by Liora Blake
Dammit. Please, please don’t let him be good at this. Let him be one of those guys whose technique is composed of one bad move. A move that mimics a dog lapping at a water bowl in the middle of a heat wave.
A strange, desperate prayer for him to be hopelessly inept begins to enter my thoughts, all Judy Blume style.
Are you there, God?
It’s me, Devon.
It would be best if he sucked at this. Because if he wrecks me with this, too, I’ll be over here every day begging for it. My dignity will become a long-forgotten memory, replaced by a complete lack of self-control. Nobody wants that, right? Just let him flounder around down there for a bit, I’ll fake it, and we can all move on.
No one hears me, apparently, because that’s when he really goes to work, with a series of moves rendering my body weakened and shaking, on the edge of release. Instead of continuing his assault some more, he suddenly pulls his mouth back from between my legs, stands up, and lays a deep kiss on my mouth, covered in the taste of me. While he works his tongue into mine, his fingers run between my legs for a few strokes, stopping only when he decides to plunge his middle finger inside swiftly and smoothly. The density of just that finger forces my head back against the shelves, the next loud moan roaring out. He slips his ring finger in, his lips grazing the edge of my jaw until they meet the deep hollow above my clavicle.
“I know I can make you come like this, but I think you need something else this time.” The pressure of his fingers starts to taper, slowing to a painfully gentle rhythm that doesn’t relieve the throb he brought on. “Did you like my mouth on you?”
My teeth fall and grind into my bottom lip. I knock my head back and forth, as if I’m saying no, but it’s only the instinct of trying to stay sane. To shake off the way my mind is drowning in the heat of his words and fighting the tug of giving him the answer he wants so he will get back to it.
“I need you to answer me. If you don’t, I’ll pull my fingers out of this tight pussy of yours and we’ll make out instead. For hours. I won’t touch you here until you’re begging me, swearing to do anything I ask. If you just say it now, I’ll lick you until my tongue is covered in your come, and you’re trying to close your legs because it’s too damn good.”
The words sound like a power struggle, a call to see if I’ll cave to him and his stupidly talented mouth. If it is, I can’t play. I won’t play that game, the one where I’m not on equal footing with a man, ever again. Tipping my head forward, my eyes narrow, and my jaw sets into a taut grind.
When I see his expression, though, all that’s there is longing. I expected the spark of dominance or manipulation, but I can’t find it. His eyes speak of nothing more sinister than Simon asking me to want him.
“Yes. I liked your mouth on me. I loved it.” Shoving his hat off his head, I thread my fingers into his clean, soft hair and tug until the smirk he’s sporting melts into a slack-jawed gape. “Chop, chop, Simon. Not nice to keep a girl waiting. Payback can be a bitch.”
Simon yanks his head back a little, loosening my grip. “Be careful, there—you wouldn’t want to write a check that fine ass can’t cover.”
Sinking down to his knees, he shoves my hips forward and pauses with his mouth just a few inches away from where it belongs. “I love hearing you say you want it. Even though I can feel it. I’ve waited forever to hear you say the words.”
As his mouth hovers in the negative space between us, I move toward it, my hips drawn to his lips. Finally, he yields and all of my focus settles on the experience of him working my body; my every thought lies in how good this is. My arms stretch out to grip a shelf on either side; my legs brace until the only conscious thought I have is that I want him to push me over the edge and hold me while he does it. Whether he feels it in my body or whether he’s just that damn good, when his lips latch on to my clit and his free arm wraps around my ass, I break apart.
And he doesn’t let up, making good on his threat as my knees attempt to come together uselessly because after only a few seconds, it’s too much. I should let go of the shelves because my fingers are starting to ache, but it’s the only real thing keeping me standing, so I continue their assault on the wood. Simon’s fingers eventually slip from inside me and my throbbing fingers fall into his scalp, digging in until he draws his tongue back so it’s just a gentle stroking.
