by Ella James
“I meant what I said,” I murmur. “I’d never give up.”
He shakes his head.
“I know myself. I’m loyal.” I laugh, given what we’re doing, but it’s true. I’m far too loyal. That’s the core of my problem.
“If you…ever do leave…it can’t be with me.” His voice is hoarse and low. His hand fists in the air atop his bare abs. “I would fuck it up. And you would hate me.”
I run my thumb over the slit where he’s slick, and Declan moans. I feel his shaft thicken, and it energizes me; I work him more quickly.
“You’d hate me,” he says, “and I couldn’t stand to hurt you.” His voice cracks on the last word as I lean down and suck his tip into my mouth.
I draw my cheeks in, teasing him like a moment before swallowing him more deeply. I inhale slowly through my nose, working to settle him, until it’s difficult to breathe around his hard girth, and he’s moaning desperately.
I take him as deep as I dare, and then I suck hard as I ease him out. I wrap my hand around his balls and stroke their seam until his eyes peek open.
“I don’t think you’d hurt me.”
His eyes widen slightly, but he’s too lust-filled to speak. I lap at his tip, tasting the saltiness. Then I lick the sides of his sex.
“Oh fuck.” I suck his head into my mouth again, and his hands cinch my hair. “You don’t know me. Not…that…version.”
I suck him until my mouth is aching, till I taste a bit of his seed; then I ease him out again. “There’s no version that would hurt me. That I know.”
He’s shaking his head.
I suck him in again, swallowing with care to get him lodged in my throat. I feel his hips tremble, and I can feel he wants to press in deeper.
“Do it,” I say—but of course, it comes out humming.
He barks a groan and rocks his hips. I choke on him.
“Oh fuck.” His hand trembles as he pets my hair now. I suck in my cheeks around his base, and he moans loudly. “Ohhh fuck.”
I hum more, and he tugs my hair, groaning gutturally. And then it’s in and out. I ease him out and take him in until I want to cry from the ache in my jaw. Sweat rolls down my temples. Tears roll down my cheeks. I give it my best, and I suppose I’m getting better all the time.
This time, when he reaches his climax, he makes a sound like a harsh sob.
Seven
Declan
She lifts her head, and cold air hits my dick. I reach down for it—shit, that’s cold—but she’s already on the job; she’s pulling up my underwear. I lift my hips to make it easy on her, and her eyes move to my face. She gives me a small smile and then tucks my dick into my boxer briefs. She pats it lightly with her palm and smiles softly at me again.
I try to smile back, but my face feels kind of weird and shaky. Finley doesn’t notice. She’s working my pants back up my legs now. It’s the dark gray North Face pair I’ve had forever. They’re pretty loose; I remember as she gets up to the fly. I can tell she notices. Her fingers feel around the button, like she’s checking to be sure there’s not another one or something.
Then she’s stretching out beside me, her eyes on my face as her soft fingers stroke my hair back off my forehead.
Fuck. My eyes go hot, and I can’t blink without them spilling over.
Finley snuggles up beside me, and she hugs me hard. Like she can tell I’ve grown a pussy and I need some TLC. I drag in a few deep breaths. A shiver hits me.
Fucking worthless addict.
I cover my face with my hand, and her grip on my chest tightens.
“Did it feel good every time?” It’s such a quiet whisper, it takes me a second to process her words.
“You mean what you did? Hell yeah.”
“No…not that.”
I blink at her hair. Does she mean using? Would she ask something like that? I get a slow breath. Cold sweat flashes through me.
“I was curious. Perhaps it’s too prying. If so, hum your favorite song, and I’ll attempt to guess it. I have quite a few records for reference—”
“No,” I rasp out.
She goes quiet and still, but I can feel her interest. Why the fuck she wants to know…
I don’t get it. But Finley’s stubborn, and that picture got her thinking. That was my fault. I made her upset. I owe her something more now, don’t I? I shut my eyes.
“No,” I offer quietly. When she says nothing, I look down at her hair, dark in the moonlight. “Toward the end…it never felt good. Rarely.”
