Tall, Dark, and Brooding

by Amanda Faye

  She lets out a tiny gasp as I fill her and stretch her. It only fans my flame. We sit there a moment, letting our bodies adjust—pelvis to pelvis, heart to heart.

  I know I can't keep her. I'm not so deranged as to think that I could keep a creature as radiant as her by my side for the rest of my life. But no matter what happens tomorrow, I want her to remember that I alone made her body ache and her soul blaze like the sun.

  I can't sit still for long. I have to feel Natalie move above me. I flex my muscles, my hips nudging forward, and a slow smile spreads over her face. Natalie leans back, a hand behind her, supporting her on the mattress. It pushes her breasts up and out, and I bring my lips to her skin, licking the sweat from her pores and sucking a nipple between my teeth.

  She moves, and sensation ripples out from the base of my spine. Her beautiful cunt grips me like a vice, and I feel every ridge and valley of her center as she slowly rocks her hips.

  There's no shame in Natalie, no self-consciousness. She throws her head back, exposing the delicate skin of her throat to me, and I follow the motion with my mouth, trailing lips and teeth and tongue wherever I can reach.

  I can't get enough of her. There's too much to taste, too much to watch. Her body curves and rolls against me, like the waves of the ocean crashing against a ship. Her fingers entwine in my hair, and as I enfold her in my arms, I realize I was right. I could wrap around her twice.

  She's mine.

  Mine to shelter, to protect.

  Mine to worship.

  Mine to make come in as many ways as I can imagine.

  And I'm a very creative person.

  She's chanting, quiet but in time: "Yes. Yes. Yes."

  With a hand splayed across her ass, I palm her breasts. My fingers trail to her seam then back again, desperate to feel her fall apart around me.

  When I look between us, the sight of my cock driving in and out of her opening threatens to undo me. My muscles tense and harden, and I bring her face to mine, thrusting my tongue to tangle with hers. Natalie drapes herself across me, nails digging in and slipping across my sweat-drenched skin as she pulls me as tight as she can.

  Our heels dig into the mattress, languid motions becoming sharp and fierce.

  I'm in her, and on her, breathing her oxygen and drinking her sweat, and still, I'm desperate to get closer. I want to be inside her when we slip our skin and join as one.

  My skin tingles, my muscles burn, and as the explosion bursts from the base of my spine, Natalie cries out in my arms, arching against me.

  I stop breathing, my heart stops beating, and I think I die for a moment, with her in my arms, before sensation comes rushing back. And then I do pin her to me, thrusting as fast and hard as our position will allow me.

  She giggles and whimpers at the same time, like her body can't settle on an emotion. I've never heard a sound so beautiful.

  I don't last long. I'm spent and drained, having poured myself into Natalie. She hugs me to her, and I run my hands up and down her spine, rubbing my face against hers like a cat.

  "Thank you," she whispers, voice hoarse against my ear.

  I love you, I want to tell her back.

  I don't.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  NATALIE

  It's the music that wakes me up. I don't know what time it is. I don't even know where my phone is. I could have been asleep for hours or dozing for mere minutes.

  The bed is warm, but the sheets are pushed up against me and it’s bare on the other side. As if Eli tucked me in after he climbed out.

  The music crescendos, filling the space around me. Low and powerful, it glides across my skin like a physical touch.

  I'm by myself. But not alone. Eli has a surround sound system in the apartment and an instrumental tracks filter from the speakers hidden from view. It's light, airy, and almost intangible. That's not what woke me up. What's pulling me from the comfort of my blankets isn't the orchestra trickling around me. It's the cello, warm and vibrant, filling the room with character and life.

  My bare feet leave the bed, the cool hardwood floor stealing the heat from their soles. My clothes are still in the living room, so I bend and pick up his shirt from the floor.

  It smells like Eli. Like sweat and power, and the resin that coats his fingers from his bow.

