by JA Huss
I am one sick fuck and I don’t care.
When I’m naked I place one knee on the bed and carefully swing my other leg over hers. She twists, flat on her back now. That one exposed breast caught in some stray ray of light that shouldn’t be there, but is. Like a spotlight just for my own sick, hedonistic pleasure.
Thinking back on the party at Camille’s house has turned back time for me. Taken me to the place I was, the person I used to be. The one who fucked her and Sofia—and sometimes Camille too. The one who didn’t mind sharing with Hayes or Bennett because they didn’t mind sharing with me.
It was an orgy. Group sex or whatever.
It was sick, and twisted, and very fucking erotic.
It was heavy breathing, and sweaty, naked bodies, and never enough.
It was never enough that year.
We fucked them all. Together.
It was sensuous, and uninhibited, and lecherous.
How did I ever walk away from these people? How did I ever live a day without them?
I place my hand on her one exposed leg and slowly slide it up to her thigh.
She moans again, mouth parted like she’s waiting for my cock.
I picture those nights long ago. At the parties. How Camille would always be the one to invite us in. And how Hayes would be the first to take her up on those offers. How Sofia was meek, and afraid, and shy. And how she changed. How we all changed.
How Kiera used to whimper and moan as she came.
I want to hear that sound now. Right now.
I lean forward, crawling up her body, my rock-hard cock dragging across the sheets. Aching to be inside her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - KIERA
In my dream we’re dancing. It’s a party, but not one I was ever at with them. Everyone is here. Hayes, Connor, Bennett all wearing tuxes. Me, Camille, Sofia all wearing gowns. They are the gowns we found in the basement room that first night with Louise.
I stop dancing when I realize that. I’m partnered with Bennett for some reason, which is also confusing. So I look around, searching for Connor, then Hayes. Connor has Sofia pushed up against a wall, his hand hidden beneath the long flowing layers of her elaborate skirt. Her head is tilted upward, mouth slightly open. And he’s whispering something in her ear.
I’m jealous, but turned on. So I lead Bennett over to them and take my place next to Sofia against the wall. Someone is kissing me. Bennett, or Connor, or maybe Sofia—but then I realize it’s Hayes. His soft lips caressing the side of my neck. His soft words wrapping around the tender skin of my ear just like Connor’s words wrap around Sofia. “Do you like it?” he asks. “I want you to like it.”
“What are we doing?” I whisper back. “When did this become who we are?”
And Hayes says, “It’s not real, so don’t worry about it.”
But it feels real. Camille is kissing Bennett now, her body pressing up against mine. Her soft, full breasts are bare. Somehow she’s gotten herself naked. And in my dream I laugh at that. Because it’s so typical of Camille to just take off her clothes and be indiscreet.
And then we’re all naked. All twisted together in the sheets of some giant bed. Camille’s bed, I realize. Now we’re at her Christmas party. And there’s butterflies in the air. Clear-winged butterflies like the ones at Connor’s parents anniversary. Dozens of them. No, hundreds of them. Their soft wings flutter around my hot, feverish skin like a summer wind. Making a cool breeze that feels so good.
But it’s not the butterflies. It’s Connor, blowing air across my pussy as his tongue laps against my folds, looking for the sweet spot. And when he hits it, I buck my back.
But Bennett is there, whispering, “This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong.”
And I reply, “Shut up,” because I’m irritated that he’s ruining the feeling of Connor between my legs. “Just shut up.”
And then he and Camille are gone and I get this weird feeling that they’ve left us. They figured it out—this wrongness—and left us.
But Hayes is there, saying, “Shhh, they don’t know anything. Don’t worry.”
But I do worry. Because I want to know what they don’t know. And Hayes is the secret-keeper and he’s close now. So close. “What don’t they know?” I ask him.
But Connor steals the words from my mouth with a kiss and it’s too much. I forget about my questions and how none of this makes sense and say, “It’s just a dream.”
