True Devotion

by Liora Blake

  Dropping my legs open wide, he adjusts and starts to use his fingers, sliding up and down, over my clit, then my opening, and back up again. Slicking my arousal around with every pass, his movements turn fitful, as if he can’t touch enough parts of me as quickly as he wants to. No matter the erratic pace of his fingers, it’s too good to stop from circling my hips into the pressure. He eventually slows his hand and finds a pattern, one that seems to allow him to relax a bit, until a long moan from me prompts him to thrust his middle finger deep.

  “Oh God. Fuck.” My hips won’t stop moving, circling and shoving until he uses his other hand to press my body back to the bed, keeping me still. The feeling is maddening, enhancing every touch because I can’t quite move the way I want.

  He slides another finger in, and the fullness, combined with the pressure of his palm, drives my hips up despite his trying to tame my movements. Breaking free, a long minute passes under the weight of an orgasm clustering in my body. That’s when I start to writhe shamelessly, a series of panting nonsense spilling out of my mouth.

  Simon curses and then leans down, putting his face close to mine, never ceasing the movement of his fingers. “That’s it, baby. Let go. Fucking come on my fingers.”

  With those words, that urging demand wrapped in a panting appeal for me to give this to him, it happens. A swell inspiring such taut intensity, he probably couldn’t pull his fingers out if he tried. Which he doesn’t, he just keeps on and on until my body weakens into a heap on the sheets. Easing the pressure, he slips his fingers out gently and leans over to his nightstand.

  “I really need to get inside you, Dev. God, I want to give you a break for a second, but I can’t. I just fucking can’t. OK?”

  Words are too much, but I nod my head in response. In the background, behind the thumping noise of rushing heartbeats in my brain, I hear him rip open a condom and suck in a tense breath as he rolls it on. In seconds, he’s there, with all his weight over me, and the completeness of him filling me. With the shadow of that first orgasm still lingering, every smooth thrust drives me back to that precipice again, propelled by the sound of his groans in my ear. My only choice is to bear down and hold back, because I’m actually worried I’ll come again, really, really fast, and then he’ll know this is possibly the best night I’ve ever had with a man. Frankly, I can’t give him that. It’s too damn much to give up tonight.

  Pursing my lips together, I realize this must be what it’s like to be a pathetic teenage boy, because I’m trying to think of the unsexiest things I can to stave off the orgasm. Sardines. Walmart. Guys with mullets. Guys wearing jean shorts. Oooh, fanny packs.

  It is barely working, just enough to take the edge off. I can’t touch him, I can’t move my hands over his strong back or down over his tight ass. I can’t kiss him, enjoy the flex of his biceps as he hovers, or bite down on his skin. I can’t do anything but lie here and take it without thinking about how good he feels.

  “What’s wrong? Why are you holding your breath and lying there so stiff like that?” Popping my eyes open, I find Simon with his jaw clenched, still deep but not moving anymore. Panic crosses his expression. “Fuck, am I hurting you?”

  I snap my eyes shut again. “No. It’s fine; just keep going.”

  Keep going. That sounded stupid. Keep going, I’ll just lie here while you plow me and try not to have another screaming orgasm. No, really, I’ll be right here when you’re done.

  “ ‘Just keep going’? Are you serious? Look at me, sweetheart.”

  The endearment is too much given the state of our bodies. I take a deep stuttering breath and exhale before opening my eyes.

  “I’m . . .” Looking away, I let my head roll off to the side. Maybe if I circle my hips or tighten up around him, something, he will get appropriately distracted.

  “What? Tell me what’s wrong.” He starts to pull back and the sensation of him trying to leave my body is agonizing. I stop him by wrapping my legs around his waist and digging my toes into his lower back.

  “Nothing’s wrong.” I let out a growl. “It’s the opposite. I’m holding my breath so I can hold back what I think might be the loudest screaming orgasm I’ve ever had. Are you happy now?”

