by Liora Blake
He lets out a quiet snort, angst-ridden and pissed. “All I could do was to talk to her. I asked about her book and she showed me a stack of others she had tucked under her blanket. We shot the shit like nothing was happening, even though her parents were three feet away asking the hospice nurse about funeral homes. All I wanted to do was grab on to this little girl and wrap my hands around her ears so she couldn’t hear it.”
Something tightens then releases in his body. As if there is a sensory instinct twitching in his hands to shield a girl he doesn’t know from everything he remembers, then realizing he can’t.
“When I left, she was curled up in the hospital bed with her mom, and I watched this woman, who is so ready to die, hold her little girl like it was the last time. I swear, I was halfway between crying and punching a hole in the wall. That sweet girl’s reality is days away from imploding. And when it does, she won’t know how to find the ground even though it’s under her feet. She won’t understand why everyone keeps asking if she’s OK, even though it’s fucking obvious she isn’t. I couldn’t see straight because it hurt like it happened to me yesterday, instead of thirteen years ago. Who knows if that girl will make it out the other side, you know? Because that shit will eat you alive if you let it. If nothing’s there to keep you from drowning, it will pull you under before you know how to stop it.”
I feel him lift one hand up and scrub it over his face. With a deep inhale, he holds it in for a long time, and then pushes it out choppily. I want to crawl on top of him, cover him with my body as best I can, smother the memories until he doesn’t remember what it felt like. But I can’t. Because I know, even if it was possible, losing the painful memories means fading the others along with it. Between the two of us, we know that real life lies in the entirety. The loss and the gain. The dark and the light. The heart and the hurt.
I settle for letting my leg drape farther over his body, pulling it up so that it lies over his waist, my ankle resting against his opposite hip. Placing a kiss to the shallow dip between his clavicle and his chest, I let my hand find his and twist our fingers together.
“You did,” I say in a croak, because my dry lips don’t want to cooperate. “You made it out the other side. You’re still here, with the ground under your feet. She’ll make it, too.”
Simon’s hand tightens into mine, pushing them against his chest just over his heart, where I can feel it beating steadily under our intertwined fingers. I almost tell him that I’m so glad he did, that he found his way here, tucked into my bed, where it feels like we both belong.
16
I open one eye, on the side of my face that isn’t mushed into the pillow, and find Simon staring at me from where he lies on the bed. He’s dragging his fingers over my bare back, scratching so gently my skin immediately starts to hum in response.
“Were you watching me sleep, weirdo?”
“Maybe.”
While I want to say something else snide about his creepy little stalker staring routine this morning, I end up turning my face away, burying it into the pillow, and faking a groan. Honestly, I love waking up to see him looking at me with a mix of awe and restrained lust on his face. Lying on my belly makes it easier to bury my smile in the sheets so he can’t see.
“Or maybe I was laying here thinking about getting between your thighs, trying to decide between being patient and letting you wake up on your own or crawling on top of you so you’d wake up with me rubbing up against your ass. Which story do you prefer?”
Evidently, the man isn’t wasting any time this morning. No need for a warm-up. No need to stretch out those filthy mouth muscles. Nope, he went straight for the dirty talk. He must have slept well and gotten all his angst from last night worked out in his dreams. I try to fake another annoyed-sounding groan, but it ends up coming out as a husky moan, the kind he’s getting far too familiar with.
“Excellent. It sounds like you’ve chosen the scenario involving my very hard dick. Thank God, because this”—Simon grabs my hand and draws it to his cock so I can run my fingers over him—“was making me very impatient.”
He shoves against my hand, prompting my fingers to circle around his length and stroke him slowly.
“Jesus Christ, Devon. I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving how soft your hands are. The second you touch me, I want to lose it.” As his eyes close, I tighten my grip a bit more, moving from base to tip. “Why is that? Why are your hands so soft?”
“Because I spend the majority of my days rubbing people down for money. Lots of massage cream and all that kneading keeps my hands this way.”