  I fasten the middle few buttons to keep it closed, but don't bother with the rest. I swim in it: fingers covered and hem down to my knees. I run my fingers through my hair, trying to make myself somewhat presentable before padding my way out to the main room.

  He hasn't bothered to turn on the lights. No. Instead, he's bathed in moonlight and the drowsy city's artificial glow seeping in through the windows.

  He's naked.

  The vision steals the oxygen from my lungs. My knees all but buckle underneath me. Every muscle, every ridge, and plane on his body is exaggerated to perfection under the moonlight's shadow.

  Or maybe he is just that perfect.

  He looks ethereal, like a god of old, sent to share his gifts with his worshipers.

  I want to worship him. I want to throw myself at his feet and beg him to teach me how he pulls so much emotion from four strings and a wood box. I want to beg him to show me all he knows about making music and making love.

  The track changes and a song I recognize fills the space, “Adagio for Strings.” Though I don't play a stringed instrument outside of the piano, it's a must for all classically trained musicians.

  His entire body changes, his posture shifts. It's as if he doubles in size, the emotion from the song making it hard to breathe.

  He leans into the cello, his face against the fingerboard. Is he pulling from the music? Or is he giving over himself to it? I'll have to remember to ask when he's done.

  I've never given much thought to string-players breathing. Singers, we pull our sound from our breath. It's how we make our music. We suck in oxygen, a key component in life, and transform it into a different, life-giving substance. Poor breath control can ruin a song. But string players have no such hindrance.

  It never occurred to me that they would breathe to bolster their sound. Or maybe it's just Eli? His chest swells with every inhale, reinforcing the robustness of the melody reverberating from his strings. When his breathing shallows, so does his bowing. As he draws the bow in long sweeping arcs, you can hear his deep gasps for air.

  Time and space disappear. All that's here is him, and me, and the music that enfolds us.

  Before tonight, I wondered what it would be like to have that much concentration and devotion pointed at me. Now I know, and I'll never be the same again.

  By the time he finishes, I'm kneeling at his feet with my eyes closed in benediction.

  "Get off your knees, baby girl. That's no place for you."

  When my eyes open, he's staring at me, his cello put to the side. He looks bigger than usual, if that's even possible. More handsome, more—more.

  A thousand responses run through my mind, but rather than push him any farther than I already have tonight, I take his offered hand and let him pull me to a standing position. The cello is on a stand next to him, the bow placed in its holder.

  He's gloriously naked and utterly unabashed about it. Why should he be, though, when he looks like that?

  "Why do you look so sad?" I whisper, running my hands across his cheeks. He rubs against me with his eyes closed, like a panther in the wild.

  I don't take it personally. Moodiness is kind of Eli's thing.

  "Because I can't keep you."

  The forlornness in his voice makes me laugh.

  For a man so unpleasant to most other people, he sure says the mushiest things.

  "You make it sound like I'm a package that got dropped off at the wrong doorstep."

  "That's exactly what you are," he says, opening his eyes and bringing his hands to my face, pushing my hair behind my ears. "You may have fallen into my arms, but you don't belong to me."

  "If you want to get specific abou
t it, I didn't fall. It was more like a flying leap. One I made willingly and with my eyes open."

  He raises one of his eyebrows in skepticism.

  "Mostly open," I amend. They closed about the time I felt Eli's lips on mine. "I'm rather fond of where I landed."

  "Hmmm," he vocalizes, but doesn't say anything else.

  His hands trail down my torso, over my hips and to the hem of his shirt. They creep underneath but don't go any higher than my thighs. My legs part automatically, making room for whatever he wants to do to me.

  A chuckle, naughty and deep, leaves his chest at my visible reaction to his touch.

  "How are you feeling?" he growls, looking up at me through his eyelashes.

  How am I feeling?

  Euphoric.

  Wonderful.

  Complete.

  Is there a word in the English language that accurately encompasses all that I'm feeling right now?

  I say the only thing I can, considering the circumstances.

  "Like I want to feel you inside me again."