And Sofia is touching me now. She was always so careful when she touched me, afraid she might do it wrong. But I used to tell her, “There’s no wrong way.” And that always made her happy for a little bit.
Which makes me think about her sadness. And her books. Those books she writes. The dark, sexy stories that steal your life away for days, or months, or years. And I say, “When did you change?”
And she just looks at me with her sad, sad smile that’s on her face so often now, I’ve grown used to it. She says, “You know when.”
But I don’t. I don’t really remember anything except that tower. And the book I wrote. And those dresses down in the basement. Why were there dresses in the basement?
“Kiera?”
It makes no sense at all. Why that guy had dresses. Did he have a fetish?
“Kiera?”
But they weren’t dresses, were they? They were costumes.
“Kiera!”
I open my eyes to find Connor on top of me. Holy shit, this is real. “Where are we?” I ask, pushing him off and sitting up. “What’s happening? Why are we—”
“Shhhh,” he says. Just like Hayes. “You’re OK. We’re in the library bedroom, remember? At Hayes’ house.”
“Was there a party?”
“No,” he says, pulling me back into his waiting arms and smoothing my sweat-soaked hair away from my face. “No. We were just here talking, remember? I came in to surprise you.” And even though I can barely see him in the faint light leaking in from the window, I know he’s smiling. I can hear it in his words. “But you were having a nightmare, I think.” He pauses. “Were you having a nightmare?”
Was it a nightmare?
“No,” I say. “Just a dream, that’s all.”
“Your heart is beating so fast.”
I turn in the bed, tangled up in the sheets, so I can place my hands on his cheeks and whisper, “Sorry.”
And he whispers back, “You don’t need to be sorry. It was probably me sneaking into your bed that screwed up your dream.”
“No,” I say, my hands still on his rough cheeks. He hasn’t shaved in days now. Two days I’ve been back in this world and it’s already fucking with my head. But I don’t care what Bennett says. It’s not wrong. “How could something that feels so good be wrong?”
I realize I’m not talking to Connor anymore, but that dream version of Bennett.
“Where is everyone? Why are we alone?”
He makes that noise I love. It’s kind of a laugh, but no real sound comes out, just air. “They went home, remember? We stayed.”
“Where’s Sofia? Is she alone?”
“She’s with Hayes. She’s fine.”
I let out a long exhale of breath and it feels like relief.
“I just wanted you to myself for a little bit, that’s all.”
I think about that for a few seconds.
“Is that OK?”
I nod, knowing he can’t really see me. But also knowing that Connor Arlington doesn’t need to see me to understand me.
“There were butterflies, right? Those were real, weren’t they?”
“What?” He laughs.
“At your parents’ anniversary party. Did they have butterflies?”
“Yes,” he whispers, kissing my neck, his hand exploring my breast. “Millions of them.”
I close my eyes, relieved that some things I remember are real, enjoying his touch. And soon he’s lifting up my lacy, Victorian nightshirt, dragging his fingertips up and down the line of my belly.
I want him to ke
ep doing that forever. I want to stay in this bed with him forever.
But that book. And the whole reason we’re here. And Emily, somewhere out there. Lurking. She’s probably found a weapon by now. I’m pretty sure this mansion has one of those rooms where old families keep old weapons. Swords displayed on walls. Fanned out in pretty designs like this mansion was once a castle that needed defending and had an army of soldiers living inside the walls and now it’s just a shadow of its former self and everything that once was is a relic to look at and not be used.
Something is wrong. Bennett was right.
I picture her climbing up a wall, balancing precariously on stacked furniture to reach a sword on display. Or maybe she found an old revolver in a glass case. I’m pretty sure there’s cases and cases of dangerous things under glass in this museum. Clubs, or whips, or knives that were used in some long-forgotten battle over crops, or taxes, or some farmer’s daughter’s virtue—
“Do you want me to stop?” Connor asks, kissing the corners of my lips, his fingers pulling aside my underwear so they can slip inside me.