“Holy hell, Simon, did some slutty chick at Carlton teach you that?”
He lets out a pent-up, chuckling breath that careens across my sensitive skin. Placing one gentle kiss to my belly, he rises off the ground and wraps his arms around my waist.
“No. You can thank my first college girlfriend for that. She gave me the basics and I loved practicing. I’m sure I could track down her address. You could send her a singing telegram or something. What rhymes with ‘eating pussy’?”
“Ugh, why do you have to talk? Why can’t you be hot but mute?”
Another laugh comes from his chest, deeper, rumbling across our entwined bodies. “God doesn’t give with both hands, baby.”
Turning away, he prompts me to wrap my arms around him, resting my exhausted body against his back. Stepping forward, he walks us slowly across the room while still speaking. “But I think you just discovered that Simon does.”
While he’s nudging me toward the window seat, all I can manage is to slump into the plush-covered seat and mumble, “Simon does what?”
“Simon gives with both hands. And his mouth.”
“Oh God.” I cover my face with my hands, stifling the tired laugh that teases at my lips. “Shut. Up.”
Patting my hip gently, he whispers, “Move over a bit, sunshine.”
I shimmy over and he tucks a pillow under my head before sitting down on the window seat with his legs stretched out and my body curled next to him. The heat pouring in from the windows radiates over every drained pore of my skin and my eyelids flutter against the temptation of dozing off.
Simon’s hand falls to my hair, threading it back from my neck and face. “Close your eyes and sleep a little. I’ll read while you rest.”
Despite the sleep that’s drawing me in, I hear him open a book and the sound of his slow breathing as he shifts his body down, adjusting so my head nestles against the side of his chest.
“What are you reading? Something smarty-pants?”
“Poetry.”
A groan tumbles out before I can stop it. I just let some poetry-reading rich kid eat me out, and I loved it. I’ve lost touch with reality, it seems.
“I should go. Before you start babbling about tofu and world peace.”
“Don’t worry your pretty head about that. Not going to happen.”
As his hand continues to skim my hair, I realize how much I want to hear his voice while I lie here. The low, quiet voice he uses when he isn’t trying so hard to be a pain in the ass. Who knows if this thing between us can ever be more than giving each other orgasms and a hard time, but in the hush of now, I don’t care. I simply want him next to me, talking to me, touching my hair, until I fall asleep.
“Read something to me.”
Pages flip as I say it and then his hand stops. If I opened my eyes, he would be gazing down on me. Probably confused. Maybe with a raw look on his face that means he’s trying to see more of me than I want to show.
Eyes closed, I tell myself. Just sleep, with the echo of satisfaction on my skin, and his voice as the new soundtrack of a perfect, sweltering, summer afternoon.
Clearing his throat, he turns a few pages and begins.
“. . . ‘Here I love you. In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself. The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters. Days, all one kind, go chasing each other’. . .”
In the background, “No Woman No Cry” is playing. In the foreground, his voice is hushed and rich. Inside, I let go, falling headfirst into the peaceful draw of sleep with him beside me.
11
A cool breeze through the window finally pulls me from my nap, which
lasted far longer than it should have. When I turn onto my back and let my head drop to look out the window, it’s dusky already, the hot sun gone and replaced by the clouds of early evening. I run my fingers through my hair and look for my shoes, now lined up on the floor where Simon must have left them when he pulled them off in my sleep. The dream I had of his hands over my legs, tracing and lingering, might have been the echo of his real actions. And I want it to be that, not just a dream; I want to believe that he tended to me, slipped my shoes off, but couldn’t stop his touch from roaming a little as he did.
When I tiptoe to the door opening, Simon is standing at the front door paying a delivery kid. Replacing his wallet in the back pocket of his shorts, he nudges the door shut with his foot and tries to balance a flat cardboard box on top of a bursting plastic bag. Gripped in his teeth are a couple of pairs of chopsticks, still in their paper packaging. When he sees me, he manages a smile through the awkward chopsticks and mumbles something I can’t understand.