  Without another word, he reaches for the buttons of his shirt. It takes him no time to slip it from my shoulders to let it pool on the floor. I'm growing quite the collection of clothing out here.

  Eli cups my breasts in his hands, and they're heavy and tender under his touch. They aren't used to the kind of devotion he's shown to them tonight. They ache, but in the sort of way that makes me want more.

  He looks at me, thumbs running side to side over the curve of my breast.

  "Are you sure?" he asks.

  I can see the desire plain on his face, but I also know the war he's fighting inside himself. The battle of whether to push me aside. (For my benefit, of course.) Or, whether he should dive into the pool head-first and damn the consequences. I know which one I prefer.

  Leaning down, I kiss him with all the passion I possess. He responds like I set him on fire, all tongue and teeth. He pulls my head away from him with his hand in my hair, breaking our kiss with an audible pop.

  Eli pulls me into his arms, hands stroking up and down my back as his mouth goes to work on my breasts, pulling and sucking on my nipples.

  I run my fingers through his hair, nails scratching along his scalp. His chest rumbles, the vibrations ticking my skin.

  The track wafting from the speakers changes. No longer instrumental, the deep and sultry electro-pop from a Michael song caresses over my skin like satin.

  "You are so beautiful," he whispers, his voice filled with reverence.

  He turns me in his arms, so I'm facing the couch, and his front is plastered to my back. He wraps my hair in his hand again, using it to leverage me backward. I arch against him, body exposed to the cool air swirling around the apartment. The feel of his dick straining against my backside sends shivers up my spine.

  "I want you to hurt tomorrow," he growls against my neck, the hand not in my hair trailing to my center. Instead of touching me, though, his fingers trail through my public hair before working their way north again.

  Tease.

  He's blunt when he speaks, the sound seeming to come from far away and inside my skull simultaneously. Anticipation and a shot a fear surge through my body, turning my blood to lava.

  "Why?" I pant, nerves making me sound breathy and weak.

  He runs his hands down my body, over my breasts, across my belly, until he holds my inner thighs in each hand, spreading me wide. I'm on a knife’s edge, and my body responds by flooding with endorphins and adrenaline, making me pant in anticipation.

  "Because with every step you take, every breath you breathe, I want you to remember that I spent the night inside you."

  Oh, trust me. God himself won't make me forget.

  He parts me with his fingers, liquid heat already seeping from my core. He rubs over my nub, his fingers stretching my lips and hood, before slipping into my entrance. He adds a second when he pulls out, dipping them slowly in and out of my pussy.

  "Have you made love like this before, baby girl?"

  My lust leaves me panting, echoing into the apartment, the anticipation keying me up to an almost painful level.

  Does he mean in a chair, or with a man-god as skilled and amazing as Eli? Either way, the answer is the same.

  "No," I gasp, wondering how he could possibly think anything in my life could compare to this, now, with him.

  "Me neither," he grumbles, and again, I don't think I was meant to hear.

  He presses me against his chest, his dick trapped and seeping between us.

  His hands manipulate me like his cello—a stroke there, a tweak here—to get the response he wants. My slick is dripping down my legs, and I feel it as it crests my thighs. One hand plays with my clit: rubbing and stroking.

  He speeds up, pressing hard, tight circles against my nub until my knees tremble with the effort to keep me upright, and then he stops to pull on my lips. To spread me wide and tease at the swollen flesh. All the while, his other hand never breaks from its rhythm. Two fingers in, two fingers out. In and out. A pace as torturous as it is divine.

  It's too much, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

  "Eli."

  I'm begging, weeping, and I don't care.

  "I've got you," he says, as his hands rise to my hips, and he angles me away from him.

  "Touch me," he demands, and I reach between my legs, wrapping my hands around his length. He moans at my embrace, and my eyes roll up at the sound of it echoing around the apartment's acoustics.

  I guide him to my entrance, and he guides me, and together, we hold our breaths as he pushes inside.