His face quirks up into a grimace. “Ugh. I don’t like thinking of it like that. My Devon rubbing people down for money.”
“Jealous? If it makes you feel better, you’re the only one I’ve ever worked on that made me want to do inappropriate things during a massage.”
“Yeah?” One of his eyes opens and he wiggles his brows suggestively. “I’m loaded. I could hire you to be my personal massage therapist. I would be your only client and you could be at my beck and call round the clock.”
“Except that we always end up doing things like this.” Turning onto my side, I shimmy closer to him, still working over his length. “I think you’d probably be paying me for happy-ending massages. Which sounds a lot like prostitution. So, um, no. I must decline your creepy-rich-guy offer.”
“Well, I’ll have to look for another woman to meet my needs, then. A creepy rich guy such as myself can’t go without a lady to service me on command. Isn’t that supposed to be our shtick? We seek out nubile, naïve young women to engage in kinky sex with. Under the terms of an ironclad nondisclosure agreement, of course. I’ll replace you with some virgin who will do whatever I say without running her mouth about it.”
I let my hand still and grip a little harder than I should. His eyes fly open. Raising one eyebrow, I purse my lips together. “Do you want to start looking right now? I’d gladly send you on your way.”
Grunting, Simon shakes his head back and forth while his eyes droop closed again.
“No. I take it back. All of it. Virgins are overrated, and I love you running your mouth. Just start moving your hand again, please.”
Taking mercy because I like the way it sounds when his voice turns hoarse with urgency, I start again. When he realizes I’m back on task, his features soften and relax. His jaw drops open a bit and I can see the tip of his tongue trailing along the edges of his teeth, until he traps it there, biting down. This is the first time I’ve watched each component of his arousal taking over; normally he has me so wildly gone that I miss seeing his. Certain parts of him fall into slack stillness. Other parts, like his swelling chest, fight against the draw of letting go and having it end too soon. Seeing him push and pull, yield to my touch and crave more, is far more thrilling than I would have thought. With every stuttering exhale of his, my body reacts in weighty want that leaves my belly tightening reflexively.
Simon fists the sheets in his hands. “Speaking of you rubbing people down, what do you have going on today? Can we stay in bed for a while and take our time? I want to enjoy you, nice and slow.”
“Nothing until this afternoon. I have someone scheduled at three.”
Releasing the sheets from his grip, he slides his hands over mine, slowing my movements.
“Come here. I haven’t kissed you yet this morning. This is the first morning we’ve actually woken up in bed together, so kissing the hell out of you feels appropriate.”
I’m torn, because I don’t want to stop watching him, but the way he reaches out to encourage me forward is too enticing. Gently, I press my lips to his and the first kiss is almost innocent, between two people who want to be kind to each other in the sweet way that you do when things are new and raw. The second one adds a layer of heat, our lips finding a rhythm of teasing tongues and Simon’s hands knotting into my hair to pull me closer. We kiss like that for a while, settling in the simple satisfaction of making out in bed togeth
er, with nowhere else to be.
“Dev?” Simon holds on to my head, keeps me so close our mouths continue to brush together. When he speaks, his lips move over mine and vibrate against the pressure.
“Yeah?”
At some point during all the kissing, I slithered my leg over his hip, so we’re lying side by side, bracketed together by our entangled limbs. He dips his head to graze the skin of my neck, laying a damp trail of tiny kisses against the overheated skin. “I want you bare. Last night, I dreamed about it—having nothing between us. I’ll go insane if I don’t get to feel all of you.”
He lets his head drop against the pillow to face me. He tucks a stray strand of my hair behind my ear, his eyes demanding and pleading at the same time. “I’m clean. You?”
