by James, Ella
I was dead, but I remember someone waiting for me up there. Ever since then…
I squeeze my eyes shut as I hear her push her chair back.
* * *
Finley
He can’t look at me. That’s what hurts the most, I think: to see him with his eyes averted, asking me to please just go—so that he doesn’t have to speak about it.
I imagine that he must have struggled quite a lot and jabbed himself to simulate a pleasure feeling, and then run to fire up his endorphins. When that didn’t work, he wound up at the cliffs, racked with so much pain he thought of jumping.
I think of how he seemed outside, the odd look on his face as we stood near the automobile. Just a look of pain, really. I saw it mostly in his eyes, the sort of squint about them. Now I understand. He was poorly the entire while, even as he offered to drive me home, telling me I would feel better tomorrow. My poor Sailor.
His hand remains over his eyes. I see the tension in his frame, his shoulders. How long has he struggled this way? Since the burrow? Thinking of the burrow brings to mind the time when we stood by the cave’s mouth—just before he moved the stone—and he crouched down in front of me so I’d be forced to look at him.
I take a deep breath, and then I sink down to my knees beside him. I crawl partway beneath the table cloth and tap his knee. When he shifts a bit, I laugh.
“Peek down at me. Please,” I whisper.
“What are you doing?”
“If you won’t look up…” I scoot my entire body beneath the table, and he gives a rough laugh.
For a second, he won’t move. I’m just sitting by his knees. I lean my cheek against one of his thighs and wrap my arm around his calf. I cross myself. Then, with whispered words, I gamble.
“If you knew how wonderful I find you…simply lovely—really in all ways. And I know you’re wildly wealthy and quite sought after.” I smile. “But that part doesn’t matter to me.” I press my cheek against his thigh, against the softness of his running pants, and hug his calf. I feel him trembling. “I could never pity you because I have so much affection for you, Carnegie, that I can tell you only from beneath a table. Because you’re right. I am shy.” I stroke his hard calf, feeling a bit surreal.
“I know you must be in such a horrid state, but that’s not what I see most clearly. I simply adore you…and it’s you I see. I think I cannot stay away.” I gulp a breath back, my heart racing even as my words are soft and measured. “Before tonight, I was afraid of being hurt. Then I saw you on the ledge, and the fear I felt…” I shake my head. “Not only was I terror-stricken, but… I wanted you. My heart ached the moment I saw you.” I blink against my tears, and his leg shifts slightly.
“I’ve decided I don’t want to stay away. If it hurts—if feeling this way for you simply hurts—I’ll bear it. I want to be near you. I want you to hurt near me. I feel certain that together we’d be…better.”
I feel him shift a bit. I peek up, but I don’t see his face. I duck out from beneath the tablecloth and find him with his head down, his forehead resting on his right forearm. For once, his body seems completely motionless.
“I’m frightened now.” I try to laugh, but the sound catches. “If you feel I’m mad… If all of that seems quite apart from how you feel—”
He lifts his head, and I see that his eyes are red. His face is stoic.
I wipe at my tears. “I suppose I simply wanted to jump for you, and to hell with the consequences.”
His chair scrapes the floor, and then he’s wrapping me against his chest, holding me in a near-crushing hug. I feel his ribs flare, and I cling to him with returning force.
Then he’s scooping me up, carrying me through the living room as a groom carries a bride, his strong arms beneath my back, behind my knees, my cheek against his warm chest. Never, as he carries me to the bed, does he look at my face. Neither does he as he stretches out atop the covers beside me, drawing me against himself, his hands trembling.
He presses his cheek atop my head. I wrap my arms around his neck.
“Since the burrow,” he says hoarsely.
He breathes deeply, and I kiss his throat as my heart hammers wildly.
“The first night back, I was afraid,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry I left you.”
A tremor moves through his shoulders. “Don’t be sorry.” He kisses my hair, hugs me closer. “You’re so fucking perfect, Siren. Sometimes it’s the only thing that gets me through.”