I’m wet for him. I used to be so embarrassed by that when we first met. How easy it was for him to turn me on with just a few kisses and the touch of a fingertip in just the right place.
All his fingers are in the right place now.
He’s got at least two inside me. Pushing forward, then drawing them back out, slick with my desire. He goes slow. I’ve always liked that about Connor. How careful he is with his lovemaking.
He can be rough too. I like that as well. But it’s the careful that touches my soul and makes me think I love him.
“No,” I say. “Don’t stop.”
The sex we’ve had hasn’t been exclusive. I don’t have much experience in being Connor’s sole focus in bed. Only these past two days and that one last time up in the tower. There was always someone else there. Always Sofia. Sometimes Bennett, Camille, and Hayes if we were all out together at the parties.
So even though we’ve had sex dozens of times in the past, this still feels new to me. This time with him. His body and my body. With no other bodies to interfere.
Connor’s other hand plays with the nipple of one breast, pinching it up into a peak as he kisses me. First my lips, which makes me open in response—both my mouth and my legs. He mumbles, “Yes,” into the kiss and inserts another finger inside me. Stretching the walls of my vagina the way his hard cock does.
I picture sex with him and Sofia. Feeling all the ways in which this is different. We weren’t into each other much, but we were into him. Making him feel good. Letting him watch us kiss. Letting him tell us to do things like finger each other, or lick each other, or… whatever.
I liked that part. The part he played. The part she played with me.
The jealousy I felt in my dream comes back, but not as a real thing. Just something that was always sorta there, and sorta not.
Right now it’s sorta not.
Because Connor is only looking at me. Only feeling me. Only has time for me.
I sorta miss her, actually. Things were less awkward with three, if that makes sense. Now I’m wondering, Is this right? as I reach for him and begin to massage my hand up and down the long, hard shaft of his cock. Does he like it? Or would she do it better?
He withdraws his fingers from my pussy and places his hand over mine, guiding me as I continue the up-and-down motion. His whole hand is wet. We jerk him off together and just thinking those words turns me on more.
Because Sofia and I used to do this too. And occasionally our eyes would meet and we’d move forward, towards each other, like we were being pulled together by some unseen force, and kiss.
That would always turn Connor on. We’d feel his cock jump between our hand. Hers squeezing the top of his shaft, her fingertips brushing across the tip of his head. Mine squeezing the bottom half, taking a break sometimes to cup his balls.
And one of us would eventually change position and go down on him. He’d place his hand on her head or my head, and I would pump his cock into her mouth, or she’d pump it into mine.
There was no jealousy in the dark of night, naked bodies pressed against each other. The insecurities only manifested in the light of day. During school, or lunch, or whenever it wasn’t appropriate to show off who and what we were to each other.
“That feels so fucking good, Kiera,” Connor says as I grip him tight and pump him harder. “I want to be inside you.”
And back then I’d have to wonder who he was talking to and now I don’t. He’s only talking to me right now.
“Not yet,” I reply back, my voice throaty and hoarse from lack of conversation.
We used to talk more when it was the three of us too. Dirty things. So many dirty things came out of our mouths.
“Her pussy is so wet,” Sofia would say to him. “Your cock will slide in deep now, babe. Put it inside her.”
And he would. He’d climb on top of me, or I’d climb on top of him. And Sofia would help. She’d take his cock and flick it back and forth across my clit, making me squirm and wait. Then she’d position him at my opening and play with me as we fucked.
Or I’d do that to her. Didn’t matter.
In the here and now he pulls away from our kissing and repositions himself, taking my nipple in his mouth. Biting it with just enough pressure to make me gasp, but not enough to really hurt. He squeezes both breasts as his mouth moves down to my stomach, kissing as he goes. Dropping lower after a few seconds to continue the pilgrimage. Seeking just the right place I need to be worshiped. Soft, fluttery kisses on my lower belly. His hands parting the soft, wet flesh between my legs as his mouth descends, licking everywhere but the place I crave his attention.
