I’d felt faint scarring under the tattoo when my lips had brushed his wrist, and I wondered if he’d offer any explanation.
“There are…I can’t…,” he said “Not…not…”
“Not yet,” I answered for him. “I understand.” And I did. I have scars of my own.
“You’re broken too,” he said, a muscle tensing in his jaw. It was half question, half statement.
“You know I am.” I lifted my gaze to his.
He nodded, his eyes welling with empathy and questions. He longed to ask, and I hoped he didn’t. I wasn’t ready either. Not yet.
“This,” I said, tracing a finger over the black band that was still pressed to my cheek. “This has something to do with what happened to you?”
“It does,” he said, his thumb ghosted over my mouth, and his eyes fell, burning a trail across my lips.
“It was very bad?”
“Yes. People died,” he said, those crystal blue eyes fluttering to mine.
“Same,” I said, choking on the word as his hands closed in, cradling my face in his palms.
“Oh, Jane,” he whispered, pressing me to his chest. “I’m so sorry.”
I swallowed a sob, wrapped my arms around him and held tight, willing the hot boil of emotion that rioted in my gut to subside. If I cried right now, in his arms, I knew it would end me.
“Is it enough?” he asked, pulling me back so his eyes could pierce mine, searching. “For now? Can we acknowledge just this, and leave the rest? Can we promise to only speak of it, if we choose? If it’s possible?”
“Yes,” I said as hot tears streamed down my face.
“Are you sure? What if it’s never possible?”
“I don’t care, Thomas, I don’t care.”
“God help me.” He groaned and fisted a hand in my hair, pressing his lips to mine with an intensity so hard and hot I felt branded. He crushed me to him, powerful arms holding me still, captive, as his tongue pushed insistently at the seam of my lips, demanding entry. I moaned, a shock of lust sharpening in my core and he stole the sound from me, draining it from my lungs as his tongue swept in and plundered my mouth, claiming me.
His mouth tasted of wine and tears, and I wanted to drink from those lips forever. I wanted all of him, all of the pain, the joy, all of the suffering and the beauty. We clung to each other, in desperate recognition, two broken souls sharing frantic kisses. Trying to drive away the sorrow, trying to fill the fathomless echoing hole that hollows the hearts of people like us. People who have walked through fire and bear those scars on their incorporeal skin. I would kiss all of his scars away given the chance.
His chest heaved under my hands, his breath labored with passion. Pulling impatiently at his shirt, he bypassed the buttons and drew it over his head instead, flinging it to the floor. Our eyes locked as he grasped the bottom edge of my shirt. I lifted my arms as he pulled it off of me, my naked breasts bouncing free as the fabric slid away. I shifted to escape the sleeves and he stopped me, twisting the fabric around my wrists, binding them together. He eased my arms behind my head, arching my back so that my breasts thrust forward.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice brusque with desire as his eyes roamed over me.
My cheeks flamed hotly under his scrutiny, my nipples pebbled hard and aching as he stared. He lifted his free hand, his fist clenching and unclenching with hesitation. I strained forward, my mouth seeking his, and kissed him insistently, pleadingly. His lips commanded mine, his tongue licking and tasting, as his hand floated over my stomach, and finally up, to caress soft curves. He palmed my breasts, kneading my flesh until it swelled under his touch. Fingers found my sensitive nipples, pinched and rolled, sending shockwaves of pleasure down my torso to coil low in my belly.
He urged me back against the sofa, kicking my legs astride with his knees until I straddled him. Pushing my skirt up he lifted me, and my hips homed for his, the thin fabric of my panties soaking wet against his trousers. I ground into him, feeling the length of his erection so hard, so tantalizingly close to me. I pulled my shirt from my wrists, freeing my hands to reach for his fly, but he caught my wrists before they found their destination, and forcing them above my head again, trapped me between the cushions and the full weight of his body.
“No,” he said. “Not yet, that hasn’t changed.”
“Please,” I whimpered. “I want you. I need you.”