“I want to ask,” she murmurs, stroking my arm. “But I’m afraid to.”
Good. You should be. I keep my voice light and steady. “What do you want to know?”
She lifts her head off my chest, and her small smile is so sweet, so fucking gentle, it makes my throat tighten.
“If I ask,” she murmurs, “will it make you…want it?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “No.” I don’t know how best to explain it. Not to someone like her. “It wouldn’t change things that much.” I fix my eyes on a bright star and focus on that. “For me, the cravings are…more physical. Usually. They happen at certain times of the day.”
“Early evening?” she whispers.
I nod. And all night, almost every night. I don’t want to tell her that, though. I don’t want her pity. Even though she says she doesn’t feel it, I’m pretty sure she would if she knew how much worse I feel than I let on.
“To me, you’re so near perfect. Not perfect as in a silly facade. Just…I value you so very much the way you are. And I think I would value you if you were still…actively ill. I would move heaven to keep you safe. But I would view you the same.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Shit. Where is she going with this?
Her hand strokes my hair, and what’s in my chest—this little ball of tension—melts away. My fucking eyes ache.
“It’s not like that,” I manage. In the real world, this shit is nothing like she thinks. She’s trying to get it, but she’s romanticizing. Simplifying. I can’t blame her. “You might value me.” I laugh, a cold sound. “Siren, that’s exactly what would ruin you in the end.”
“Because I’d value you and your safety but…you wouldn’t?”
I laugh dryly. “Not that. I’m still human. Everybody values their life.” Until they don’t. Until it’s too hard for too long. But I would never, ever say that out loud. Not to anyone—but definitely not Finley.
“How did you carry on, then? Weren’t those two desires at war?” There’s a tremor in her voice, as if she’s nervous. I strum my hand down her back.
“These are good questions. I’m not upset you asked. You’re all good, Siren.” She hugs me harder. “When I don’t feel like this—” I exhale. I inhale again and swallow hard to keep my voice smooth. “I value my life like you do.” Liar. “But…I’m not normal without it.” My voice dips down on that. I press my lips together. Lock my jaw.
“Why is that?” She asks so clinically, so smoothly, I find that it’s easier to answer.
“Mm…because I used for so long. Different stuff.” A tremor rolls through me as the next thought scrolls across my mind’s screen. “It’s like my brain’s just…broken now.” It’s whispered. “Doesn’t work right.”
I shut my eyes, try to pretend that she’s not lying on me.
“That’s the part that everybody bullshits you about. They’ll say one year, two years.” My voice sounds hard. “And then you go on forums and it’s five, ten. Never.”
I suck back a breath, and she lifts her head, frowning. “What do you mean?” Her brows and mouth are pinched.
“People don’t get better. Sometimes. You got hooked for a few years—yeah. Five years, six years, seven. Fine.” I shake my head. “If you’ve used a really long time, like me, people don’t come off the subs. They don’t stop taking Valium.”
I can see the wheels in her head turning. I’m kind of impressed at how she keeps her face so clinical. “Why does it matter, that b
it? Is it a poor quality of life? If you don’t…stop it all entirely, that is?”
I swallow back a dry laugh. “It depends on who you ask. And how they do on that.”
“On what?”
“A maintenance dose.” I air-quote that shit.
She gives me a little frown, then tilts her head as her lips press together. “What’s the difficulty? Sticking at that dose?”
I nod. Someone like me—I can’t stick to it. I always want more. I drape an arm over my eyes and chuckle hoarsely as I feel her tuck the blankets back over my chest. I peek at her from underneath my elbow, watching her moonlit features as they shift between troubled and concerned.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re a fucking angel,” I whisper, smiling at her. “Not a siren.”
I watch as her face lights up. She sits up straighter, then adjusts what I think is an invisible crown. She moves her shoulders so they’re more squared, and I swear, I think she’s miming wings. It’s so fucking funny that I forget myself and sit up.
