurt you. I’m going to say it, but it feels so damn good, what she’s doing. I end up leaning on the bed, and then I’m on my back, with my legs hanging off the side. And Finley’s got her lips around me.
She’s giving my head these tentative licks, teasing that little slit with the tip of her tongue. It’s making me moan. I pull her hair…then stroke her hair. She keeps kissing up and down my shaft. I’m about to shove my dick down her throat if she doesn’t take it herself. That’s a lie, though. I just groan and flex my legs…and she eases my head out of her mouth and looks up at me, grinning like a fucking minx.
“I adore those noises you make.”
That’s the last thing I process before she reads my mind and deep-throats my dick. I can tell she’s new to it from how she gags—I rub her hair and rasp out some instructions—but she’s damn good. I try to pull out when I feel it building, but she won’t let me. I come so hard I see stars.
Afterward, I can’t move off the bed. I feel wrung out, like I might even fall asleep.
“I’ve got an idea,” she murmurs. I can sense her walking off. She comes back back a minute later. She tosses a blanket over me, and I move my legs fully onto the bed as I squint up at her.
“Do you trust me?” she murmurs.
“I don’t know how much I like that question.”
She kisses my forehead. “Yes, of course you trust me.”
She holds something up, and I realize it’s one of those little potion bottles. “Let me give you a bit of this. Stay here and rest. I’ve got two patients today and one errand. I’ll bring Baby with me when I return, we’ll wake you in three hours. Then I’ll cook you lunch and dinner.”
I can’t swallow as I peer up at her.
She runs her hand over my arm. “I’ll report you ill, and there’s my excuse for returning to see you, should someone spot me en route. Perfect.”
I inhale slowly, and she leans down, rubbing her cheek against mine. Her lips tickle my jaw, making my dick twitch. “I know every herb by heart, all the ones that could potentially help you.” She strokes my hair, making my eyelids heavy. “This will be a good thing. Say yes.”
I do—because she’s smiling so angelically. Also, I don’t figure it’ll really knock me out. I open my mouth like a little kid, and Finley gives me something from a dropper. Then she kisses me, stroking her tongue into my mouth, which tastes like liquor and strange sweetness.
“I’ll let myself in when I return since I know you like that. I’ll wake you.”
I drop into sleep like parachuting off a plane and drifting down into a field. I dream of her hair, her sweet smell. I can feel her kisses on my throat, her hand around my dick. And then my eyes are open, and she’s really here. She’s straddling me. Her long hair is tickling my chest, and she’s biting my nipple.
Fuck.
I feel her hand on my cock, and I realize she’s been jacking me off. Holy fuck, I’m hard.
“Ready to go again,” she giggles.
“I don’t—” My eyes shut as she rolls my balls in her hand. I can’t think, can only pant and grit my molars as she works me. Then I’m groaning. “I don’t think I have another condom.”
I’m surprised to see her hold up a black package. “Got the large size from the clinic bins.” She laughs, and strokes me faster.
Christ—I must have died and gone to heaven. Finley rolls the condom onto me—“I read the brochure,” she whispers smugly—and then lifts my cock away from my abs, pointing the head at herself.
“I’d like to try on top…if that’s all right. Only for a moment, just to feel it.”
I laugh—a sound of shock—and then she’s crouching over me. With her eyes on mine and her mouth a little unsteady with nervousness, she presses me against herself and slowly sinks down.
Holy fuckshit…
I’m engulfed in heat. Her pussy squeezes me. She’s so damn tight, I nearly blow right then. She rocks slowly forward, kissing my chin before I can’t take it another second; I lift her by the hips and thrust up into her as I lower her back down.
I’m breathing hard and heavy as she finds her rhythm. Then I’m getting fucking. I’m grunting and groaning, still fuzzy from her potion, and so damn stiff and hot and hard…even my balls are hard.
“Finley. God. Fuck.” I feel it coming, and it’s like a dream, this whole damn thing. She’s bouncing on me, her mouth open and her eyes closed tight as I come. I hear a guttural sound from my throat and I sort of laugh at that, but then my eyes are rolling back into my head. I hear her panting over me.
“Did you come?” My head feels heavy, and my voice sounds rough.
Her fingers stroke my chest. Her soft laugh sends light spinning through me. “Yes, of course.”
I feel her moving off me, and I drag my eyelids open. I reach for her, and she takes my hand. Kisses the palm.
“You’re…so good.” My throat is tight. The word cracks.
“You’re better, Sailor.”
Finley
I know how to pleasure him. I’m heady with it. If he feels the way I do…during, and just after… I would like to do that for him every day. And I plan to. It’s as if a switch flipped last night. I’m “all in” now. This is what I’m doing, and I want to do it well. I want to well and truly be with him before he goes. Today, as I pondered all of this between patients, I concluded it can be quite freeing, letting go. Falling with no though of safety nets.