“I’m so sorry that you’re suffering.” I run my hands into his hair. I kiss his throat, and then his chin. I stroke his forehead with my fingertips. “My poor darling… Is it this way every day?”
He gives a little lift of his shoulders, shuts his eyes.
“You’re so strong. A lion,” I whisper. “You’re so good and kind. Relief will come.”
His fingers strum my back like a guitar, even as I feel him trembling.
“You’re so brave.” I lean back a bit to look into his eyes and find them closed. I kiss his cheek. “I won’t leave you alone again. I’ll stay here with you.”
His mouth covers mine, and together we groan.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Finley
He kisses deep and hot and hard, as if he means to claim me. One hand fists my hair. The other cups my cheek as his tongue cravenly explores my mouth, its probing rhythm making my thighs press together as a warm weight drops low into my belly.
I’m spun ’round in the frenzy of his onslaught: his rough cheeks scratching mine, his mint-tinged breath in my nostrils, the way his lips are bruising mine and my mouth is opening for more, my jaw aching till we wrench apart to breathe in frenzied tugs.
Then he’s moving, shifting so he’s crouched above me. All I see are his eyes, asking questions that I try to answer with my own. He lowers his hips atop mine, and I can feel his thick erection.
“Siren—are you sure?”
I can’t answer for my tight throat, but I grab his shoulder, pulling him down on me. His head nuzzles my throat, and then he’s kissing me there. His hips rock against mine, his sex dragged over my softness until I cannot take it anymore.
I’m pulling his hair, groaning. “Please…”
“Please what?”
I wrap my arm around his hips, pressing my palm against his back, and lift my backside so my sex rubs his.
He groans, and then his mouth is moving over my throat. His kisses are so hard, I feel heady with a sort of fright which fuzzes into to velvet bliss and then near pain as his long, stiff sex rubs against me and my insides tremble in primal response.
I can’t stop myself from stroking every inch of his warm skin. I drag my nails along his sides, caress his shoulder blades. His muscles quiver and his breathing quickens. We reach a point where every time his sex catches on mine, we moan and thrust our hips. I hold his face between my palms. His eyes reach into mine.
You know what I want, Carnegie. Now give it to me…
His mouth finds mine—tender, slow, an answer. I can’t discern if it’s “yes” or “no,” and so I simply kiss him back and tell him that way: Yes, I want this. I want you.
I want you.
I want you.
We pant with our foreheads pressed together. Then we’re back in motion, nothing but our hungry mouths and grasping hands. He can’t hold out much longer—I can feel it in the tremor at his hips, can hear it in the way his breaths come from the throat.
He takes my pants down…then my panties. He’s there where I’m slick and ready, rubbing his round tip through my folds.
“Ohhhhh.”
My back arches, and suddenly he’s off the bed. “Hang on a second.” And it is merely a second—just a breath—before he’s returned, sitting on his haunches with his large sex jutting from his hips. I hear the rip before I see him roll the condom over his sex.
He looks back up, his dark eyes wide and glassy. “Tell me no if you don’t want it.” He crawls over me, tracing his fingertip over my puffy
slit. “I can lick this pussy, make you come like that.”
“I want you,” I whisper.
When he presses his tip into my slit again, I moan and thrust against him. My heart races, and my head feels light and hollow.
“It’s gonna hurt.” His words are groaned, as if he’ll feel the pain as well.
He rubs his thick tip where I’m slick, the latex-covered head of him brushing deliciously against my clitoris before he drags himself back through my folds, making me lift my hips. Then he’s there—he’s where I’m pooled wet with desire and swollen with need. I can feel the pressure of him as he fits himself against me.
But instead of pressing in, he leans back over me, his lips and tongue teasing my nipple, his sheathed sex pressed into the crevice between my hip and thigh as our taut bodies quiver.
I run my fingers through his soft hair, tugging. “Let it hurt, then.”