I give him a nod in affirmation. It’s been years since I had unprotected sex with anyone. Until now, though, I never particularly wanted it any other way. Unconsciously, my teeth drop into my bottom lip and start to drag against the tender skin. Why does this feel so overwhelming all of a sudden? Why does the room feel too small, the sunlight streaming in the windows seem too hot, and the fierce decadence of wanting him that way leave me short of breath?
Simon slips his body from under the leg I used to trap him and rises up to his knees. I stay exactly where I am, staring at the now-empty space on the mattress.
“On your belly, sweetheart.”
Good. This will lessen the significance of it all, if I can’t see his face and he can’t see mine, the paralyzing fear of him seeing too much won’t matter. Slowly, I turn my body into the mattress, tucking my face into the pillow. Intent on keeping something safe from this man’s sensual grasp, I lift my hips but leave my chest pressed against the mattress, knowing the posture should get him going.
“Holy shit. Push that ass a little higher.”
When my hips rise a few inches more, his hands find my skin, caressing from the small of my back to the tops of my thighs. With his hands splayed over my thighs, edging slowly back up, his thumbs move into the space between my legs. Then he shifts to put one hand there, using the flat of his fingers to draw the slippery heat all over my sex, down the inside of my thighs, and up the ridge leading to my backside. Every stroke just encourages more—more of his movements, more responding wetness from my body. A moan leaves my mouth, muffled slightly by the mattress.
“Are you on something? We can’t have any little Simons and Devons running around yet.”
Christ. Yet? Is he insane?
“Yeah. I’m good.”
The feel of his fingers combined with what I know is coming—all of him, so deep that I’ll probably collapse—makes me want scream for him to take me. Now. No waiting. Now.
“Good. Not that our kid wouldn’t be awesome. Great-looking, brilliant, and hilarious. No girls, though.”
Pay attention, Devon. Do. Not. Ask. Don’t engage in this wacky conversation about an imaginary, fictitious, never-going-to-happen kid. He’s just wound up at the prospect of going raw inside you. He’s delusional. This is Simon we’re talking about. The man has unicorn sheets. A man with unicorn sheets isn’t the guy you talk about pretend offspring with.
“Why no girls?”
Dammit. My rational brain isn’t connected to my mouth right now. Probably because he just started to rub his thick cock between my legs, insistent and eager with every slip toward my opening. Not my fault, really.
“She’d hate me. Raising a baby girl with your genetics? I wouldn’t let her leave the house after the age of twelve in anything but a gunnysack and a giant sombrero. Between cleaning my shotgun and locking her in her room, I’d lose my mind trying to keep her away from anyone with a dick.”
Even though we’re about to have sex and he feels so good poised at my entrance, just the tip pushing inside, I snort out a long laugh. Save me now, because if the very idea of procreating with Simon doesn’t have me closing my legs and demanding that he suit up, I’m so far gone I should consider being voluntarily committed.
The pressure of him finally taking me stops the laughter, obliterating everything else but our voices mingling in mutual moans as he moves inside me. Every second of the delicious pressure threatens to make me pant and keen like a wild animal. I had forgotten how different this feels, not just emotionally, but physically. The slip of my arousal doing all the work, the way nothing between our bodies means that when he pushes in to the base, he can move without even the tiniest drag to slow him down.
As he starts to work in and out, my body reacts, everything tightening up around him in a long pulse. The sensation isn’t lost on him, a low grunt tumbling from his throat.
“Fuck. Don’t do that.” When he calls me out on it, combined with the sound of desperation in his voice, it happens again. Then I force it once more, for good measure. His hands clamp on to my hips and he stills his movements.
“Knock it off. I want this to last. If you keep doing that, it won’t.”
Shoving my hips back into his, I do it again, just to screw with him. And because it feels good. “Make me.”
Before I can goad him some more, one of his arms roughly wraps around my waist, and his other arm shoots out to grab a handful of my hair. With a small yet demanding tug on my hair, his body leans over mine.
“Is that what you want? You want me to make you behave? Because I love how goddam ready you are right now. We’ll get a little rough this morning, just say the word.”
