“Please,” I breathed against his mouth, touching my lips to his in an unfulfilled kiss.
He groaned but said nothing. His eyes were still open, still lit with madness, watching me, as though I might disappear if he closed them.
I stroked him again, trying to whisper please; but before I could finish the word, his arms wrapped around me, our bodies crushed in a violent embrace. Phillip’s mouth covered mine, open and demanding, with the vehemence of annihilated restraint.
His tongue pushed into my mouth with no pretense of refinement. It was a kiss meant to satisfy a lifelong craving from a fleeting resource, one that might disappear or slip from his grasp at any moment. I didn’t mind because I clamored for him—his taste—in the same way.
He pushed me backward two steps until my back met the wall. His hand that had gently delved into my panties just seconds before moved lower; his movements now demanding, claiming. Greedily, he separated my folds. The pad of his thumb traced a circle around my clitoris as two urgent fingers slipped into my body. I was slick, wet, ready, and swollen with arousal.
He growled at the contact, his other hand roughly grasping at my bra, shoving the cup down until he felt the full weight of my breast. He kneaded me in time with his stroking. I moved my hand to cover his, to encourage his invasion at my center as I bucked, my back arching reflexively.
“Ah… damn.” He groaned against my mouth. “I need you, Mal. I need you…”
Abruptly, his hands withdrew and our mouths separated. He left me bereft, an inferno with no fuel. My skin was slick with sweat, the air in the trailer hot, stuffy, and heavy with humidity. But I doubted the fever of my body had anything to do with the temperature of the trailer.
Through my fervor, the fog of my lust and longing, I watched him whip the wet shirt from his toned body, and push his pants and boxers down his powerful thighs. He kicked them away, revealing his cock—ready and thick. His largeness and length, beautiful to me and echoing the power of the rest of his body, made my knees shake and my body clench in anticipation. Soon he would be inside me.
Clumsily, but with great speed, his shoes and socks followed. Through his frantic undressing, he intermittently reached for me, his kisses severe. He grabbed my waist with indelicate insistence, as though I belonged to him. He slid his hands into my underwear and flexed his fingers on my bottom.
When he was completely naked, he reached for my panties and forced them to my knees—one hand reclaiming my center, his other hand deftly unclasping my bra then tearing it from me.
Now we were standing, skin to skin, my back against the wall. I wrapped my arms around his neck and rubbed the length of my body against his, our chests crushed together, and yet I still needed to be closer. I wanted to become him and I wanted him to become me. I wanted to share the beating of his heart, his blood within my veins. I wanted his skin, the inside of his mouth, his hands—everything.
I wanted to join with him in such a way that would make it impossible for us to be separated; such that no one could tell us apart, such that we might never be made to live without each other again.
With strength and power, but no grace, Phillip wrapped one arm around my waist and held me against him, lifting me fully off the floor. He reached for and felled my twin mattress. It landed with a jarring thud. Immediately, he lowered us to it, positioning himself between my legs.
“Phillip!” I cried out, the sharp lucidity of fear cutting through the madness of the moment. I was not on birth control, and he was not wearing a condom. I may have wanted him more than life and breath in that moment, but if I survived the pain of losing him the next day, I did not want to bring a child into this our world of grudges and dysfunction.
He glared at me, confused, but in that moment his hard cock nudged then breached, filling my body with the manifestation of denied desires, longing, and need.
I gasped with the insane pleasure of it, the skin on skin contact. He began to move, his weight pinning me, his hips seeking mine in a mutual rhythm. I moaned, desirous for the friction of his cock entering me then retreating, the cadence of his thrusts. I was a glutton for his sounds, his sighs of ecstasy.
But before I could completely give myself over to it, to him, I managed to push against his shoulders. “Stop! You need to stop!”
He blinked, a stark V of severe concentration marring the space between his eyebrows. He held perfectly still, buried in me, his eyes clearing somewhat, enough for him to speak. “Mal… I thought you-”
“A condom. We need a condom,” I whispered through hitched breath even as my hands held him to me, my legs moved restlessly against his thighs, my pelvis tilted as I instinctively sought deeper penetration.
