My Darling Arrow

by Saffron A Kent

  And I can’t help but swat his chest. “This is not pity, you idiot. If I wanted to pity you, then I would’ve said yes to your stupid proposition days ago. You were pretty miserable back then too.”

  “So why?”

  Because I love you.

  Because you’re my Arrow.

  My broken Arrow.

  “Because you’re my friend,” I tell him, a version of the truth.

  At this, he comes even closer. So close that his hard abdomen moves and presses against that place between my thighs and I gasp.

  His eyelids flicker and he notices my parted lips. “You fuck all your friends?”

  “No.”

  He lifts his eyes then. “So, what, I’m special?”

  “Yes. And because I have a right.”

  “What right is that?”

  I get up in his face, grazing our noses together. “I lived with you for years, didn’t I? Those girls that you pick up at a bar, they don’t know you. You said it yourself. They don’t know who you are. They don’t care about you. But I do. I care about you. I know you. I know who you were and who you are now. So I’m going to be your rebound girl and no one else. Because I have the right. I dare anyone to even try.”

  So maybe I sound like a jealous little groupie but whatever.

  Those girls don’t love him. I do. They don’t know how to take care of him. But I do.

  He’s my Arrow.

  So if anyone’s going to ease his pain, it’s going to be me.

  Arrow watches me, studies my face. My messy hair, my nose, my lips.

  He even goes down to my heaving chest, my bow-shaped body. My thighs that are spread out around him.

  It’s both a lazy perusal and over so quickly that I’m left abandoned when he comes back to my face, my skin throbbing and tight.

  “No,” he clips.

  “What?”

  “I’m not going to fuck you.”

  “Why not?” I almost whine.

  I mean, I’m willing and available and I want to.

  It’s my right.

  And I’m ready to explain that to him again but I notice something.

  A change in him. A change in the air, even.

  It becomes heavier, darker. More heated.

  Like him.

  “Are you pouting at me?” he asks softly, his eyes on my lips.

  At his low tone, a hot shiver skitters down my spine and I arch up even more.

  I wasn’t aware of it.

  I wasn’t aware that I was sticking my lower lip out in disappointment. Maybe because I’ve never done it before.

  I’ve never pouted. I do not pout.

  But somehow, I’m doing it right now.

  Somehow, I’m doing it for him.

  “You are pouting at me, aren’t you,” he concludes.

  He is right. I am.

  And it feels so… provocative, so seductive to be doing that. To be pouting at the guy I love because he won’t fuck me.

  Like he’s the man of the house and I’m a naïve teenager.

  He is the man of the house though, isn’t he? He always has been.

  Big and protective.

  He even saved me from those girls and took me on my first motorcycle ride.

  So I raise my eyebrows, feeling bold. “So what if I am?”

  My boldness makes him sharper. It hollows out his cheeks and somehow juts out his jaw. It makes the blue in his eyes buzz and hum.

  “Then I’d tell you to stop,” he rumbles out a warning; his hands on my waist shift and get under the vintage leather jacket that I’m wearing.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “You think you’ll get your way like this? You stick out your lip like a bad girl and I fuck you like a dying, desperate man.”

  A throb, big and pulsing, clutches my body and travels down my scalp all the way to my toes trapped in woolen socks, and I twist my hips. I undulate between him and the wall and I do something really bad.

  I do something worse than inadvertently pouting at him.

  Staring at him through my eyelashes, I put my hand on his, where he’s gripping me at the waist and make him let go.

  Well, make him is wrong; I can’t make Arrow do anything if he doesn’t want to.

  But luckily, he wants to and he lets me.

  Suspicion clouds his features but he lets me take his hand off my waist and bring it up. And then, he lets me put that large hand of his on my breast.

  I don’t know what I’m thinking or what I hope to accomplish by putting his hand there but as soon as I do that, as soon as I direct his hand onto my soft, bouncy flesh, his fingers move on their own.