“Fuck, yes.” That’s exactly what I want. I need him to screw me mercilessly, because it will be so damn good and because then it won’t feel like we’re making love. We’ll just be two people who like getting naked together. Not two people baring childhood wounds, talking about imaginary offspring, or threatening to fall in love.
“Then knock that shit off. Let me have you.”
A whimper is the only response he gets, but it’s enough for him to come undone and drop my hair from his hand. Then without any other warning, he starts to thrust wildly, shoving my body a few inches closer to the headboard with every aggressive drive of his hips. The pillow I had buried my face in is the only saving grace from my head hitting the unforgiving wood before I regain enough sense to shove my arms out to brace my body.
When his palm cracks hard against my ass cheek, I can feel the stinging mark so acutely it hums across the edges and I drop a string of screaming, begging, demanding cuss words into the sheets. In those words, I beg him to do it again and he does, even harder, enough that I think my skin could bruise a little if I asked for more.
I want him to keep going, to let up, to stop, to go harder. All of what I want is impossible at one time. With every single thrust, there is a sensation of him getting deeper and I can hear the way our bodies thrash together, the insanity of each of us tipping headfirst toward climaxes that might leave one or both of us passed out. It seemingly goes on that way for an eternity, losing each other in the frenzy of him controlling this round and me not caring that he is. Because no matter how hard he drives forward, how demanding his groans sound, or the way he leans into me so heavily that I have to push back so I don’t suffocate in the sheets, I know there isn’t one single bit of real danger there. Simon is, with absolute certainty, a safe zone.
Whether it’s because he is always saying things to prove it or because his eyes show every truth, it’s safe. Knowing that means I can enjoy what I’ve never admitted to wanting. What I’ve always thought I could never have without giving too much up.
In the secret buried parts of me, I’ve always wanted the feel of a man taking over in bed. Making me behave. Making me give in. Releasing the heavy burden of needing to be strong even when I want to be weak and taken.
With Simon, I can finally have that. Because when we leave this bed, I know he will leave every bit of that dominance in the sheets. When we’re out in the world, Simon will look me in the eye, give me my due, and never try to break me.
The power of him, all his weight, and the sheer force of his movements have me n
early flat against the bed. My legs are barely parted at this point, leaving him panting as he slows his thrusts to account for the narrow channel we’ve created. The angle, down and in, means the very best parts of me are getting constant, relentless pressure. Despite how my legs are nearly closed, my clit seems to find enough friction from the grind against the mattress, and every push of his body means I’m another bit closer to coming apart at the seams.
Just when I’ve stopped thinking about accepting his power over me and let my body do what it wants, he stops. Wrestling one arm around my waist, he snatches my limp body up off the mattress so that I’m on my knees with my arms hanging uselessly at my sides. Still deep inside, he keeps his one arm around my waist, gripping tightly. His other arm comes up and grabs against my neck, pushing it over so that my cheek rests against my shoulder. I can feel his fingers dig into the tender skin there, his thumb dragging slowly over my mouth. When my lips open in response, he shoves his thumb into the side of my mouth and tugs my bottom lip down some more.
“Do you know how much I wanted this, sunshine? Do you have any clue how bad I wanted to be with you?”
His teeth land brutally against the skin on my neck and the sting of him marking me, combined with his words, leaves me unable to speak. An eager whimper comes out—one I hope prompts him to move his hips again. He’s been still since he pulled us up into this position, and I don’t have the strength or desire to push my own hips into him.
“Tell me you wanted this, too. Admit that the first time we met, you felt it.”
Right now, with his body clasping every bit of mine, but his still motionless hips not thrusting his cock the way I want, I know I won’t get mine if I don’t fess up, and I need this so much that any confession on my part doesn’t seem to matter at this point. I’ve made him a sandwich, revealed that I missed him, and let him read poetry to me. This little tidbit won’t make me any more vulnerable than before.