He gives me his eyes—careful as ever; even beneath the glaze of lust, I feel his kind concern for me—and then he’s bowed again between my thighs, lapping at me with his silken tongue when what I need is his thick sex. He’s stoking my fire, and I can scarcely bear it.
“Please…oh please!” His tongue skates around my clit, making me gasp, then groan low. Finally, he fills me with his fingers. He pushes in and then drags out, and my knees clench around his shoulders.
“Oh!”
He probes deeper, and his mouth—
I try to fight what’s overtaking me, but I can feel it rolling in—the sort of tide that stretches smooth before it gathers in a round fury and crashes hard against the rock. I come apart like white caps spraying, making rainbows.
Then I’m fuzzed about the edges, so much so, I nearly fail to notice him; he’s risen up onto his knees, and his large hand is wrapped around his sex. He’s pushed it down toward his thigh, out of the limelight. But I can see it, long and condom-white and thick, still begging for attention.
Tears are drying on my cheeks. I laugh though them, and when he smiles at me, his handsome face is warm and kind—indulgent.
He shifts, as if he’s moving to stretch out beside me. I shove at him.
His eyes round in inquiry.
“Sit up—please. I want to see it.”
He does—and I do. It’s standing tall and thick and proud, its thick tip pressed against his navel. The weighty globes below look taut, distinctly darker than the pearly latex.
“May I…touch it?”
Just the barest hesitation, then he’s stretching out beside me, lying on his side with his hips near my shoulders, putting himself within my reach. I grab hold and rub gently from tip to base. Then I cup his balls, my fingers trembling as I stroke there.
His eyes close. The rough sound from his throat is both grunt and groan. Something in me coils more tightly.
“Does it feel good?” I trace a fingertip around the flanged rim of his tip, and his whole lower body jerks.
“Ahh…Jesus.”
There’s a notch there on the underside of his head. I can see it plainly through the latex. I press there, and he barks out a groan so loud, I jerk my hand back.
“Fuck.” His arm covers his face, and his hips rock toward me. I feel so wet and ready, somehow both heavy and empty, buzzing…as I rise up on my knees and urge him onto his back. His sex juts over his flat belly, inviting me to wrap my hand around it. I lean down, curious if I can lick it…and I do. I lick at the tip, grinning as I find it tastes like candy.
He fingers thread through my hair as I tease him with my tongue, then suck the tip of him into my mouth. Anna told me what to do, the way you need to stroke the shaft and do as much as you can to the tip; men like to be teased there. If you take it into your mouth, swallow back deeply and don’t let your teeth touch.
I do everything I know to. It works like magic. Throaty moans and raspy whimpers come from his throat, and his hands cinch in my hair. I can feel it building in him, feel his hips shift as he tries to keep himself from shoving down my throat. I suck his thick tip, tracing the rim with my tongue.
My hands tremble as I realize I’m doing this.
This man is my lover—this beautiful man. I want nothing more than his pleasure. I draw more of him into my mouth, and his backside comes off the mattress. He starts breathing hard and heavy, groaning as if he can’t help himself. I can sense his burgeoning discomfort. It’s in every line of his big, smooth-skinned body with its thick, round muscles and its hard, male angles.
“What do you need?” I’m quite evil, and what’s worse is I delight in it. He cannot even answer for a time, just smooths my hair out of my face as his intoxicated gaze clings to mine.
“Wrap your hand around the bottom.” His eyes squeeze shut as his jaw clenches. “Just…go up and down.”
Instead I rise on my knees, scooting closer before rubbing him where I need him.
“I want you here.”
His eyes peel open. They seem pained, and when he speaks, his lovely, warm voice vibrates. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t—” His eyes squeeze shut, then open. “Finley.”
It sounds like a plea…or prayer.
“You can’t tell me you don’t ache for it. You’re desperate to press into me…and I want you there.” My voice catches. “I crave it.”
I lie on my back beside him, handing him the reins. My heart hammers as we lie there, side by side, both panting. Then he’s up. He’s on his knees between my legs. His eyes are molten as his hand works his stiff sex, stroking from tip to base, making his balls bounce with each firm stroke.