  They close over my mound and he squeezes it, making me whimper and causing me to clutch his wrist.

  It also makes me spill a bad secret. “I’m not wearing a bra.”

  His eyes dip to my sunshine-yellow t-shirt and stay there. As if he can see. As if he can see my naked breasts and my hard nipples through the fabric.

  “You’re not,” he rasps as he rubs his open palm on me, over the nipple.

  Once. Just once.

  And I jerk in his arms. “Yes. I never wear one. I… it makes me feel free and…”

  He swipes his hand over my nipple again, still watching it, watching his fingers over my breast. “And what?”

  “And no one has ever touched me there. Before.”

  All of it is true.

  I don’t wear a bra because mostly I’ve got my sweater on so I don’t need it. Besides, my breasts are average B cups anyway. And yes, no one has ever touched me there before.

  Finally, he raises his eyes, his fingers still insistent and still squeezing. “What about panties? Are you wearing any panties?”

  “I am,” I whisper, suddenly feeling how sticky they are, how wet and hot. “But it’s only a little thong.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “I-I like them. I have tons.”

  “Because I bet that feels free too, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And no one has touched you there either, have they?”

  “No. No one.”

  At this, his fingers don’t show any mercy on my breast.

  He plumps it up and squeezes it and molds it however he wants. He even uses it to pull me closer, like this virgin piece of flesh belongs to him.

  Even though he clearly doesn’t want it. He clearly has aggression dripping out of his eyes and anger radiating off his fingers.

  “So you put my hand on your tit and you tell me you’re not wearing a bra,” he growls, plucking at my nipple now. “You tell me you never wear one. And then you have the audacity to tell me that you love wearing a flimsy, useless string between your legs because it makes you feel free and no one has ever touched you there before. That no one has played with your nipples or squeezed your tits like this. No one has fingered that tight thing between your legs. Is that correct?”

  That tight thing between my legs spasms at his rough, vibrating words.

  “Yeah. No one.”

  “Is this your attempt at seducing me?” he asks me with another squeeze of my breast.

  When he asks the question like this, with almost a mocking tone, my cheeks burn with embarrassment. They flush scarlet with my inexperience and how young I might seem to him.

  The little sister.

  But I have done it now, haven’t I?

  I have put his hand on my breast and I’ve told him all about my naïveté so even though every part of me is trembling, I raise my chin. “Yes.”

  He circles his eyes over my face, watches the shaking of my lips and notices my nervous swallow.

  When he brings his eyes back up to me, he licks his lips. “It’s tight, isn’t it? Your virgin pussy.”

  “I-I think so.”

  His chest shudders with a tight, humorless chuckle. “Yeah, I bet it is. Girls like you always have a tight fucking pussy. A pussy tha
t men fight over. Kill each other over.”

  Goosebumps break over my skin and I rock my hips again. “Girls like me?”

  I ask the same question that I’ve asked several times before and he answers me on a raspy, choppy breath. “Yeah, girls like you. Bad girls. Bratty and spoiled. Girls who pout their lips when they don’t get their way. You know there’s a name for it.”

  “Name for what?”

  “For the kind of pussy you have.”

  “What?”

  He pulls at my nipple, making it all sore and achy. “Pouty pussy.”

  I feel it down there. That pull. That vicious pull of his fingers. The vicious whisper of his words.

  I feel it in my pussy.

  “What?” I whisper.

  “Yeah. That’s what they call it. Pouty and juicy. Bad girl pussy. And yours is going to be the juiciest. She pouts the hardest, doesn’t she? She’s the tightest too. Because you’re worse. You’re worse than bad, aren’t you?”

  Yes, I am.

  I don’t even care if I’m bad or desperate or whatever. I just want him closer. I want him to fix this ache in my belly, this current in my thighs.

  This spasm in my bad girl pussy.