Sofia, in those times she went down on me, did it the same way. And I realize we taught each other how we liked it. She taught him, and I taught her, and he taught us. And there is no difference, I realize. No difference at all between him and me, and him and her, and him and us.
When did that happen?
Why isn’t she here now?
But just as that thought manifests in my head he touches me with the tip of his tongue, flicking it back and forth across that one spot on my body that feels it the most. Then he puts his whole mouth on me, sucking hard for a moment. With such ambition and determination, I moan, and squeak, and even cry out a little. But his fingers are there again. Pushing inside me just the way I like it. Pumping gently at first. Teasing me until I grip his hair. My hands making fists, demanding more.
He laughs. Right into my pussy. Because he knows me so well. After ten years apart, he’s still the only man on this earth who knows me like this.
“I’m ready for you, Kiera,” he says, lifting his head up a little to look me in the eyes. I’m still gripping his hair, but my eyes are open, because I like this view. The view of his body positioned between my open legs. His eyes seeking out mine as he runs his chin back and forth in the place I want his tongue.
It’s scratchy, and it hurts a little. But I don’t care. I want to feel what he’s doing tomorrow when I walk. I want to be uncomfortable and sore, the way I used to be back in college. And Sofia and I would be sitting in class and our eyes would meet across the room as we squirmed in our chairs, and we’d know. We’d both leave the room and enter the night that came before. And that’s how we spent so many afternoons in Masters of English Lit class. Dreaming about how we fucked him, and he fucked us, and we fucked each other.
And we would blush. Or she’d put her hand between her legs—discreetly, so no one would even notice except me—and I’d do the same. And every once in a while we’d come like that. In class, across the room, dreaming about the sex we had the night before.
Why isn’t she here? When did I start missing her? How did I not know?
“Tell me when,” Connor says.
“Now,” I say, tugging him back up my body by his hair. “Right now.” Because I can’t wait another minute. I like the slow buildup. And with S
ofia it was necessary so everyone got the attention they deserved. But alone… I can’t wait any longer. If she was here I would. I’d make myself. And we’d do this all over again with her. Only I’d be pushing up next to her, helping the way she helped us. And we’d always come before he entered us. Sometimes more than once. We’d always feel wanted, and needed, and satisfied before Connor took his turn. And neither of us were jealous if he came inside the other. Because we knew we’d get our turn. It might take twenty minutes, or twenty hours, or twenty days, but we’d get our turn.
But when he enters me now I know he’s all mine. I will get all the rewards. All the time. All the attention.
His cock is so hard, his balls so tight when I lift my knees up, spread my legs wide open, and give them the room they need to bounce against my asshole, I almost come. But I bite my lip, and Connor kisses them, nibbling along to take my mind off what he’s doing to me. How he makes me feel, and the building explosion.
And it works. For now. Because I settle down and open my eyes so I can look at him.
His beautiful face, and his rough jaw, and the way he breathes hard as he thrusts himself deep inside, and then pulls out so slow, I grab his ass and try to force him to go faster.
He doesn’t respond. Not the way I want him to, at least. He just does it the way I need it, not the way I want it. Because he knows. He knows everything about me. Inside, outside, everywhere.
He knows things I’ve forgotten long ago.
His hands are flat on the bed, his disheveled hair hanging down over his face. No longer slicked back like the man he was when he came to my cottage yesterday afternoon, but the lover he is now. In the heat of the sex. Our sweaty bodies sliding against each other, reminding me of hot summer nights I never spent with him. Reminding me of all the days and years we’ve been apart and how this moment right now makes up for all of them.
We are right where we’re supposed to be.
He’s gazing down at me with those brown-green eyes I can barely make out. But I don’t need to see them to see them. They are burned in my memory. A part of me left over from times gone by.
