Naked, and so damned gorgeous. A massive man, six-three or six-four. Two hundred pounds of muscle, not an ounce of fat anywhere on him. Muscled like a god, like a warrior. A thick mat of curly black hair on hard slabs of muscle, taut, defined abs, thick, corded, veined arms. Shoulders broad enough to carry the Earth. A cock the gods would be jealous of, ten inches easily, thicker than my wrist, curved toward his belly, ever so slightly. Jutting up from his heavy balls, shaft wet with my essence.
Mmmmmm, that cock.
He reaches behind his back, twists the knob, and shoves the door open. He backs up through it and I follow him. Slowly, though, pretending a casualness I don’t feel. I’m eager. I want more. I always want more of him, and that’s the problem. He’s not mine. Even now, somehow, I feel like he’s not entirely mine. This is an interlude. But that’s fine. I don’t care. I will later, I know. But I’ll borrow bliss today and owe a debt of heartache tomorrow.
“Where are you going to fuck me first?” I ask, glancing at the couch. “There?”
Turn my gaze to the butcher-block countertop. “Or there?”
I peer through the open doorway to the bedroom, where a sliver of the bed is visible. “Or there?”
He wraps his fist around his cock, strokes it lazily. Idly. “I’m supposed to choose?” He saunters toward me. “How the hell am I supposed to do that? That’s like offering a starving man an all-you-can-eat-buffet.”
He’s in front of me, inches away. The tips of my tits scrape the hair on his chest, a deliciously rough sensation. Despite the rugged masculine beauty of his body, all I can see is his eyes. Brown, molten, scouring my soul. Seeing me. Hungry for me. Needing me. Those eyes, god, I could drown in those eyes. I want to. Drown and never emerge. Remain in their mocha depths forever, lost in him.
I want to touch him.
Hold him in my hands. Stroke him to orgasm. Fill my palms with his cum. Taste it again. Feel it on my skin. I want him to take me, claim me, make me his. I want to make him mine. I don’t even know if that’s possible…or if it’s even meant to be.
I replace his hand with mine. Curl my fingers around his thickness, stroke his length. Feel the silk-on-steel in my fist. Relish in the feel of it, caress it, toy with him, not giving him a rhythm to get into. I stare up at him as I fondle his cock, both hands now, then switch to massage his balls, then go back and twist the head and stroke it lazily, slowly, teasingly, lovingly. I caress his cock not for his pleasure, but for mine. For my enjoyment of his beautiful, perfect penis.
I take a step backward and pull him with me by his cock. We go to the bedroom, to the bed. I don’t really notice the surroundings, because nothing matters but him and the ache inside me. And my need for him. I need to finish what he started out in the sea, need to feel him finish inside me. I need him to erase what happened with my erstwhile husband. I need to feel wanted.
His gaze on my body is a start. The way he reaches for me as I feel the bed hit the backs of my knees, the way his hands caress my skin, greedily but gently, carving his palms over my sides, down to the bell of my hips, cupping my hipbones. Gripping me there, halting my progress up the bed.
“Here.” He slides his touch down to my thighs, grips the backs of my knees and lifts my legs, resting my heels on his shoulders. “Let me feel that tight pussy of yours,” he murmurs. “Let me in.”
I guide him to my slit. Hold his gaze with mine as I arch my spine up off the bed. I moan, a long, low, growl as he pushes into me. My eyes widen involuntarily as he splits me apart, and then I’m gasping for breath as he plunges deep, filling me until I can’t take anymore, but still he fucks into me, more and more and more of him, stretching me so much it almost hurts, but hurts beautifully, incredibly, and I’m scrabbling at the bedspread and swiveling my hips, trying to…I don’t even know. Take more. Feel him more fully. Experience more of him.
“God…oh god…” I moan, arching again, writhing. “More…please…let me feel you.”
He moves gently, holding onto my thighs near my hips, pulling me flush against him, my feet now dangling in the air as he leans against me, driving forward with his hips in a slow glide. So gently. Delicately. “Like this?”
I shake my head. “No. More. I need more.” I grind against him. “Harder.”