  “Arrow, please…”

  “But that’s your downfall, Salem,” he whispers, leaning his face closer and bumping our noses together. “Your bratty, pouty pussy. Because the more she pouts, the more she whines, the tinier she becomes. Tinier and smaller and you can’t give her the very thing she wants.”

  “W-what does she want?” I ask, as if I don’t know.

  As if I’m so innocent that I don’t know what he’s talking about. But the thing is that I’m so far gone that I’ve got no brain power left.

  I want him to tell things to me. I want him to do things to me too.

  All the things. Bad and dirty and wonderful and glorious.

  And he knows it – how can he not? I’m practically attacking him with my nails on his wrist and fisting his t-shirt with my other hand while I shift and rock against his stomach.

  Arrow knows my predicament and he smirks. “A big fat cock. That’s what you want, don’t you? You want me to fuck you with it.”

  Oh God.

  Yes.

  I nod eagerly. “Yes.”

  He shifts his pelvis again and I don’t know how he knows where my spot is but he hits it, and I twist between him and the wall, my eyes clenching shut.

  “But you can’t have it. You can’t have the very thing that you want. Because your pussy is so tight and small that she can’t handle it.”

  “Oh God, please,” I sob, almost breaking his skin with my nails.

  Almost making him bleed because I want him so much.

  He squeezes my breast, pinching my nipple between his knuckles, making everything ache and ache. “Nah, you ruined your own chance. You should’ve thought of that before you pouted at me, Salem. Before you taunted me. You won’t be able to handle my dick now. Because they don’t make them any bigger than mine.”

  God, if he doesn’t do something soon, I’ll explode.

  “You’re such a –”

  His laugh is both amused and pained as he cuts me off and does do something.

  He leans over and kisses the corner of my mouth and I freeze.

  My eyes go wide when he flicks his tongue out and licks that corner too before whispering, “Tell you what. You waited for me, didn’t you? You worried over me. Not to mention, you’re my friend. So maybe I can give you a little something.”

  “Something like what?”

  He kisses the corner of my mouth again, a small, soft, soothing kiss.

  “Your first kiss,” he whispers, his hot breath fanning over my mouth. “I told you I wouldn’t but maybe I can break my own rule.”

  "You can?”

  “Uh-huh. For you.”

  “For me?”

  “Yeah. Just to be nice.”

  Oh God.

  Thank God.

  And I open my mouth to say that to him, to thank him but he doesn’t give me a chance because he’s doing what he said he would.

  After torturing me for ages, he’s being nice to me.

  With his mouth.

  He closes his lips over mine and he gives me my first kiss – the kiss that I’ve waited for for eight years – and heat explodes in every part of my body.

  Heat and lust and all the love that I have for him.

  Which is good because I’ve been in the cold too long. I’ve been living in the harsh winter and finally, I’ve been touched by the sun.

  More than touched, actually.

  I’ve been consumed by him.

  My sun has swallowed me and drunk me down before I can even draw a breath. Before I can comprehend anything, learn the texture of him and study the softness of his lips and the sharpness of his teeth in detail, he has put both his hands on my face and splayed them wide.

  He has grasped my cheeks and grabbed my neck and he’s arranged me in a way that will make him go deeper into my mouth.

  That will make him eat at it and plunder it and violate it in the best, most glorious way possible. And he’s doing all of that.

  He’s sucking on my mouth, tugging at the meaty flesh, biting at it, like he’s been waiting to bite me for a long time now.

  Like he’s been so hot for me and his fire has burned so deep and so high and now he’s purging it all.

  Transferring it to me, and I take it happily.

  I take it with gusto.

  I even open my mouth so he can pour it inside me, push his tongue in. The tongue that’s been driving me fucking crazy these past weeks. Because it makes his mouth so shiny and seductive when he does his lip-lick thing.

  And tonight, I get to kiss that mouth.

  I get to kiss my Arrow. I get to tug at his hair and pull him down on me. I get to moan inside his mouth and taste him with my tongue.