“I know.” He smiled grimly at me as one hand traveled from my wrists to my panties. His fingers slipped under the band and down, gliding between my wet folds, stroking, teasing. “I can tell.”
He bent low, his mouth hovering just over mine. My eyes were locked to his as securely as my body was under his hands. He grasped my panties and ripped them from me. Long elegant fingers ghosted over the smooth contours of my leg, and settled at my hip. His fingers dented my flesh as his grip tightened, squeezing the sensitive skin at the top of my thigh. His hand coasted lower, his thumb dipped and circled the tender pink bud, dancing in time with my hips. His mouth sought mine, teeth nipping at my lower lip, denying me, the soft respite of his lips just out of reach. His thumb stopped, breaking the exquisite tension that had been building deep inside me. He pulled back, his eyes searching mine. Dimples broke out at the corners of his mouth as he smiled slyly.
He sat back and freed his belt, unzipping his trousers, pushing them to his knees.
“Yes,” I sighed. “Finally!”
“No. Not yet,” he said emphatically.
“Then what are you doing? This is torture!”
“You’ll see,” he said. He slipped one hand behind my back and pulled me close, drawing my arms over his head to rest around his neck. Lifting my knees he pressed me into the sofa and ground his hips, thrusting forward as his mouth plundered mine.
“Oh God,” I gasped against his lips and trembled as I felt the head of his cock slick between my wet folds. I pressed forward, but he shifted away, nestling his length in the valley of my thigh as his hands slid lazily over my hips, my belly, my breasts. One hand glided to my sex, his fingers probed, slow velvet strokes, exploring as his pelvis worked in time with his movements.
I loosened my grip on his neck, my hands roaming freely over the contours of his back. He dipped his head, grasped my breast and sucked a nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling over the swollen tip.
“Thomas,” I moaned and my hands fisted in his hair, those beautiful deep chestnut curls.
“Say that again,” he groaned against my breast, the vibration sending shivers of pleasure up my spine.
“Thomas.”
He raised his head, and lifted his torso so that he was staring down at me, his eyes the color of blue flame. “Again,” he said, yanking my head back by my hair, fluttering wet kisses along the column of my throat.
My fingers trembled and reached for his glasses. Slipping them from his face, I dropped them to the floor.
“Thomas,” I whispered.
His lips crushed mine, his tongue sliding into that hot, wet hole as one long elegant finger mirrored the movement, circling my entrance before sinking deep inside. He moved so slowly, so achingly, torturously slow that I bucked against his hand and tried frantically to move his heavy muscled frame to my whim, to hasten his pace. He broke the kiss and laughed. Pushing up on one hand, he towered over me, watching my face. He drew back his hips, then pushed forward sending a second finger inside me, to join the other.
“Fu…,” I cried, and nearly wept he felt so good.
He drew back again, and pushed forward again, his erection thick and hard against my thigh, his fingers curling inside my sex.
“Goddammit,” he ground out as his mouth crashed down to mine, his tongue plunging into my mouth as his pelvis drove down hard. He curled his fingers again, and flexed them, searching for that special spot deep inside, the one he knew would make me scream. His hand worked with his hips, his hips synched expertly to his mouth, his entire body thrusting, filled and laid claim to t
ight wet holes until all I could feel was him, over me, around me, inside me. My orgasm came over me like a summer thunderstorm, crashing through my limbs until I shattered underneath him. I cried out, and again he took the sound from me, swallowing my passion, consuming it like a holy sacrament. I held him as he fell, his face buried in my hair as his release shuddered through him.
“Jane, sweet Jane,” he whispered. “I want to hear it again,” he pleaded. “Say my name again.”
So I did.
* * *
“I think I’ve called you by your first name now nearly as many times as I’ve called you Professor since I’ve known you.” I smiled at him as I led him down the hallway to my bathroom.
“And it’s music to my ears.” He smiled.
I opened the door to my shower and turned on the water full force. When I turned back to face him, he was staring at me.
“God, you’re exquisite,” he said, taking a step towards me, threading his hands through my hair, strands cascading from his fingers like silk.
