by Gemma Weir
I don’t ask permission as I release her lips and move down her body until my lips are level with her belly button. I kiss the exposed skin on her stomach and slowly push her t-shirt all the way up until I can see the fabric at the base of her bra. It’s black and smooth, no lace or mesh or bows. I don’t care, all I want is what’s beneath the fabric, and like a fucking caveman I push her t-shirt up to her neck then curl my fingers in the space between her breasts and rip the fabric in two.
She gasps, and without saying a word, I look up from between her tits and smirk as I peel the remaining fabric away and expose the most gloriously full pair of tits I’ve ever seen. Her nipples are big and pink and with my eyes still locked on hers, I take one between my lips and suck. Lifting my hands, I cup one breast in each hand and push them together, luxuriating in the weight of them in my palms.
With my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I watch as her eyes flutter closed and her mouth falls open on a gasp. Releasing her nipple with a pop, I drop kisses across her tits, moving to the other nipple and biting at it gently before I lave and suck, causing a tiny moan to escape her mouth. I lose myself to her beautiful tits, rubbing and pinching at her nipples as I caress her, kissing and licking at her skin.
At some point her hands drift to my hair and she pulls and tugs at the strands until I lift my head and look at her. “Kiss me,” she begs; her voice barely above a whisper.
I push up the bed, meeting her eager lips a moment later. Her arms wrap around my neck, her wet pussy grinding up and down on me. Wrenching my lips from hers, I reach down and hold her hip, stilling her movements.
“Park,” she whines.
“What’s the matter, Rosebud?”
“I need,” she trails off, not wanting to say the words.
“What do you need, baby?”
“Park.” She demands, her hips trying to move, to find the friction she so desperately wants.
“You want to come.”
“Yes,” she pants.
“Tell me.”
“I want to come.”
“Not the words I’m looking for, baby,” I say teasing her, needing to make her desperate.
“I need to come.”
“Uh huh,” I say, spreading my fingers wide and skimming one just beneath the waistband of her panties.
“Park. Please, make me come. Please.”
With a smug smile, I slide myself down her body until I’m sat on my haunches between her legs. Sliding a finger into each side of her panties I peel them down, exposing her pussy and a neat line of red hair. I don’t know why the hair pleases me so much, usually I prefer my women smooth and hair free, but on Rosebud it’s perfect. She pulls her legs free and I ball her panties up and bring them to my nose, inhaling deeply. The smell of her arousal clings to the fabric and it’s with reluctance I drop them to the floor beside my jeans.
Focusing back on Rosebud’s pussy, I part her legs, urging her to bend her knees so I can spread her wide and take in every, perfect, wet fucking inch of her.
“Fuck. You’re so wet, baby. Is this all for me?”
She doesn’t reply; her wide eyes just stare at me, filled with longing and desire. “Tell me, Rosebud.”
“I need you to make me come,” she says, her voice cracking on the last word.
Running a finger over her mound, I part her folds, sliding easily through her wetness. I dip a finger into her cunt, then slide back up to her clit, circling the sensitive nub, making her gasp and bite her lip.
“You like that?” I ask.
She nods.
Moving away from her clit, I massage her hip with my free hand and plunge one long finger all the way inside her hot, wet cunt with the other.
“Oh fuck,” she gasps.
“So wet and tight. Your cunt wants my finger, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, oh god.”
“I think I want to hear you say it.”
“Park.”
“No.” I pull my finger from inside her and bring it to my lips, sliding it into my mouth and sucking off her arousal as she watches. “Tell me what I want to hear, and I’ll give you more.”
“I want your fingers inside me,” she says, lifting her hips closer and pushing her needy pussy toward my hand.
“Where do you want my fingers, Rosebud?”
“In my cunt,” she rasps. “I want your fingers in my cunt.”
Moving my hand from her hip, I push apart her legs roughly and slide two fingers into her core, curling them upwards as I pump in and out of her.