He blinked again, looking like a man coming out of a trance. I knew definitively that he hadn’t been thinking about tomorrow, five hours or even five minutes from now, let alone the ramifications of this act beyond the insanity of his need. Precaution hadn’t occurred to him.
I witnessed the precise moment he realized his mistake, his breath releasing in a whoosh against my neck, his forehead falling to my shoulder. “Oh God…”
He didn’t move, not immediately. Instead he lingered, kissed my neck, and then his tongue and teeth suckled my ear. Slowly, slowly, with the reluctance of a man who was being torn in two, he withdrew and rolled to his back, lying beside me; his breathing labored, tortured.
“I don’t have a condom,” he half laughed, half groaned. Both were laced with bitterness.
I closed my eyes. My chest was tight and achy as I tried to release a breath and with it the frustration that had settled in the marrow of my bones.
I debated with myself. I actually debated whether to throw caution to the wind, to accept him unsheathed back into my body. Tears of resentment and a swelling of rage stung my nose. I clenched my teeth and willed them away. I swallowed them down, down, down—along with the impractical feelings of being cheated by life.
It was ridiculous. I knew when I’d sobered from his spell I’d realize how childish my feelings were. However, as I lay next to him naked, my body not yet accepting the end of our desperate attempt at joining, I felt sorry for myself. Really wallowed in it.
I nodded and whispered, “Of course. Of course you don’t.” An acrid laugh burst from my lips, nearly hysterical.
I glanced at him, his fully nude form, his erection still insistent and greedy. Even then, to me, he was goddamn, fucking crazy handsome. Maybe more so. Maybe more than ever. He was so beautiful, perfect, temptation and sin.
I wanted to straddle him, position his cock beneath me, ride him rough and fast. I wanted to watch his eyes devour and covet my body, his hands on me, stroking, grabbing, shameless. I wanted to watch him splinter with frenzied bliss. I wanted to touch him as he came apart, watch his muscles strain against the beauty and perfection of it.
But he held himself away from me—one arm thrown over his eyes, one arm folded over his stomach, both hands balled into fists—and I knew he was struggling for control.
I watched him fight with himself, not yet ready to accept defeat. I could tell by the bunching of his shoulders he was trying to think of an alternative, a way to make this happen—for us—and was dissatisfied with his lack of progress.
Abruptly, he said, “Your aunt?”
I curled into a ball and turned away from him, my knees coming to my chest. I was wet and aching, my voice thick. “No. She won’t have any. She doesn’t… not here.”
It didn’t matter at any rate. The spell was broken. As though on cue, thunder clapped in the distance. Our time together, this alternate reality where being us was possible, was at an end.
I was about to say so, about to ask him to go, when he turned toward me in the bed, snaked his hand between my legs and my stomach and brought my back flush against his chest, my bottom against his groin. He was so strong, I felt like a doll—for him to position and command at will.
He kissed my shoulder, my neck, sweeping my still wet hair up and away. I
melted a little, caught off guard. His hand slid up to my breast and cupped it, his thumb circling the center without touching my nipple. Delicious torture.
“What-” my words caught in my throat on a groan that emerged sounding like a purr. “Phillip, we can’t.”
His breath was hot against my ear, cascading down my neck. “No. We can’t. But you can.”
The hand at my breast slipped down my stomach to my side, tickling me, then lower between my legs. Like before, his thumb found my clitoris—still wet and swollen with my unspent arousal—and his fingers stroking me. His movements were deliberate, masterful, coaxing. My toes pointed then curled in response.
This wasn’t a mindless frenzy, not for him. This was mindful desire. This was Phillip being Phillip. This was him acting out of free will, his purposeful thoughts and feelings rather than reacting to instinct and need.
I felt his erection against my bottom and I pressed against it. His cock slipped between my ass, the head jutting up against his lower abdomen.