She blinks her eyes a few times fast, and lifts her chin. I wrap my arms around her, then lay back again, pulling her down atop me. I kiss her cheeks…her lips. She’s pushed up on her arm now. She pulls gently away, smiling down on me.
“I won every schoolhouse game of mime for many years.” She gives me a huge grin, then laughs. I urge her head into the corner of my shoulder and wrap my big leg over both of hers.
“Am I imprisoned?” She giggles.
“You bet your ass you are.” I squeeze her ass for emphasis.
About that time, I see a shooting star. It’s like…a shooting star, I guess. It’s big, dark gold, and unmistakable. And right above us.
I laugh at the sight. She frowns at me, but I don’t explain. I inhale. It’s easy. I can breathe. Like, really fucking breathe. I feel…good.
It’s like Cinderella’s carriage. Doesn’t last more than those few hours. But I know how to get the magic back. She comes over every day when I get home from laying line. And usually, she stays the night.
Finley
Every afternoon or early evening when I knock at the cottage, he pulls the door right open—no delay. It takes me nearly two weeks to realize that the only way this is explained is if he’s waiting by the door. One night, he’s awake in the wee hours, feeling poorly for the first time in a few days, and I ask about this.
“Yeah.” It brings a smile to his tired face. “After I shower, and I change Baby’s—you know—the thing…”
“Lappy.” I laugh. “A lamb nappy, that’s what it is.” Ever since she’s been staying as a pet at Gammy’s, this is what we do for her.
He shakes his head. “Yeah. Anyway, Baby and I wait for you.” His arms squeeze around me. “Is that too much?” he asks softly.
“I adore it.”
When I began my nightly visiting, the Carnegie couldn’t cook—he’d burn toast—but as time passes, we begin to cook each evening after we make love. By perhaps the third week of this, he’s learning. One night, I arrive later than usual on account of Mrs. Dillon slicing her thumb open, and I find dumplings in the boiler pot.
We twirl around the kitchen, with me giggling because I’m so tired and he’s so lovely, and my Carnegie trying not to grin with pride about his dumplings.
“You’re adorable.” I pinch his cheek, and his face reddens.
“Dudes can’t be adorable.”
I giggle. “Yes, they can.”
Three nights and three lovely dishes later, I realize he can likely do near anything. “You’re quite multi-talented.”
He snorts a bit and sticks his hand out. “Hey there pot.”
“I suppose that makes me kettle, though I’m not.”
He scoops me up and carries me to bed, and from between my legs, he murmurs, “You’re the kettle. Don’t deny it, Miss Nurse-Potter-Lamb Mom.”
“You’re a better shepherd than I.”
His tongue skates velveteenly over my most secret crevice, and I tug at his hair. He grins rakishly and does it again, and I come up off the bed. He chuckles darkly.
It’s a waking fantasy, this thing we’re doing. He’s quite better than expected, really. Frequently, he runs the bath for me. He learns to cook what I can, and on nights I arrive late, I return to a lovely meal. We paint pottery together, go on moonlit romps with Baby. I take him to the Hidden Cove—a partial cave with black sand and its mouth half full of ocean, and on its roof, pearly white stalactites—and he grins and says a cove sounds like a place we ought to make love…so we do there, on a blanket on the cool, black sand.
There’s a village gathering at the Burger Joint mid-May for that month’s birthdays. We arrive and depart separately but step into our old closet for kisses.
“Last time here,” he murmurs, “I was going crazy missing you.”
I laugh softly. “You were why I wept.”
He kisses my cheeks, my eyes, my forehead as we grind against each other. “Never let me be the reason that you cry. You got that?” He kisses my mouth, and it’s a breathless kiss, a bruising kiss. “That’s our only rule.”
“No sorries—we have two,” I manage between gasps of air.
“No sorries.”
As we walk to the cottage in the dimness of a dark night, he twirls me as if we’re dancing, and the night breeze tosses my hair.
“It feels like a fantasy,” I murmur.
“Good,” he says. “I want it to.”