Rosebud screams, then clamps her hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. Her hips rise and fall meeting my movement and I push my fingers deeper and deeper until I’m buried to the hilt and her cunt has clamped around me tightly.
“Fuck, baby, your pussy is strangling my fingers. So tight, so wet. You love this don’t you, you love having my fingers inside you?”
“Yes,” she cries.
“Do you want more?”
“Yes.”
Leaning down I press my tongue against her clit, the taste of her arousal filling my mouth. She tastes sweet and earthy, the line of hair soft against my mouth. I eat her like she’s my last meal, pumping my fingers in and out as she vibrates beneath me, her butt lifted off the bed, pushing herself closer to my face, to my fingers and tongue.
She’s so tight I resist the urge to slide in a third finger and instead, I flick at her clit with my tongue, faster and faster until she’s writhing beneath me, panting for breath and chanting unintelligible words. Her back bows and her mouth opens wide, a keening moan escaping her mouth as an orgasm crashes through her.
My mouth floods with her taste and my fingers are sticky and wet coated with her cum. I pump in and out of her a few more times, then slide my fingers from her cunt and straight into my mouth, licking them clean and savoring a taste I might never get the chance to try again.
Rolling back onto my haunches, I watch as her chest heaves up and down and her wild eyes slide from side to side as she comes back down to earth after her orgasm. She looks a little crazed, until her breathing settles and a satisfied grin spreads across her lips. A sense of male pride at making this woman, my woman, grin like that fills my chest, but as quickly as it arrives, the feeling fades, because she isn’t mine.
Bracing myself, I wait for her to tell me this was wrong, that we shouldn’t have done it, because I know those words are coming. Instead, she stretches her arms above her head and makes a noise like a happy little kitten. I know we should talk about this. I know I should tell her that she feels like more than just my friend; but I’m a coward and I want this feeling to last a little longer. So instead I move in behind her, pulling her soft pliant body back into my chest and I kiss the top of her shoulder.
“Park,” she whispers.
“Later.”
Neither of us speaks again. I just hold her against me, enjoying the time I have and knowing that even though I’ve probably ruined it all, at least I had this, even if only once. Sleep finds me and for once I don’t dream about her. Why would I, when I have the real thing in my arms? It’s the best night’s sleep I’ve had in years.
Oh. My. God.
What did we do? What the hell did we do?
Park made me come. He had his fingers inside of me, his tongue on my clit. He made me come.
I don’t think it was a dream. I fell asleep in my clothes and woke up in just my t-shirt, with my shorts and panties missing and my bra ripped in two and hanging at my side. I mean that can’t have been a dream, right?
What does it mean? If he’d wanted me to touch him, I could put this down as horniness, but he never even suggested I touch him in return. It was all about me, and it was fabulous. My skin tingles just thinking about the way he made me feel. His fingers and tongue had driven me to the biggest, hardest orgasm of my life, and even now, hours later, I can still feel the aftershocks ricocheting around inside of me.
I wish this was us taking the next step, but I don’t know if it was and
I’m too afraid to ask. Yesterday I’d broached the subject and he’d agreed our friendship was too important to risk by trying to make it more than it was. But right now, his arms are wound tightly around my waist and the heat of his body is pressed against my back. I’m cocooned in him and if I could, I’d stay here forever, but my heart can’t take his rejection if I’m snuggled up in bed with him like this. I carefully extricate myself from his arms, pull on my sweatpant shorts and with a final glance over my shoulder, I leave him alone in my bed.
Silently, I pad barefoot into the kitchen and switch on the coffee pot, filling the filter with grinds and topping up the water. As the machine whistles and steams, the aroma of coffee fills my apartment and I grab my favorite mug from the cabinet and wait.
I’m pretty sure that coffee is as essential to me as oxygen. Without it I can’t function and this morning I need it more than ever. Once the pot is full of hot, steaming life essence, I fill my mug and add creamer and sugar, then take my life juice to the sofa and sink into the beige cushions.