He groaned at the contact, his fingers stopped, and his whole body tensed and stilled. Then, with no warning, he pulled away and flipped me onto my back. With seemingly no effort, Phillip positioned me how he liked. He held himself above me, his hands on either side of my head, and I wondered for the briefest of moments if he planned to take me again—precaution be damned.
He didn’t.
Instead he crushed my mouth with a quick, needy kiss, then moved down my body—biting, nipping, licking, suckling—until my breath sped and hitched short, frantic puffs of air. The effect was dizzying.
I cried out, my body shook, my hands fisted in his hair.
Then he was between my legs, pushing my knees apart, opening me wide to his eyes. His hands, his mouth, and his fingers once again inside me. I felt the tip of his tongue at my entrance, and I bucked off the bed. With his tongue flat, he licked me; a slow pass meant to taste, gather, and savor from my center to the top of my clitoris.
I groaned, unable to contain the primitive sound, as he repeated the stroke over and over. His tongue was soft, yielding, lapping, and my orgasm hit me like a tidal wave. I screamed his name, clawed at his hair and back, pulled under the enormity of it—unable to spare even a thought for breathing.
Returning to myself after wasn’t like floating in a starry sky or coming down from a rainbow on a chariot pulled by unicorns.
It was like coming up for air after almost drowning. I gasped, tensed, and nearly kneed Phillip in the face as he was still between my legs, placing gentle kisses on my inner thigh.
Deftly, he dodged my errant movement, slid up the length of me, and captured my labored breath with his mouth. This time his kiss tasted sweet, caressing, and I whimpered in response to his tenderness.
His tongue sought and played with mine, elegant and loving, and he sucked my bottom lip into his mouth.
His voice was rumbly when he spoke, low with intimacy. “I’ve always wondered what you tasted like.”
I shivered, both at his tone and his words.
“I love it.” He nipped my lip again, I could feel his erection pressing against my belly. “You’re sweet on my tongue. I’ll never get enough of you. I’ll always be hungry for your body.”
My fingers moved over the plane of his firm stomach then closed around his cock. His eyes flared, and he grunted a guttural noise of both protest and pleasure.
“What do you taste like?” I wondered out loud, my voice raspy from my release.
“Fuck.” His eyes drifted shut, his penis heavy and hard in my hand.
I half smiled. He’d said that, fuck, a lot tonight. I liked it from his mouth, the mouth that had just been on me.
I both pushed him and pulled him until he relinquished his weight to my control, ultimately switching positions so that his back was to the mattress and I hovered over him. His hands were still grasping, however, and he touched me as he liked—caressing my breasts, pinching my nipples, gripping my ass. I slid down his body before he could wind me up again.
Settled between his legs, I tickled the back of his knee. I knew he was most ticklish there, and I was not disappointed by his response. He groaned and flinched, his cock jerking up straight and tall. I lowered my tongue to it, circled his head with a slow lick.
The powerful muscles in his legs, abdomen, and chest all stood out in granite-like relief, his body rock solid with tension.
As slowly as I could manage—though I was greedy for the taste of him and the silky heat of his skin—I took him in my mouth and sucked, licked, stroked. I mimicked his excruciating pace from earlier, drawing out his moans and sighs and was rewarded with the salty taste of his pre-cum. I moaned and suddenly needed to touch myself.
I slipped my middle finger into my folds, moving my hand in the same rhythm of my mouth. I was still tight, swollen, ripe with his attentions. Then, some baser instinct demanded that I move my finger to his lips, seek his tongue. His mouth was hot and wet, like my pussy, and he groaned when he tasted me on myself, his hips lifted slightly from the bed and the head of his cock pressed to the back of my throat.
He smelled like the rain we’d escaped. He tasted like my arousal and something distinctly, deliciously him. I sucked him hard, tucking my lips around my teeth, and began pumping him in a firm, steady pace.