He withdraws, slowly, and then slams into me, once, hard. So hard my tits bounce painfully, but his cock in my cunt and, fuck, that’s perfect. So perfect. He slides out, hesitates. Reaches down to caress my breasts. One, the other, both hands, cupping, worshipping. He feathers quick fluttering teasing touches of his cock in and out of me, just the very tip between the lips of my pussy, teasing, teasing.
And then he fucks me, hard.
“YES!” I cry out. “Oh fuck…just like that.”
He does it again. Teases me with those little fluttering pulses of his plump head almost but not quite inside me, and then slams into me, so hard our flesh slaps and my tits jounce and his hips crack against my ass.
“You like it hard?” He growls.
“So hard. I like it rough, didn’t you know? I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t breathe.”
“Shit…” he groans, the curse drawn out, growled roughly, as if pulled out of him against his will. “Shit, you feel so good. Better than I fantasized.”
“What did you picture?” I ask. “When you jerked yourself off to thoughts of me?”
“This. Fucking you. Feeling your tight little cunt around my cock. Feeling you squeeze me.”
I clamp down around him as hard as I can. “Like this?”
He throbs inside me, buried deep, balls against my taint, flesh to flesh. “Fuck yes, just like that. God, just like that. I can’t take it when you do that. I don’t want this to end, you know? I want to hold out and make it last. But when you squeeze around me like that…?”
He’s breathless, thrust deep, muscles tensed, sweating now. Holding back.
“Don’t,” I breathe. “Give it to me. Give it all to me. Don’t hold back, don’t be gentle, don’t make it last.”
I squeeze him again, pulses, now, squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing, grinding my hips against him, grinding him in and out of me.
He grunts, and his fingers dimple into my flesh, his hands tightening on my thighs, sliding down to grip me by the hips, pulling me to the edge of the bed until I’m completely helpless in his hands, most of my body off the bed, held up by him. Only my shoulders remain on the mattress.
“Touch yourself,” he commands. “Touch your pussy. Touch your tits.”
My hands scrape across my body, my touch rougher than his would ever be, pinching my nipples and pressing my fingers to my clit. And then he drives into me, as I begin to gasp.
There aren’t words for what happens next.
There isn’t a descriptor for how hard he fucks me, then.
It would excruciating, if I didn’t relish the pain of it, if the pounding force of his hips driving against me didn’t push me to climax so fast I don’t need my fingers. I touch myself anyway, because holy fuck, I don’t think there’s ever been anything like this, or ever will be again, the unutterably perfect way his cock slams into me again and again, so hard I can’t breathe, so hard the pleasure and the pain are intermingled into perfection, drawing screams out of me that reverberate against the walls, echo off the ceiling. His grunts fill my ears, woven through my screams.
He fucks me, and he fucks me, and he fucks me, and I squeeze him with all the force I have, touch my clit, and I can’t fight the orgasm, don’t try. I don’t just fall over the edge, I’m thrown over. Blasted past the threshold of climax so hard so fast so furiously it hurts worse than the cracking slapping smacking of his hips against my ass and thighs, a climax so potent and so powerful I don’t just scream but cry, a torrent of wrenching ecstasy and agony in delirious counterpoint, stealing my breath, twisting my body into writhing paroxysms.
My orgasm is so blinding I miss the moment when he comes.
One second I’m dizzy and screaming and crying
and wracked by wave after wave of climax, and then the next I’m struggling to move and he’s on top of me, pinning me to the mattress, panting into my neck, chest heaving, his cock still buried deep.
I feel his cum.
Wet. Hot. Dripping and sliding and trickling out of me, around his cock and down my inner thighs, messy, sticky, perfect. He’s shuddering, fluttering his hips as if to milk even the aftershocks of every last bit of bliss.
My hands roam his back. Find rough ridges of scars in a network of patches and lines, and then a puckered hole near his shoulder. He gets off me, pulling out reluctantly. He stumbles across the room and out into the hallway, into the bathroom, his steps staggering, as if unsteady. As if I’ve fucked the gracefulness right out of him. I feel proud of that, actually.
But as he leaves I really notice his back, and I see the scars. Burn scars and thin lines, all centered low on his back, near his left side. The scar shaped like a puckered hole is up near his right shoulder, inches from his shoulder blade. When he returns, a damp washcloth in his hands, I see a matching scar on his chest.