“I was thinking the same thing,” I said softly.
“Really?” he asked. Taking my hand he led me into the shower and turned my back to his chest, folding me into his arms and guiding us under the spray together. “That’s astonishing. So you too, were thinking that your hair looks like a curtain of dark chocolate silk?” his fingers massaged my scalp, tilting my head back to rest against his chest. “That your skin is reminiscent of fresh cream?” His hands glided down my neck, and over my shoulders, setting my skin on fire, a blush raising in my cheeks. “That when you’re aroused your breasts look like that cream has been poured over strawberries?” His hands moved to cup me, lifting and massaging the heavy weight of my breasts as his thumbs brushed over the swollen pink tips. “You were thinking all those things too?”
“Well, not those exact words.” I laughed.
“What words, then? Hmmm?” he said, his lips nuzzling a magical spot just below my ear.
“No, no, please continue—I don’t want to interrupt this soliloquy.”
“I cannot decide which parts of you are my favorite,” he said, his fingers rubbing lazy circles over my nipples. “In fact limiting my praise to mere parts seems reductive, as I confess I am an ardent admirer of the entire package.”
“Oh, but you were on a roll.” I sighed, relaxing into his chest.
He tilted his head to look at me. “I wouldn’t want to objectify you, darling.”
“Please, objectify me. I’m begging you.”
“Very well,” he said, and lifting my chin with a fingertip, he pressed a soft kiss to my mouth. “These lips, so full and red, I’d often wondered would they look the same after kissing you, or would they swell further with attention?” He reached for the bottle of body wash on the shelf of my shower and poured some in his hands.
“And what’s the verdict?” I asked.
“You look manhandled,” he said, his brow furrowed. “Lips plump and bruised, like some lusty brute was abusing your mouth.”
“I’m not complaining.” I laughed, my pulse quickening at his words. “I’m quite enjoying your lusty brutish side.”
“I’m relieved to hear it, because it’s the same fate for your breasts, I’m afraid.” He rubbed his hands together in front of us, building a thick lather, then palmed my breasts and squeezed them, his fingers drawing soft grooves in my flesh as they trailed to my nipples. Every nerve ending sang in response to him, and I ached for more of his touch. His fingers found my nipples, pinching and rolling them roughly, until I gasped with pleasure, and a shock of lust spiked through me.
“I’m very, very fond of your breasts,” he growled, his lips brushing against my ear.
“And this,” he said, sliding a soapy hand down to the dewy cleft between my legs. “I cannot wait to taste you,” he said, “to thrust into you, and feel you from the inside, to feel that tight juicy hole sucking my cock like a greedy little mouth.”
“Oh, fuck me,” I cursed. My knees buckled and he caught me, his hand clamping between my legs to steady me.
“I keep telling you.” He laughed. “Not yet.”
“You’re evil,” I whimpered.
“Possibly.” He nodded. “But you like me that way, don’t you? You like the teasing and the torture, the slow build-up, the anticipation. You pretend you don’t, but you do. You love it.”
I turned in his arms and clamped my hands on his face, pulling him to me, shutting him up by sealing my mouth over his.
He laughed against my lips and cupped his hands around my ass, his fingers probing again, finding my slick folds from another angle, opening me to him, one finger circling the entrance to my sex.
I swear my eyes rolled back in my head. I was helpless in his arms, utterly controlled by his attentions, and I struggled to regain my wits, to give as good as I was getting. I snaked a hand between our bodies, searching for his cock that lay hard and thick against my belly. He caught my wrist and lifted my hand to his lips, kissing it.
“No,” he said firmly.
“Why do you get to dictate what we do?” I asked, looking up at him, my mood sobering. “Are you a control freak about sex, or what?”
“No,” he said, his eyes growing dark. “No, that’s not it.” His hands glided to my back and he set me away from him, taking a step back to snag a bottle of shampoo. He poured some in his hands and began soaping his hair, the cords of muscle in his arms, tensing and yielding as he moved.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve hurt your feelings.”