  My body quivers when he enters me. He fills me, stretches me, and suddenly there's no room for anything else. If I take too deep a breath, it'll be too much, and I'll spill over onto the hardwoods.

  I lean against him, letting him take the pressure of my weight, and he shifts his hips, moving with me, keeping himself buried to the hilt. His mouth is continuously moving, and I only catch a fraction of his words in between the open mouth kisses he leaves on my skin.

  Beautiful. Exquisite. Perfect. Mine.

  Yes, I am—for as long as he'll have me.

  I'd say as much, but my brain is too busy processing the overload of my senses.

  The track changes to something dark and dirty spewing from the speakers. My hips arch in time with the beat, and together, we start to move.

  We move in sync, dancing to the rhythm of a symphony of our own making. Each flex of Eli's thighs responds to the drop of my hips. My blood thickens, hot, like obsidian, coursing through my veins. I already feel my orgasm building deep in my belly. My muscles clench around him, every thrust and pull against my internal ridges shooting spears of pleasure through my body.

  Eli digs his hand into my hair, stretching me until I arch against him. My body pulled as tight as his bowstrings. I cry out at how he twists my body as he thrusts faster and faster against my pleasure center. He takes advantage of my open mouth, curving to meld his lips with mine, his tongue twirling against my own.

  He wraps his arm around my waist, and it's all it takes to send me over the edge. My orgasm explodes, muscles convulsing in my belly and legs, engulfing his dick, which continues its brutal assault on my pussy.

  I moan as my orgasm rips through me, and suddenly, what was perfect is now on just this side of too much.

  "Eli," I pant, "Eli."

  But he doesn't stop, doesn't slow his rhythm. His hips snap up, again and again, and it's all I can do to hold on and ride out the wave that's building. My hands rise behind me, looking for something, anything, to ground me, and end up twisted in his hair. I cling to him for dear life.

  It only spurs him on as he tightens his grip and increases his pace.

  "No," he growls, against my lips, "No," and his hand slips from my hair to my clit, rubbing and flicking wildly.

  The sounds his dick makes surging through my wetness is obscene. I fucking love it.

  My feet leave the floor as my body attempts
to curl in on itself, to escape the overload of sensation as Eli assaults my ears with the filthiest things imaginable. Lick you, taste you, tie you to my bed. My feet end up on his knees, and the position only spurs him on, as he pins me to him with a hand on my breast and the other against my throbbing clit.

  "Ruin you," I hear him grunt, and he's trembling underneath me, all skill and coordination spent as he uses me to find his pleasure.

  He's trembling under my fingertips, and the knowledge that I do this, to him, rips another orgasm from me. It's unexpected, like a bomb going off, and I cry out as the feeling shatters me into pieces. I leave my body for a moment, and when I return, I'm a quivering, whimpering mess draped across Eli's chest. He follows me over the threshold, a low groan dripping from his lips as he spills himself inside me.

  He whispers something in Italian, but I'm too lost in my head to catch it.

  I don't know how long we sit there. I'm limp where I lie against Eli. My head on his shoulder, my knees are dangling over his. I'm sure we look lewd this way, as our breathing slows into a regular rhythm, but I don't have the energy to care.

  Neither does Eli, if the way his head rests against mine is any indication. He's closed his legs some, so the burn in my thighs lessens to a sting, but it's the only action he's made to move us from his spot. One arm is still hugged tight around me. As if he's afraid to let me go. The other is running through my hair, where it flows over our chests.

  When I'm on the verge of falling asleep, even spread-eagled as I am, Eli rises from the chair, gathering me against his chest. He carries me into his bedroom for the second time tonight.

  He settles me into the spot I vacated, pulling the covers up to my chin and pushing my hair behind my ears.

  The last thing I catch before drifting off into oblivion is something about loving my freckles. I fall asleep with a smile on my face.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  NATALIE

  It's my bladder that wakes me up this time. The bedroom curtains are closed, thank goodness, but the bedroom door is ajar, and light pours in from the front room.