In the past this would be the moment I’d call Taylor. We’d set the world to rights, dissecting last night and figure out what my next move should be. Only I can’t call her, because I don’t know where she is, or if she’s still my friend at all. Hell, even if I could reach her, what would I say? “Hi, Taylor, I’m falling for your brother. He went down on me last night and I’m not sure what it means.” Yeah, I can imagine that conversation would go down well.
I’m not sure how much time passes as I drink my coffee and debate my life choices, but when my bedroom door opens, and I hear the padding of bare feet across my hardwood floor, my limbs feel stiff and unused.
Park doesn’t address me. He crosses the room and reaches for a mug, filling it with coffee, before he turns to face me. “Morning, Rosebud.”
“Morning,” I reply, tensing for the words of rejection I can feel coming.
“I need to return my rental at about 1pm, so shall we go get some breakfast before I have to leave?”
His words are not at all what I was expecting, and I can feel my expression of incredulity spreading across my face. Is he not going to say anything about what we did last night? Am I not going to say anything?
I must wait too long to reply, so he turns to face me, his expression blank of anything except early morning bleariness. “You don’t want to go for breakfast?” He asks.
Shaking the shock from my face, I close my eyes for the briefest of seconds and then smile. “Breakfast sounds great. There’s a little place down the street that does amazing waffles.”
“Waffles sound perfect,” Park says, his voice cheerful and light.
“Well, okay then,” I say. “I’ll go get ready.” Pushing up from the sofa I drop my mug into the sink, passing Park with enough distance that there’s no chance of us accidentally touching, but I want to. I want to rush into his arms and bury my face in his chest. I want to reach up on my tiptoes and kiss him, but I have no idea how he would respond. Would my touch only make this awkward situation even more strained?
So I do nothing, simply passing him and scurrying back to my room like the wimp I am. I don’t shower. I should, but his touch still clings to my skin and I’m not ready to wash it away yet, so I wash my face, brush my teeth, and pull on clean clothes. Ten minutes later, I’ve tamed my hair into a high ponytail and I’m ready to leave. Pulling open the door to my room, I find Park brushing his teeth in the kitchen sink. He’s dressed in a similar outfit to yesterday, only his t-shirt is blue instead of white. His hair is damp at the front and instead of being spiked into its usual disheveled state, it’s slicked back against his scalp making him look older and more serious.
I watch as he cleans his brush under the stream of water and wipes his mouth with a towel. My stomach twists. He’s leaving and I have no idea when I’ll see him again. Was last night goodbye? Is that why we’re not talking about it?
Inhaling a long breath, I step forward and say, “You about ready? I’m starving.”
Park startles, then spins to face me, a grimace-like smile on his lips. “Sure, Rosebud, let’s go eat.”
I know my eyes must be wide and incredulous. Maybe I did dream it all; maybe him touching me, kissing me, was a fantasy created by my overactive imagination, because honestly that feels like the only real explanation. Why else would we both just pretend it didn’t happen and carry on like normal?
Park drapes his arm along my shoulders as we walk, and the weight of his touch feels grounding and weirdly life affirming. The short distance to the restaurant seems to take forever, with Park chatting about inane subjects I barely hear. We eat breakfast and chat and the entire time I’m screaming inside my head, ‘But what about last night?’, ‘What does it mean?’, ‘Can we do it again?’
My inner monologue is so loud, that I don’t realize Park has asked me a question until he flicks me on the arm. “What?” I say flustered.
“I asked if you were finished?”
“Oh. Err, yeah. Yes, I am.”
Park’s eyes narrow on me, and for a minute the cordial, happy expression falters and I see a flash of confusion and fear appear. “I’ll go pay the bill,” he says.
“No, it’s my turn, you paid yesterday,” I argue, pushing up from my chair.
“Hell no, you’re not paying,” Park snaps, his brows furrowing together.
“What. Why? You paid yesterday.”