  Of course, without fail, his eyes widen and then crinkle up as an enormous grin crosses his face. Followed by a sputtering laugh that forces him to bury his face into my neck. Part of me wants to pinch his ass so hard it breaks the skin and part of me wants to break down in laughter with him. Finally, he pulls back up on his outstretched arms and smiles.

  “Oh God, I fucking adore you. You are the only woman on the face of the earth that would be pissed because she was going to come again.”

  “Shut up, you arrogant ass.”

  Simon snorts another short chuckle, then tries to force his smug expression into an obnoxious playact of apology. “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry that I’ve sufficiently rocked your world tonight. I’m so sorry that I’ve turned you into a ball of earth-shattering orgasms. I feel really terrible about the whole thing.”

  I want to pinch his ass again, but then he starts to move. Short, intense thrusts that make my eyes roll back in my head. “This is your own fault, really. If you weren’t so fucking sexy, so tight and wet, so beautiful lying here underneath me, I wouldn’t be throwing out my full-on A-game right now. But I can’t help it.”

  One of my hands drifts to his back and I scratch lightly over his skin, digging in the tips of my fingers just enough to cause him to falter a little. Then the rocking of his hips finds the perfect rhythm again. Once it does, I pull my other hand up and thread it through his soft, messy hair.

  Leaning down to kiss me, softly and almost too gently, he whispers against my mouth, “You know you can trust me, right?”

  I don’t respond, because it feels like a rhetorical question. He slows his hips and the change in cadence forces me to meet his look. My eyes scan his, trying to figure out what he’s doing.

  “Holy shit. You don’t.”

  “I don’t what?” My eyes widen and I shake my head in confusion.

  “You don’t know that you can trust me. That you never have to hold back with me.”

  What is he doing right now? Why is he getting intense with this? Talking about trust and holding back and adoring me? If I don’t get him back on track, that stupid orgasm bristling inside me is never going to break the surface. I wrap my legs tight around his waist and squeeze, hoping he will get the message.

  Instead, he stops and pulls us up into a sitting position with my legs cradled around his hips. My head lolls to the side uselessly because the shift in posture only drives him deeper.

  “Hold up for a second. You need to know this isn’t some random lay for me, Devon. I’m crazy about you.”

  Immediately, I want to escape, disentangle my body from his and scurry away because his eyes are boring into mine and it feels like he’s about to bust through that wall I erected between us with a verbal hand grenade.

  “I love your lean, sexy body, your gorgeous green eyes, all this blonde hair, but I’m also a big fan of what goes on up here.” Taking his index finger, he taps the center of my forehead gently. “Even if it confuses the shit out of me sometimes.

  “I also think nearly everything that comes out of these pretty lips is hilarious and awesome.” His gaze drops to my mouth, running the same index finger over my full bottom lip.

  “And, here? This part of you?” He taps against my chest, over my heart, and then proceeds to drag his finger lazily over my skin in a random pattern. “I really dig this part.”

  Crap. I have to glance away because the look on his face means this isn’t a just drive-by or a hookup. I never thought beyond tonight, other than to consider the weirdness it might bring about, but his little speech makes it obvious he did. My head drops down to save me from seeing his tender expression anymore and I let my hair drape over my face.

  His voice drops into a deep whisper. “So you can let go with me. Don’t ever worry
about that. Scream, moan, cry, however you need to.”

  Weaving my hands around his neck, I burrow my head into the crook of his shoulder and let my lips travel across his collarbone. I won’t give in to trusting him. Certainly not tonight, yet the way his body is circling mine and his lips are moving over my jaw, the concept doesn’t feel entirely impossible. But for now I just need this, the way his body takes mine so perfectly, to be enough.

  “Please, Simon. I’m begging you. Make me scream so loud the neighbors get pissed about the noise.”

  With a kiss to my temple, he runs his hands down my spine gently. “Well, since you said ‘please.’ ”

  His hips start to move under me in clipped forward thrusts, his pelvis rocking just so until my body relaxes again. I leave my hands around his neck and lean back into the security of his arms, now wrapped around my waist, letting my head fall back so my hair drapes down behind me.