I’m leaning against the wall with my shoulder, in a lazy tree pose, with one foot perched on my knee. There is a drunken sort of feeling swimming around in my head, the fuzzy sensation an afternoon nap always leaves with me with, compounded by that orgasm he gave me just before I fell asleep.
Simon sets everything on the counter in the kitchen and then throws his arms out toward it all.
“Look! I made dinner!”
A small, gentle laugh leaves my lips, and before I can remind myself to stop, I’m across the room and wrapping my arms around his waist. He tucks me under one arm and kisses the top of my head.
“I was just getting ready to come in there and implement some kind of crafty scheme to wake you up properly. Guess my devious plans will have to wait.”
Drawing his arm away from my shoulders, I don’t let go, but he works around my awkward grasp without any attempt to move me, pulling cartons out and setting them on the counter.
“Pad thai for you. Green curry shrimp for me. Dumplings. Spring rolls.”
Shoving the pad thai toward me, I finally drop my arms. Opening the carton, the particular detail of his knowing to order what I like hits me. Arching one eyebrow, I focus on the container. When he sees my face, he takes one set of the chopsticks in his hand and points toward the container I’m staring at.
“I thought that’s what you liked. Wrong? They deliver really fast; I can order you something else.”
“No, it’s exactly what I like. How do you know this shit? Is there an owner’s manual on me floating around somewhere that I don’t know about?”
The tiniest uncomfortable grin teases the edges of his mouth before he turns away to grab a couple of beers from the fridge. “No. I just pay an embarrassing amount of attention when you’re in the room. I might be able to write the owner’s manual, given my pathetically whipped-ass way of observing you.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s called stalking in most states.”
Simon sets one beer on the counter next to my hip and then extends a pair of chopsticks toward me. I give my head a little shake and wave toward the kitchen drawers.
“Fork, please.”
“No chopsticks?” He cocks his head and shoves the package at me again.
“Fork, please.”
“Do you not know how to use chopsticks?” A pleased expression crosses his face, like he just found out something about me that entertains him.
Of course I don’t know how to use chopsticks. That and a million other things make us different. He probably knows how to build a rocket ship or compose a symphony. I don’t know how to do those things, either. If we were keeping track, I’m guessing the list of things Simon knows how to do would far outweigh any skill set of mine.
“I could teach you. You should know how. What if you go to Asia someday? You’ll want to fit in, won’t you?”
Without waiting for me to answer and explain that traveling to Asia is not on my likely list of life goals, for a number of reasons, he tears the package open and pulls the sticks out.
Stepping closer, he slides them over each other a few times before pulling my right hand out. He begins to arrange my fingers around the chopsticks, telling me how to hold each one, where to grasp the length, how to move them. His hands wrap in mine, his fingers twining in and around my skin.
Simon’s fingers are long—almost thin, but so long there is an ethereal quality to them. There isn’t much thickness there, just slender tapers with the naughtiest pleasure-inducing calluses at the tips. When he runs his fingers along my skin, or uses them to pull or tease my nipples, those well-worn calluses are part of what makes every bit of my body move toward him. The rough patterns, earned from years of playing guitar, are both soothing and harsh in their path.
“Hey.” Simon cranes his head down to my heated face. “Uh-oh. You’re not listening. You’re staring at my fingers like groupies do.”
Ugh. The kid has some kind of mind-reading ability. At the very least, he’s just paid too much attention to my expressions during the moments when he’s touching my bare skin. I speak through grinding teeth. “I’m listening. I’m not a groupie.”
“I didn’t say you were a groupie. I said that groupies stare at my fingers like you just did. You know, chicks and the myth of a guitarist’s gifted fingers. It’s usually a good sign, if I’m interested. Hopefully you’re just reminiscing about what my fingers have already done to you, though.” He lifts his hands away from mine before leaning toward my ear. “For the record, I fucking love using my fingers on you.”