“No, you haven’t. Your comment was reasonable from your perspective of things. I just… When I make a promise to myself, I’ve learned I need to keep it. I’m sorry that it comes off as ‘control freak’ to you.”
“I don’t really understand. I mean, you’ve been laying down rules and breaking them since we met. It’s kind of giving me whiplash.”
He didn’t speak, just rinsed his hair, the water sluicing over his face and down his naked torso.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Forget it.”
“No, no Jane,” he said, and pulled me back to him.
“I just need a moment to find the words.” Lathering shampoo into my hair, his fingers massaged my scalp. “When we spoke of our pasts, the things that have happened to us — well, one of the things that happened to me was a terrible betrayal of trust. A boundary was crossed, and the result was devastating and long lasting. Boundaries are very important to me. Especially this one, between us. I’m sorry that it’s confusing to you, but I have to respect that promise to myself; I have to respect that boundary.”
“Which is, exactly?”
He laughed cynically. “You’re right, I’ve been moving the line and bending the rule. But if you can see fit to indulge me, I’d prefer to control things, just for now.”
“Alright.” I sighed. “Send me a memo when I’m allowed to suck your cock.”
“Oh God,” he said. “Someone get me a pen.”
“No, seriously, just let me know, okay?”
“Here’s the deal,” he said, shifting to let the water rinse my hair. “Until you graduate, let me set the pace. Once you’ve got that piece of paper in your hand, no quarter need be given.”
I turned towards him and draped my arms over his shoulders.
“I couldn’t bear it, Jane. I won’t do wrong by you. I couldn’t bear to look in your eyes and see betrayal, or disgust, or desperation, and know that I put that there.”
“Never gonna happen,” I said. “Look in my eyes and tell me what you see now.”
He cradled my face in his hands, and leveled his eyes with mine.
“Lust.” He smirked.
“Duh, go on.”
His gaze grew serious. “Need, compassion,” he said, his eyes searching mine, probing deep. “Esteem?”
“Absolutely,” I nodded. “Go on.”
“Understanding. Kindness, and perhaps,” he said, tilting his head, “the tiniest seeds of something more, something I dar
e not name. Not yet.”
I gulped.
“Yes,” I said, unnerved at his insight. “Exactly right.”
“Wow,” he said, lifting me in his arms. “One hundred percent accuracy. Perhaps I should think of taking that talent on the road.”
I smiled and slanted my mouth over his. He kissed me deeply, his tongue sweeping insistently into my mouth, I softened against him, yielding, and then returned his passion ten-fold. Holding him to me fiercely, I claimed his mouth with my own, our tongues sparring for dominance. Breathless, he broke the kiss, fisted his hand in my hair and pulled my head back. His eyes locked on mine and a current of understanding crackled between us.
“Know that every part of that is returned, Jane. All of it.”
“I know,” I said, resting my forehead against his. “I told you, I see you and you see me.”
He moved to kiss me again and I dodged him, darting away to appraise him at a distance. I’d been dying for a good look at his body, a chance to soak in all that masculine beauty. If I couldn’t touch him as I wished, I was going to devour him with my eyes.
“Now then,” I said, “I believe it’s my turn to soliloquize….wait, is that even a word?”
“It is!” He laughed. “I promise.”
“Well…” I moved around him, pushing his muscled bulk in front of me and stood behind him, my breasts pressed to his back, my hands circling his torso to roam across the chiseled planes of his chest. Oh how good he felt under my hands, the strong lines of his body, smooth and hard. I had ached to touch him, and still I ached more, but I didn’t give in to temptation, instead honoring his request and limiting my exploration to his chest and arms.
“You’re so beautiful,” I said. “Like Italian sculpture, so honed I can hardly believe you’re real.” My hands crept down, tracing the angles of his hips as I circled around him, careful to avoid dipping any lower, although I wanted to—God, how I wanted to. “Let me look at you?” I asked.
Commencement (Becoming Jane) Page 8