What do I have to lose? I laugh quietly. One might say I’m desperate. I’m willing to gamble with my soul—if that’s the price of following my heart. I realized after our moment at Vloeiende Trane: life is never going to be perfect. So I choose the next best thing. I’m choosing perfect for a time. I’m choosing bliss for all the moments we can find it. When the game is over, no regrets. Even though I know I’m going to lose.
I clean myself up, sifting through my drawers and then his bag before deciding to tuck in beside him sans clothing. I climb carefully over his legs and curl up beside him, covering myself up to the shoulders. Then, gently, I rest my cheek on his bicep. In his sleep, he stretches his arm out. It feels like an invitation. I stare for a moment. Then I fit myself against his side, melding my curves against his angles. His hand curls around my shoulder before slackening as sleep reclaims him.
I snuggle up against him, shut my eyes, and let myself disperse into the rhythm of our breathing. I follow his pulse, inhale his scent, and meditate a bit.
I am here, and I am fine.
I am here, and I am fine.
I am here, and I am fine.
I’m better than fine.
What will happen? I push that errant thought aside and go on drifting.
I mean to enjoy him. Nothing more and nothing less.
About the
time the light that’s seeping through the curtains darkens to a dusky indigo, his eyes flip open. They’re wide on the ceiling. Then they move to my face, and he startles.
“It’s all right.” I stroke his forearm. “We were napping. You’re just waking up. It’s dusk.”
He draws a deep breath. I can see the grief in his eyes.
I whisper, “Are you feeling poorly?”
His eyes close. “It’s…just like this sometimes.” His words are so quiet and low, I scarcely hear them.
I lie back beside him, wrap an arm over his chest. He muscles tremble as he inhales deeply. Does he want me near him? I’m relieved when his arm wraps around my back. Pulled up against his chest, I hear his racing pulse.
“It’s a bit like fight or flight, is it?”
His cheek presses against my hair. I believe he nods, but can’t be certain.
“Do you feel frightened?”
He’s still for a long moment. Then he lifts his shoulders.
“It makes sense,” I murmur. “Given what those drugs do—” the ones he’s withdrawn from— “it’s completely sensible.” I shift so I can hug him more tightly. “Does this help a bit?” I whisper.
“Yeah.”
But his breaths are fast and shallow. I shift more, so we’re on our sides, facing one another. His face is somber; his blue eyes are closed. His nostrils flare with every inhalation. I cup my hands around his full lips, trying for a paper bag effect.
Instead, he kisses me between his gulping breaths. His arm loops around me. His hand delves into my hair, pressing our mouths gently together as his tongue strokes mine. Then we’re devouring each other.
When we break away for air and he’s breathing more slowly, I stroke his face, look into his eyes for some clue how he’s feeling.
“Better now.” The words are raspy.
“Good.” I brush my lips over his temple. “Are you hungry?” I lean back so I can see his face. “Perhaps a bit of toast?”
He nods once.
When I return with cinnamon toast, I find he’s shifted onto his side, facing the door. He’s clutching his phone, and I can see his large hands trembling. When his gaze finds mine, his tired eyes look lost again.
“Hi there, Sailor.”
He tries to smile for me, but it’s a twitch of his lips. I stroke his hair, and he pushes up on one arm…then sits fully up, taking his plate. He won’t meet my eyes as I sit on the bed’s edge, eating my own piece.
“Thank you,” he says after a moment.
“I hope it’s decent.”
“Yeah, it’s good.” Now his eyes are on me—watching me with care and all the usual perception. “You okay?”
“Of course.”
“Not too sore?” Now his voice is low and husky.
“I’m deliciously sore.” I can’t help grinning. I expect him to return it. Instead he rubs a hand over his face, back through his hair, and does another sad not-smile that makes my stomach knot up.
“If you need to go, I’m good,” he tells me.
“Oh…I know. I don’t want to, in fact. Is that all right?”
“Yeah.”
I stretch out beside him, pressing my face to his thigh and hugging his legs.
“My Declan.” I squeeze. “I forgot! I meant to make you tea. It’s tea time.”
He gives a hollow laugh—a bit surprised, I think—as I flounce from the room, feeling a bit giddy. Everything will be well. All he needs is someone to be with him. That won’t solve all of his problems, but it should go quite far.
When I return with the valerian/peppermint tea I made the lazy way, using the microwave, I find him crouching beside Baby on the bedroom rug. He’s rubbing her head as his eyes find mine. Such somber eyes. Yet when he stands, I feel him trying to play normal.
“What’s this?” He smirks at the metal tea straw jutting from a mug I made.
“Valerian tea with a bit of mint. I prefer it loose leaf.”
His lips curve a little as he reaches for the mug, despite his shaking fingers. “What will it do for me?” He quirks one brow.
“It will make you grow a horn—of the unicorn variety.” He draws the mug to his chest, and I smile. “It should sort you out a bit,” I tell him softly. “Valerian, if you note the name, works a wee bit like the other.”