Instead of putting dinner on hold in favor him letting those fingers do the talking, I bear down and growl into his chest, “Fork. Please.”
Simon grabs my ass with both hands and shoves my hips into his, then tugs on the back of my hair a little for good measure. He steps away, the rattle of a drawer opening sounds, and he hands a fork my way. Between us, the containers lie piled on the counter, and we dip into them, sampling everything with gulps of beer.
Just when my mouth is full, he stops mid-dive into the dumpling container and looks up through his eyelashes at me. “You’re gonna stay tonight, right?”
I finish chewing and shrug my shoulders without answering at first. Once I take another drink of beer, all to grab a few extra moments before responding, I look nonchalantly to the pad thai box.
“I’m on McKenna duty tomorrow. I need to be up early to take her to school.”
“Perfect. I’ve got to leave the house by six anyway.”
Swallowing, I look up at him suspiciously. Simon hasn’t demonstrated any tendency toward being an early riser so far. “Why so early?”
“I’ve got to go home for a week. The drive from here is such a bitch that I want to get going early. My dad wants me there before dinner.”
“A week? You mean five days or seven?”
He chuckles. “Think you’ll miss me? Trust me, that’s why I want you to stay tonight. I need to get my fill of you before I go.” Leaning in, he puts his hand against my hip and pulls my body to his. “I’ll be back on Monday afternoon, so only five days, if that makes it more bearable.”
The urge to wrap one leg around his waist and throw my arms around his neck until he drags me to the bed is messing with my rational brain. We need a new topic, one that doesn’t involve us talking about his need to fill things or getting his fill or anything within a twelve-mile radius of that.
“Where is home, anyway? And why do you have to go there?”
“My dad’s place is in Sausalito, but I’m going up for our foundation’s annual meeting. I’ll end up spending most of the weekend in a hotel conference room in San Francisco.”
He stops talking and pokes his chopsticks into my pad thai. Tipping the little white box toward him, I cock my head to the side, considering why he isn’t saying more. While he answered my questions, it feels like he stopped short somehow, and sensing that only makes me want to pry, even if the result is discovering more things about Simon that make us different. When his h
ead comes up, a tangle of noodles hanging from the chopsticks, he notices my expression and peers out the corner of his eye. “What?”
“Do you not want to talk about your fancy foundation thingy?”
His neck cranes back the tiniest bit and he furrows his brow. “No. That’s not it at all. Do you want to know about it?”
Nodding, I pull the food back toward me as he slurps the noodles into his mouth. He takes a swig of his beer, then shrugs his shoulders a little.
“My parents had been talking about starting our own family foundation for years, but when my mom got sick, that’s when it all came together, because we knew exactly what our focus should be. After she died, it was up and running within a year. Probably saved my dad from killing himself; he needed something to keep him from losing it completely.”
Simon’s eyes drop, looking for something random to focus on. His chopsticks jab aimlessly into the curry, pushing the remaining contents around until he finds another shrimp.
“After college, I joined the board. We’re mostly about clinical research funding—that’s the big-ticket part, but we’ve spent the last few years really focusing on direct-impact initiatives, figuring out the best ways to get resources to people who need them. Like Marta from the taqueria.”
Again, I can tell he’s leaving a million things out. In the vast majority of situations, this man doesn’t know when to shut his trap. But here he struggles to find all the words. I clear my throat and the noise pulls his focus to mine. My face must show that I want him to keep talking, because he rolls his head from side to side, trying to ease the tension that seems to have cropped up around his shoulders.
“ ‘Direct impact’ means we help people pay the rent, feed their kids, all the basic crap people can’t afford when they’re sick and can’t work. Everybody forgets about that part: that if you’re sick, you might not be able to cover your car loan or pay the electric bill. Can you imagine that shit? You’re puking from chemo, can barely get out of bed, then PG&E shuts your power off. It’s such bullshit, but it totally happens. All the time.”