Phillip gasped then growled, a sound ripped from someplace secret and primitive, and his body rocked. I took his mindless movements as license to move faster, his cock thrusting in and out of my salivating mouth. I was drunk with the power of the moment, of his need.
“Mal-” he said. My name sounded as though it had been torn from him by force; plundered from his elegant, strong body. He moved his hips in a graceful, needful rhythm; his ass flexing, pressing upward. One of his hands fisted in my hair and he tugged, forcing my eyes to his.
He came the instant our gazes met, as though my eyes had been the instrument of his undoing and not the wet, hungry movements of my mouth.
It was glorious, he was stunning in his abandoned surrender. My heart stuttered and twisted. I felt as though it leapt from my chest in that moment and offered itself to him, for care and keeping.
His head fell to the mattress, and he covered his eyes with his arm, his breathing ragged. I delighted in how his chest rose and fell with effort, exhaustion caused by our love making.
I stilled at the thought, sobered as though slapped.
Our lovemaking.
Something deep within me, powerful and fierce, stretched and unfurled. It was stronger than the longing I’d felt for him, the pain of our separation.
Our lovemaking.
Ours.
I recognized the something at once—it was ferocious protectiveness for this bliss, this rightness we’d discovered. Not just the physical act, but the blending of two hearts. He was mine. I was his. It would always be this way. We were entitled to each other and to happiness.
Phillip’s hands on my arm and waist woke me from my ponderings. His eyes on mine held a challenge as he pulled me to him, settling my weight against his body. His fingers dug into my bottom and side as though he feared I would try to escape.
I listened to his heartbeat, still a race within his chest, and snuggled closer. Neither of us spoke though long minutes passed. I didn’t want to speak, I didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t want to break the spell.
The last thing I remembered before falling asleep was the feel of the back of his fingers trailing down my spine, and I thought I heard him whisper, “I love you.”
~*~*~*~
I woke up alone and naked, under the covers, with a folded piece of paper tucked in my hand.
I blinked against the brightness of the closet-sized room and pushed a mass of black curls from my face. Paper crinkled within my fingers, but I wasn’t quite aware enough to recognize what it was. It took my mind several minutes before foggy confusion gave way to memories of the prior night. I tensed, groaned, closed my eyes, and pulled the covers over my head as the first flashes
assaulted me. Skin on skin.
It was then that I noticed the slip of paper in my hand. My heart gave a leap and I bolted upright, unfolding it and greedily devouring the contents before the caution that comes with full consciousness could be asserted.
Dear Maleficent,
I moved your car after the rain stopped and the keys are in your shoes.
I’m going home to pack my things and tell my parents about us. I’m ready for us to leave whenever you want. I’ll find you at work today and we can decide when to go. Call me if you need anything. I’ve programmed my number into your phone.
Love you always, Phillip
I stared at the note, read it three more times, and dread filled my chest.
~*~*~*~
Dread quickly became panic. Getting ready for work took me twice as long as usual because, honestly, I was scared out of my mind. Everything I touched dropped. I kept bumping into things. I had to sit down three times and force myself to breathe.
Phillip’s dad was a powerful man. When my mother left him, he ruined my father. When he found out Lincoln was involved with his daughter, Lincoln—who never touched drugs a day in his life—was arrested and sent to prison.
In my distracted terror I even woke up my aunt, who typically sleeps like death. This earned me a hung-over berating and shoe thrown at my head. As was typical, she must’ve crawled in late last night and passed out.
I ducked out of the trailer and made it to the cast member parking lot with only five minutes to spare before my make-up application time.
I would be Maleficent again today.
She was the character I played most often at the park. In addition to sharing a name, and when I was costumed and painted, I bore a striking resemblance to the iconic, cartoon version of the mistress of evil.
Growing up, when I watched Sleeping Beauty, I had a tendency to sympathize with the witch. I felt sorry for her when she wasn’t invited to the party—granted, she may have overreacted by cursing an infant to death. I also secretly disliked Briar Rose because she seemed like such a useless twit.
Forbidden Fruit Vol 2 Page 50