He reaches out and pinches my chin lightly between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t give a fuck, you’re not paying. Sit your ass back down. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Bewildered, but off-kilter from his touch, I slump back down into my seat and watch as he crosses to the counter and hands cash to our waitress. Her face lights up and she giggles, twisting a strand of her hair in her fingers as she rings up our food and tries to offer him some change.
Jealousy bursts to life inside of me and I want to rush across the room and tell the stupid, gorgeous server that he’s mine. But he’s not. He’s not mine, and despite what happened last night I’m not sure he ever will be. So I close my eyes and inhale deeply, then I force myself to smile, even though all I want to do is cry.
The walk back to my apartment is quiet and strained. Park’s leaving. As excited as I was to see him on Friday, the high of his surprise visit is crashing with the realization that it’s time to say goodbye again. When I left him in Texas, it was as friends, but now I have no idea what we are, and this time together has only made another goodbye even harder than it was the first time.
I don’t want to leave. The realization hits me as I load my bag into the backseat of my rental car and turn to face her. She looks small, sad, and confused, and it’s my fucking fault. Last night was perfect, then this morning I woke up alone. She snuck out of bed. Away from me and the things we did the night before.
I shouldn’t have let things go as far as they did, but I want her so bad I literally couldn’t help myself. The way she responded to me, the way she curled herself against my body, I thought she wanted me too.
Shutting the back door, I turn to face her, needing to say or do something to alleviate this tension that’s between us. I can’t leave her like this. Hell, I can’t leave like this. But how the fuck do I put right all of the things I’ve done in the last forty-eight hours, without admitting that I want more than just her friendship?
Exhaling wearily, I reach for her and pull her into my arms. My rosebud has become essential to me, and I’ll take any part of her I can, no matter how big or small. “I wish I could stay longer,” I whisper into her hair.
“I wish you could too. It’s harder this time, isn’t it? To say goodbye.”
I can’t speak. All the words I want to say are stuck in my throat, so I just nod against her head and hold her even tighter. She clings to me and I wish I knew what it meant. I can feel the shaking of her body, like she’s trembling, and I force myself to pull away.
She’s so tiny, she has to tip her head all the way back t
o look up at me and when she does, I can see that her eyes are rimmed with red, like she’s fighting back tears. My hands move without permission and cup either side of her face, then I dip down and kiss her. It’s not a quick friendly kiss, my lips don’t glance across hers then pull away. Instead I mark her mouth with mine, taking her lips and owning them, branding them. My tongue explores her mouth, dominating her tongue and forcing her to submit; to accept that her lips, her mouth, her kisses, belong to me. I might not be able to show her that she’s mine, I might not be able to tell her that she’s my Rosebud, but this kiss, this goodbye says everything that my words can’t.
Nibbling lightly on her full, kiss-swollen lower lip, I run my fingers through the long strands of her hair and reluctantly pull away from her. “Goodbye, my Rosebud,” I whisper against her lips.
“Goodbye, Park.” she whispers in return, her voice a breathy gasp.
Turning away, I release her, opening the driver’s door and climbing into the car before I say something I can’t take back. Her tiny fingers are wrapped around my wrist and she clings to me until I’m in the car and she can’t hold on any longer. I can’t look back at her face, so instead I watch her hand fall limply to her side, her fingers twisting into the fabric of her shirt and I try not to cry or climb back out of this goddamn car and carry her back up to her apartment and into her bed.
I don’t remember the drive to the airport. I don’t remember returning my rental or boarding the airplane. My next conscious thought occurs at 35,000 feet. Regret, hot and angry, barrels through my mind, screaming that I shouldn’t have left; that being in Texas when she’s in LA is wrong. She’s mine and I need to find a way to convince her that she wants me to be hers.
The rest of the flight is torture. My anxious mind twists and turns with all the things that could keep me from her. My fingers alternate between tapping against the armrest and clenching into fists so tight my fingers change color. The man sitting next to me keeps throwing furtive looks my way. Apparently this wound up I must look like a scary motherfucker because he’s asked the hostess if there’s any way he can change seat three times already.