I don’t want to say Valium, lest it trigger something for him.
Understanding passes over his face, and his blue eyes flare a bit in reaction. “Thank you.”
“Have you ever used a tea straw?”
He shakes his head, and I lean up to kiss his dimple. “Want to come into the den with me?”
While I was steeping the tea, he pulled on a pair of soft-looking plaid pants and a long-sleeved gray T-shirt. He looks a bit better just now, I think. A bit tired-eyed and still a bit pale, but less pained, I believe.
He follows me into the den, where I sift through the drawer in a small table by the front door, fishing out a faded Little Mermaid valentine. I think of his shaking hands and unfold it for him, holding it open so he can read.
To Prince Declan
from Finley. the princess
The corners of his lips twitch as he reads it. His eyes move to my face.
“I wrote it the year after. When I was eight. Don’t know why it survived these years, but I found it somewhat recently near the back of a cabinet.”
He takes it from me, peering down at it. When he looks back up, his eyes are clearer. “I thought about you, too. Used to ask my dad about you.”
“What would you ask?”
He shakes his head, as if to say he’s not quite sure. “If you were okay.”
“You remembered me.”
He nods. His eyes dip to his feet then rise to meet mine. “Saw you as they brought you in. Down at the docks.”
He told me that before, up on the peak as we looked at the dolphins. But I didn’t ask about it then.
“What was it like?”
He takes a sip of his tea, his eyes closing for a brief moment. “This is good.”
“You can tell me,” I murmur.
His lips press flat, revealing dimples. “I remember mostly…this is weird,” he murmurs, “but I remember your eyes. They were dazed…but kind of lit up. There was this…just something there. Kind of like an energy in them. Almost this magic. Everybody else was at the dock, but you were somewhere else.” He swallows. “I had never seen a person look like that. So I remembered.” His lips press flat again, and his hand goes into his hair as he shifts his weight.
“Later…years later, I realized that’s how people look when they’re going crazy with pain. But you were stoic, Siren.” His lips press together again. He looks back down at his feet and then back at my eyes, and I can see it bothers him to talk to me about it. “You seemed dignified…even though you were so tiny. I remembered that a long time.”
My eyes well. I blink quickly. “Come outside with me? I want to show you something else.”
Six
Declan
She teaches me to throw clay. I’m too tall to sit with my knees under her wheel, so I kneel beside it, my knees on the cold stone of the patio, with Finley leaning over and around me. Her hands shadow mine, teaching me to flare the vase’s bottom, run my thumbs along the rim.
For the longest time, my fingers shake. When it’s really bad, I use the base of my palms, and that works. Other times, the focus I’m exerting seems to keep my hands steady.
Finley’s soft breasts press against my back, her soft arm tickling mine. When she’s in front of me, just watching, she smiles like she’s happy. She likes teaching me. And at the end, we have a vase. An actual vase.
She holds it up like Simba from The Lion King. “We’ll put it away in this Tupperware for a bit—” she gestures to a tub that’s pushed against the house’s wall— “so it will dry evenly despite the wind. Afterward, you can paint it and we’ll set it in the kiln.”
I’m squinting as she talks, and I picture the bowls an
d plates in the kitchen. “Wait…those plates inside?”
Her cheeks redden as her mouth curves—a little bit mysterious, just like a siren.
“Damn.” I arch my brows. “You’re really good.”
She shrugs and does a girly spin thing, sort of like a pirouette. She looks happy and…I think that’s maybe bashful?
I step over to the rubber trash can where she keeps her clay. There’s a foot or so gone off the top of the pile, cleaved away with something circular.
“You used up all that so far?”
She nods, and I run a fingertip over a ridge in the clay. “Those lines are your fingers.” I smile.
“Yes,” she murmurs. “Their imprint.”
“Did you do the mugs, too?” I get mine up off a table by the wheel, running my finger over its teal-with-gold-flecks sheen.
She smiles shyly, and I cup her chin in my hand.
“What?” she whispers. She’s smiling, but she looks embarrassed.
“You’re an artist, Siren.”
“I’m not sure about that.”
“Come here.” I catch her hand in mine and lead her back into the house. As I’m walking toward the kitchen, I notice how good my body feels. Like…this sort of calm. I can breathe easier. I squeeze her hand. “That tea.”
“Yes? Did it make you feel nice?”
“It did.”
In the kitchen, I take out the plates and set them on the table. Some have mermaids, some have fish, one has a whale, another dolphins, one a boat. The style reminds me of an oil painting, with chunky brushstrokes and bold colors she blends so they look a little magical. It’s a testament to how terrible I’ve felt since I got here that I didn’t wonder before about who made these.
“You know you could sell these, easy.”
“I do…sell some of my work. But no one orders much from the island’s web site. Perhaps twice a month, though less often recently because I haven’t posted new work for a bit.”