  “Just tell me how you want it. I’ll give it to you exactly how you need it.”

  “Hard. Fast. Now.”

  He doesn’t waste one second, moving to pin me under him, pulling my arms up over my head and prompting a brace against the headboard with my hands. With that, my body prepared for everything he wants to give and all I want to take, he begins to drive hard and relentlessly. Husky curses leave his mouth every few moments, timed with a grind of his hips across my clit. Over and over, the pressure of it all makes my skin flush, encouraging the tiniest mist of sweat to break the surface on both of us.

  The need to get loud comes again and I don’t try to stop the flow this time. Every ridiculous noise out of my throat gets louder with each passing moment until I can barely hear him goading me on, telling me in the filthiest way possible to scream, cry, and give in until I cover him with everything I have. When he hauls back and gives me the single deepest, hardest thrust I’ve ever experienced in my life, I hear him start to unravel. The sound of him coming, groaning through gritted teeth, sends me over the sharp edge of release. In the tumble of it all, I’m so loud that it hurts my own ears. Poor guy probably wishes he had earplugs.

  He doesn’t seem to mind, though, because after we each catch our breath, he collapses on top of me and starts to giggle. Not a manly laugh, even; practically a full-on schoolgirl’s giggle. To which I smack his bare ass and announce he is the greatest sex goddess that ever lived.

  9

  At three a.m. I’m wide-awake, staring at the ceiling with Simon curled into my side and his hand resting on my belly. His fingers twitch ever so slightly in his sleep, the tips of them restlessly grazing over my sensitive skin so delicately it almost tickles. I can hear everything: the sound of his steady breath, the air-conditioning cycling on and off, cars passing on the street outside, a seriously annoying little dog barking intermittently somewhere, even the whirr of some appliance’s motor in the kitchen. I keep trying to focus on the white noise, thinking that if I do, the memory of the last few hours won’t continue to pull me back in.

  Earlier, just after he pulled out and disappeared into the bathroom for a minute, I rolled over onto my belly, burrowed under the covers, and buried my head between the pillows on his bed. When he came back out, I could feel he was watching me, but I couldn’t turn to look, knowing that if I saw him standing at the end of the bed with any remotely raw expression on his face, I would bolt out the door faster than he could say “Big Barda.”

  Finally, the mattress moved under his weight and he crawled up the bed, shoving the covers down until they rested at my feet. Then he proceeded to trace his mouth up the side of one leg, over my hip, across my back, and into my neck, where he stopped, bit down on the sensitive skin, and then murmured three words.

  “Thank you, Devon.”

  When he curled up behind me, covered us, and tugged until I was sufficiently in his embrace, he spent the next ten minutes sweeping his fingers over my bare arm, kissing my shoulder blade, and nipping my earlobe. Right when I was convinced he was about to flip me over for another round, he snuggled in closer, nestled his refreshed and obviously interested cock in between the backs of my thighs, and fell asleep. Then I was stumped for a bit, not sure what to do with the situation of having a man behind me, aroused and naked, yet not trying to take me. Every part of my brain was bouncing between sleeping and fleeing because it felt too loving, too grown-up.

  Now, under the oppressive weight of it all, the wickedly satisfying sex, the wildly hot dirty talk, the freaking declarations of adoration, my mouth is so dry I can barely swallow. Sliding his hand off my belly, I crawl out of the bed gingerly, hoping he isn’t a light sleeper. As I pad down the hallway, there is still a small light on from when I arrived, casting just enough of a glow from the living room into the kitchen so I can open cabinets and find a glass. Even in the dim light, I can tell his cabinets are a jumbled mess, but I eventually find one with glasses and mugs. On the second shelf are a set of stupid Star Wars drinking glasses that look like they might be from the seventies, imprinted with heavily faded pictures of Darth Vader, Han Solo, and Princess Leia.

  Such a colossal dork.