“Finley…”
I reach for him, stroking the twin globes as he tugs his sex. He groans raggedly.
“I need you,” I whisper.
“Oh fuck…Finley.”
I wrap a hand around his shaft, and with the other trace the seam between his testes. Something like shock flickers through his features. Then he rubs himself against me. I can feel the pressure of him, feel the tremble in his arm, the one that’s holding him up. His eyes focus on mine as he rubs me harder with his firm tip.
“You’re so fucking perfect.”
“You are.”
I laugh, and his eyes squeeze shut. I stroke his arm and lift my hips.
“Are you sure?” It’s raspy, an apology in a question.
“Yes.”
His eyes open to hold mine. His hand grasps my hip. I can feel him rubbing at me, pressing there.
“I’m sorry,” he rasps.
The next moment, he thrusts. I’m torn open, soul and body. He’s in me. He’s in me. Oh—I feel him deep inside. The stark invasion has me panting, my legs quaking as I try to make sense of the massive presence, of the stinging soreness of my flesh, and at the same time, such a heady, stuffed sensation. I shift a slight bit, and he presses at my insides, making me groan.
I’m shaking, my eyes leaking. Over me, he’s panting as his hand smooths my hair off my forehead.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck. Ahh, Finley…”
He sounds desperate. I can feel him trembling, too. I grip his arm as sweat rolls down my temple. Then he pushes deeper.
“Ohhhhh.”
It’s exquisite. I feel filled—too full—and somehow in need of precisely that. I shift my hips again, and he moves his—so carefully at first, withdrawing slightly, stinging. Then his wide eyes burn mine, and he presses fully in again, his eyes closing. He makes a grunt-like sound…and I’m impaled. I’m simply stuffed full, all my nerve endings flashing like lightning and rolling like thick thunderclouds.
Light rolls through me—blazing, golden.
“Oh fuck. Fuck…” His body quakes above mine. His face twists. I feel his legs quake. He’s in so deep, I cry out at the pleasure of it. And then he draws out nearly all the way, his hand gripping my shoulder as he pushes back in.
“Oh!”
“Finley.” He’s out and then he’s plunging back in, tightening my belly, tremblin
g my knees.
I can’t help a grunt as he draws out and repeats, filling me with so much pleasure, I fell near to bursting with it.
He groans, repeating the thrust two more times, until he’s buried fully in me. I feel heavy, something tugging at me. At the same time, I’m swelling. I’m starting to spark.
Then his hips begin to thrust more rhythmically. His eyes are shut tightly, his dark brows furrowed, full lips parted. Every time he fills me, I can feel it building. Pleasure rolls through me, lifting me up.
I feel when he’s near release—the frenzied pace, the way he fills me tighter. I’m groaning, grunting, grasping at my own tendrils of bliss.
I slam against him, crying, “Harder!”
He gives what I ask, and two more thrusts—
I scream as his chest comes low over mine. I can feel him trembling, then we’re panting; we’re both panting, and he’s dripping sweat. I’m weeping and he’s whispering, his voice rough and concerned. I’m kissing his salty shoulder.
“Did I hurt you?”
“Yes,” I laugh.
He lifts himself up, and I clench around him. My hand squeezes his hip.
“I like it,” I whisper drunkenly. “I like it.”
My awareness ebbs as he withdraws and moves off me. A rush of cold air sweeps my damp, prickling skin. Then his arms are coming beneath me. I’m being lifted. I’m held against his chest, and his eyes are on my face.
I can’t read his face as he strides into the bathroom, where he sets me on my feet in the cold tub and leans over to start the faucet. He uses his hands to direct the water away from me before it’s warmed up.
I smile at that.
His gaze swings to mine, and I find his blue eyes wide and cautious.
“What’s the matter?”
He gives me a funny little smile, but I can feel the tension underneath it. “Are you okay?”
“I’m lovely.”
I watch as he swallows. “Are you sure?” His voice is low.