The weeks fly by. I cannot catch them. Three weeks turns to four, then five, then six. The world is a new place. Even waking in the night at times when he’s sweating or trembling with aftershocks from his body’s ordeal—it’s perfect. Our dim autumn sun shines more brightly. Love is all the books proclaim and everything the singers sing of. All is well…except my lover cheats at chess.
“Blazing blue bananas!” I wag a finger at him as we play one June evening. “You’re a cheater! Cheating Carnegie.”
He’s holding his hand over his mouth, so I can’t see the smug grin behind it. His eyes are wide. He blinks them quickly, as if to emphasize his innocence.
“How do you always win? I’m bloody good at chess!”
He moves his hand, revealing a suppressed grin and dimples.
“How did you learn, scoundrel?”
The grin falls off his face so fast, my heart drops. Oops. I bite the inside of my cheek as he begins to line his pieces back up. Never mind. I want to say so, but my throat is too tight. Looking apathetically down at the board, he says, “My mom’s husband. Stepdad, Rich. He was a Wall Street guy. Machine at chess.”
“He taught you?”
His eyes come to mine as he scoffs. “Fuck no.” His mouth tugs up on one side, as if he’s smirking, but his face is hard. “I learned how so I could kick his ass.”
“So did you, then?”
“Did I kick his ass?”
I nod, feeling quite hesitant about this topic now.
“One time, yeah. Could have done it more, but didn’t see him after that.”
My belly does a slow roll as I try to stitch this information into what I know of his mum, which is merely that she passed.
“Christmas before my mom died,” he says evenly.
I inhale slowly. “I’m glad you won. Who schooled you on your techniques?”
He lifts his brows, making his forehead crease. “I played with some friends from school.”
I run a hand through my hair, then pull out the hair band and re-gather it. “Who was your dearest friend there? What was he like? Or she, I suppose.” I feel that it’s safer to shift topic.
As I’m speaking, though, his face is losing color.
“Never mind…”
His eyes fix on mine, unblinking for a long moment. He looks near robotic.
“No. It’s fine.” The words are odd, though—slow and soft. He looks at me for a moment—this look of concentration. After that, his face softens a bit.
“His name was Nate.” The words come slight
ly slow, but sound near normal. “He was the one I talked about, from Texas.”
I can feel my cheeks burn, as they do when I feel anything—in this case, regret for asking. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.
He inhales, a quiet but fortifying breath. I can tell he’s working hard to appear unemotional.
“Nothing to be sorry for.” He stands stiffly. “I’ll be right back, Siren.”
He returns from what I suppose is the bathroom a few minutes later. We carry on about our night as if it’s ordinary times. I teach him knitting, and he seems to enjoy it. Before bed, we don’t make love, but then sometimes we don’t. When we go to sleep, he’s wrapped around me, just as usual.
I sleep soundly, I suppose, for I don’t hear him leave the bed. When I awaken, it’s pre-dawn. I hear the shower running. That’s odd. I wait up for when he’s out. I want to touch him…feel his arms around me.
Instead, when he returns to bed, his skin damp and warm, his hair dripping, he looks into my eyes for one long moment, then turns me around so I’m facing the headboard. His fingers slide into me from behind. His free hand grips my backside. I wait for his low voice, for his filthy, whispered words—he likes to goad me, and I like to clap back—but there’s none of that this time. Merely the ripping of a condom wrapper.
Moments later, he’s pressed at my entrance—prodding so deliciously, I can’t help moaning. He shifts his hips, and then he’s pushing inside. I gasp as he enters. It feels different in this position, much more visceral.
I feel a tremor in him as he buries his thick sex deeply in me. He’s so large. I feel so tight around him.
“You feel so good.” I wait for those words—for any words.
His hand squeezes my hip. His fingers rub my clit. And then he starts to thrust. It’s slow at first, then faster as I bear back toward him. His hand strokes along my back, and then his fist cinches my hair.
I gasp at that. His hand slackens. He stops thrusting.