  Filling a glass from the tap, I stand in the middle of his kitchen, naked and beginning to get cold, taking in the house for a minute. The furniture is patently male—leather couches and heavy dark tables—but the walls have a bunch of framed art. Everything from delicate old botanical prints to a huge 1950s sci-fi movie poster hanging over the fireplace for something called Forbidden Planet.

  The house is relatively neat, surprisingly clean, and, dare I say, normal in an utterly Simon way. The type of place where one day a sweet and stunning girl will give him grief about taking down the sci-fi poster and replacing it with their wedding picture. After experiencing his unique brand of attention tonight, I’m sure he will give that girl a hard time about it for approximately three minutes. After she pouts playfully with her glossy pink lips, he will kiss her senseless and happily swap the pictures out. Then he might drag her into the bedroom and remind her exactly how good he is at making her feel alive, wanted, and wrecked beyond reason.

  But that girl isn’t me.

  Which is exactly why I have to bail. Right now. Because I’m not a girl who pouts playfully; I seethe until no one can take it anymore. I curse and kick shit, I grab the lead, I take off for long drives with loud music when things get messy, I only cry when I’m alone.

  Taking the last swallow of water, I clean the glass and put it away. It will be like I was never here.

  Down the hall, I stop in the doorway to the bedroom and let myself enjoy the view for a bit, the relaxed slack in his jaw, the outline of his body under the thin sheet, the way his strong arm is stretched out over the mattress like he reached for me when I was gone. Nothing would beat crawling back under the covers with him, nudging under his arm and letting him murmur some soft words as he pulled me closer.

  Enough. Enough with the bullshit longings, I have to go home. His sheets are too damn nice anyway, probably some stupidly high thread count that you can only buy at Neiman Marcus with a debit card linked to your trust account. What I was thinking, I’ll never know. When all is said and done, he’s Simon and I’m Devon. Nothing but two people who wanted each other so badly it became torturous. We did the deed now, and that should be enough.

  Kneeling down to the floor, I use the dim light from the hallway to begin patting around on the carpet until I find my yoga pants, right where I kicked them off a few hours ago when he was stroking himself and relishing in the sight of me. My panties are another story. I only remember him yanking them off and tossing them somewhere behind him. I guess I’ll have to let those go.

  I shimmy the yoga pants up and feel around for my bra, and once I find it, I sit gingerly down on the bed to slide it on. When I turn to slip one arm in, my eyes land on the framed picture, the gift that brought me over here in the first place. Do I take it with me? Can I scurry out of his house like a cat burglar with that picture tucked under my arm?

  Taking it with me feels harder s
omehow. If I have to look at that photo in my house, remember the way his hands touched all the parts of me on display in that frame, I won’t be able to let this go. I’ll end up staring at it too often and wanting more.

  I stand and take one last look, drawing my index finger across the edge of the frame. Simon turns in the sheets behind me and I freeze, waiting to see if he’ll wake up. After a few moments of silence, I let out the breath I was holding in and slip down the hallway, then out the door, making sure to turn the little lock on the door handle.

  That way, locked out of his house, I can’t change my mind.

  By the time my last client leaves late the next afternoon, I want to collapse. Two of them were a mess—one had taken a fall on a tennis court, tweaking her shoulder, and the other is a competitive body builder who always arrives so tied up in knots that every time feels like the first time. Work like that can be draining physically and mentally. And operating on three hours of mediocre sleep only makes it worse. By the time I drove home from Simon’s it was almost four a.m., and, despite knowing I should sleep, my mind and body would not shut up. If I wasn’t circling a vague sense of guilt for bailing, I was reminiscing over every single touch that transpired between us. Counting sheep didn’t help, deep breathing didn’t help. I mostly lay there and waited for the sun to come up.

  I close up the massage space and tread heavily down the stairs to my house and do nothing but strip my clothes off once inside. When I step under a hot shower spray, thinking it might soothe me, I feel every tender spot on my body as if each was its own tiny memory bank. My hands trace my skin absentmindedly and I force myself to remember how good last night was, thinking that might remind my body that it was recently satisfied. Which, technically, it was.