  He tastes like fire, hot and tangy. Spicy.

  I get to play with the silver chain around his neck and thrust my tits in his hard, hard chest. I get to rub them against his arched pecs and I get to rock against his stomach as well.

  I get to hump it and that only drives him crazier.

  That only causes his thumbs to dig on the pulse at my neck and his fingers to fist my hair and his mouth to turn up the intensity and the heat.

  And before I know it, I’m moaning and rocking against him.

  I’m taking something else from him too. Something more.

  I’m so bad and greedy and spoiled that I’m taking an orgasm from him, as well. And it’s not as if he minds it. No, not at all. In fact, he drives me to it. He urges me on with his teeth and his growls, and when that’s not enough I feel him shift.

  I feel him bending his knees slightly and still kissing me, I feel him letting go of my face and making for my ass.

  He grabs the cheeks of my butt in his large, possessive hands and in a move that is so fucking sexy and arousing, he seats me on his powerful thigh. As soon as that place between my legs – that wet, hot and pulsing place – connects with his muscular limb, we both groan.

  His chest shudders and so does his stomach. As if he can feel my wetness seeping through my pants and my measly thong and he likes that.

  He likes making a throne for me to sit on. A throne for my bratty, bad girl pussy that pouts for him.

  He also likes when I move on the throne he made for me.

  I move and rock and shift. I drag my core up and down, chasing the delicious friction. I dance my hips in a figure eight while I knead his shoulders.

  While he kisses me and kisses me, his mouth all wet and hot and soft, the complete opposite of his fingers on my ass.

  They’re tight and furious as they jiggle my flesh and flex it. He even delivers a tight slap to it, sharp and stinging, as he moves me like I’m his puppet, his fuck doll.

  His fuck doll drowning in vintage leather.

  As s
oon as I think that, I’m there.

  He’s taken me there. He’s given me my first orgasm with him.

  My sun. My Arrow.

  The moan I let out is so, so loud and thick that Arrow takes a bite out of that too. He presses our mouths together hard and fast and eats it up. I even feel him gulp it down, his Adam’s apple jerking with the swallow.

  But I can’t be sure because I’m breaking into a million pieces, twisting and writhing in his arms, all restless and sweaty and slippery, and he’s still kissing me.

  Although his kisses are softer now. They are sleepy and lazy and misty.

  Drowsy.

  Just like I am, and I would’ve lost my balance and fallen to the ground at his feet if he wasn’t holding me.

  If he wasn’t clutching me tight to his heaving chest while winding my thighs around his hips again, making me hold on to him like a spider monkey.

  I burrow my nose in his sweet smelling, sun-struck hair. “Thank you.”

  He rubs his chin on the top of my head, remaining silent.

  “For breaking your rule for me,” I continue.

  He hums. “Maybe you’re rubbing off on me.”

  I kiss his shoulder. “So I’m your rebound girl now?”

  He flexes his grip and almost smashes me to his chest and I love that.

  I love him.

  “No.” Before I can protest, he continues, “I’m not going to use you to get over your sister. Even I’m not that much of an asshole. Besides, you don’t have what I’m looking for in a rebound girl anyway.”

  “You’ve disappointed me. I thought I raised you better than that.”

  My mother’s voice stops me at the front door of my house.

  I was about to leave after carrying a sleepy Salem inside and up to her room. Her sunshine yellow-painted room.

  Which I noticed while I was depositing her on her bed.

  “Is there a reason why everything is yellow in your room?” I asked, looking around her tiny space for the first time ever.

  “Sunshine yellow,” she corrected me sleepily. “It’s my favorite color. Reminds me of the sun.”

  I draped her blanket over her. “You’re a little too obsessed with the sun, you know that?”

  She curled herself into a ball, still wearing my jacket that basically covers her from top to bottom. “I know. I love my sun.”