He ignores my curious stare, nudges my thighs apart, and wipes me clean. He looks at me, wordless, his expression inscrutable. He returns the washcloth to the bathroom, and then lies on the bed beside me, hands tucked beneath his head. I curl up near him, but not on him. I’m not sure what’s next. There’s a fan in the ceiling above us, spinning rapidly, stirring the warm air. It’s hot, I’m realizing, now that I’m able to feel or notice anything but him. Humid. The sound of the surf is a pleasant susurrus, marked by the occasional caw of a gull.
I touch the round scar on his chest; it’s meant as a question.
He extends an arm, reaches for me, and pulls me against his side, my breast squished against his ribcage, my head on his thick bicep. He sighs, deeply, and breathes out.
“Got that at Bastogne.” A long, long silence. “Same for the other scar on my back. That one was a grenade. How I made it out alive is a miracle, honestly. Any of us, really. A lotta boys didn’t. Sure you’ve heard the stories by now. Krauts had us pinned. Surrounded, cut off, colder than hell, no coats or gloves, running out of ammo. Fucking coldest days of my life.” He looks down at his feet, wiggles his toes. “Damn near lost my toes to frostbite. It’s why I love it down here so much. Never gets cold. Even now, going on ten years later, if it gets too cold, I flash back.”
He’s staring up at the ceiling, watching the fan spin. Eyes vacant, seeing things I’d rather not even think about.
I don’t know what to say. How to comfort him. His expression is grim, tense. Angry. Haunted. His whole body is stiff as a board, his arm around my waist tightening, fingers clawing. Jaw grinding. Breath coming in short harsh gasps.
“Don’t think much of any of the rest of it,” he says, his tone tight and feigning a casualness I don’t believe. “Normandy, Market Garden, the rest. Doesn’t bother me all that bad. Bastogne? Haunts my fucking nightmares. The cold, more than anything. The endless fucking cold. Gets in your bones and stays there. Heat like this, even now—I know I’m not there anymore but…even heat like this doesn’t quite warm me up. Not all the way.”
My heart clenches at the pain in his voice, the despair. What do I say? How am I supposed to comfort him?
I move closer to him, drape my thigh over his. Run my fingers through the hair on his chest. Trace the outlines of his pectorals, the grooves of his abs. Just touch him. All over. Caress him. Not sexually, just…to remind him that he’s here. That he’s now. That I’m here.
He blinks hard, squeezing his eyes shut, breathing through his nose. Shuddering breaths, as if holding back a mammoth weight of emotion he doesn’t dare release. Doesn’t dare, or doesn’t know how too.
“Make me forget,” he whispers.
He wrenches his eyes open, and looks down at me. I hold his gaze, so he knows I don’t judge him or think less of him for the moisture filming his eyes, tears he refuses to acknowledge. The desperation, the despair…it’s razor sharp. Cutting. Immense.
“Make me forget,” whispers again. “I need to forget.”
*
I don’t know how. How do I comfort a man like him? How do I soothe the scars on his soul?
There is only one way. Only one thing he wants from me. I caress my palm over his breastbone, follow the path of my hand with my lips, and slide gentle kisses across his skin, from left shoulder to right. I kiss the scar and he shudders as my lips touch the roughened flesh. I move so my body covers his, my weight on him, pinning him to the bed, reminding him of weight and reality. My hands carve from his shoulder down his sides, to the angled indents of his hipbones; flit my tongue over his nipple; lay my breasts across his semi-erect penis. Writhe and twitch, scrape the tips of my breasts over his shaft, slide the thickening length between them. Kiss along one side of his body, from just beneath his armpit to hipbone, letting my hair fall like a blanket of golden silk on his tan skin. I kiss his belly. Just beneath his navel. Lick the hollow between balls and hip and thigh. He’s breathing hard, eyes shut tight. Fighting some secret war within himself.
Run my palms up and down his thighs. Tease his length with my tongue. Caress it with my fingertips. Cup his sac with my palm, massage his balls. Lick up his cock from root to tip with the flat of my tongue.
He reaches down, feathers both hands into my hair. Pulls me up his body. “Not that,” he murmurs. “You.”
I straddle him to sit on his belly, laying forward, pressing my tits against his chest, and grinding my core against him. Reaching down with my left hand, I find his hard length, guide him to me, and fit him to my slit. Tease him there, not quite letting him in. Kiss his jaw. Right palm on his cheek, beard soft beneath my palm. Flex my hips, roll them. Kiss his cheekbone. Rub my thumb across his lips and press my slit to the head of his cock, breathe a sigh in his ear and sink down onto him. He groans, a long low guttural sound, and he clutches my ass with both hands, tilts his head backward, lift his hips off the bed.
Bite his earlobe.
Roll my hips to glide my cunt around his erection, breathing and moaning in his ear.
The noises aren’t faked or exaggerated; he feels that good inside me. But as good as this feels it isn’t for me, not really
I’m a fool. I know this.
He’s not mine.
This will end.
But for now, this is enough.
I remain flat on his body, moving only my hips. I curl one arm beneath his neck; the other buried in his hair, then tuck my face against the side of his neck. I’m seeking some semblance of intimacy. Some way of making this less raw, less physical. Seeking a connection with him. A connection I do not deserve.
But one I will take anyway, deserved or not.
I raise my ass in the air, sliding him out of me, pressing my left temple to his right, our faces cheek to cheek, my hand fisted in his wild black locks, the other clinging to the back of his neck. Then I sink down on him once more, impaling him deep inside me. Make it long, make it slow. Feel, relish, exaggerate every single inch, every millimeter of his cock sliding between my deliciously stretched labia, into my tight wet channel. I press my hips to his until our hipbones touch, until there’s no more of me take any more of him.
His fingernails rake down my spine, palms slide up to soothe where his claws dug into my skin.
He clutches a double handful of my ass, lifts me, guides my descent, slowing the impalement, dragging it out, lowering me as slowly as he can. Moaning, grunting, hissing as he fills me.
“Oh…fuck. Fuck. How can you feel this good? Better than I imagined. So much better.” His voice begins to buzz and rumble in my ear. “I dreamed of this. So many times over the last few months, I dreamed of this. Of you riding me just like this. But this, you, us, it’s so much better.”
“I’ve never felt anything like you,” I say, and though the words surprise me as they emerge, they still feel true. “It’s like your body was made for mine.”
Still so slow, the thrus
t of his hips, the glide of his slick hard shaft. Deliberate, each motion precise, pulling as far out of me as he can without falling out, and then pushing back in just as slowly, just as deliberately, as if to memorize each moment, each second, each sensation.
Time ceases to have meaning. There is only the smooth slow wet drive in and drawing out of his cock, only his breath in my ear and his hands on my skin, raking down my back and clawing my ass, burying in my hair, cupping the curve of my body where my legs are folded under me, shins to the mattress. Lifting me, pushing me up, pulling me down, moving me. Gasping in my ear. His cock thrusting inside me. Nothing but that, endlessly. For so long. Minutes? Hours? I don’t know.
I press my lips to his throat and breathe in his scent as he begins to gasp raggedly, grunting in my ear, lifting and settling me with more force, but as slowly as possible, almost still, even as I feel him tense beneath me.
“Look at me,” he says, his voice rough and raw and bold. “Don’t look away.”
I rise up, brace my palms on his chest, and find his gaze with mine. Hold his stare.
He wants to move faster, wants to fuck harder. But he doesn’t. He drives excruciatingly slowly. His body begins to shake, his jaw trembling, lips quivering, brows drawing down, eyes widening, his grip on my ass tightening, jerking me down onto him hard, now. Never looking away.
He growls, a wordless, animal sound.
Withdraws, lifts me up.
Slams me down hard, my ass slapping against his hips, driving up into me.
Again.
Grunting with each thrust.
I follow him through it, stay with him, eyes on his, taking all he has to give.
Deep down, I want more.
I want to come.
I want to hear him cry out my name.
I want to kiss him.
He comes hard, god, so hard. Spilling into me, filling me, grinding deep as he comes.
When he finishes, he releases me.
Instead of rolling off and cleaning up, I remain laying on top of him. Head to his chest. His cock inside me, cum spilling out. Smeared everywhere. Messy. Sticky. Hot. Wet. Fan stirring the air around us. Surf crashing. His heart hammering under my ear. His hands on my back, following the curvature of my spine.
The Black Room: The Deleted Door Page 5
