Unconventional

by Isabel Love

  I think back to his cock smeared with my red lipstick all over it. Fuck, that was hot. “Speaking of which, I never got those pictures,” I complain.

  “I’ll send them to you right now,” he offers.

  I slide my hands down his chest and abs, diving right into his underwear. His cock is not yet fully erect, but it’s getting there, and I give it a tentative squeeze.

  “Send them to me later.”

  He grunts as I stroke his dick. “I need your pussy, Red,” he whispers into my ear, palming my ass.

  “My pussy just so happens to be available.”

  He picks me up abruptly and walks us over to the counter. He sets me down, crouches in front of me, and leans his face into my crotch. My hands go to his head, fingers running through his hair as he rests there for a second, nuzzling the apex of my thighs. I can’t get a good read on what he’s feeling right now. Painting seemed to help clear his head, but he still isn’t quite back to normal after his run-in this afternoon.

  He reaches for the waist of my pants and looks up. He stares at me so intensely it makes my pulse kick up. Slowly, he takes my clothes off, holding my gaze with every movement he makes. I feel like I’m caught in a trap.

  Once I’m completely naked, he lifts me and sets me on the counter. The surface is cold, but it feels good on my overheated skin. Music still pours out of the speakers, heavy and angry. He touches me, fingers tracing my lips, then my chin, down my neck, leaving goose bumps in their wake. He watches his fingers move, making patterns on my skin, and I realize he’s tracing my freckles.

  “Spread your legs,” he orders. I’m so glad for him to be bossing me around like his usual self that I forget to be annoyed. I comply, leaning back on the counter and spreading my legs open. My cunt is soaking wet; I’m sure he can see it glistening.

  Instead of stepping between my legs like I want him to, he backs up, looking at the supplies I have stocked on my shelves next to us. He looks side to side, scanning each shelf, then sees a new package of paintbrushes. He quirks an eyebrow up at me and goes to retrieve it.

  “Mind if I open this?” he asks.

  “You planning on using a paintbrush?” I ask him, confused.

  “Yes,” he says, without further explanation.

  “Okay,” I say, curious as to what he’s going to do next. My nipples have hardened to tight little nubs and my clit is a live wire, begging for relief. As he opens up the package and takes out a brush, I shift, closing my legs to rub my thighs together.

  “Keep them open,” he corrects in a deep, authoritative tone. Fuck, that’s hot.

  “I need you to touch me,” I complain, spreading my legs as open as I can comfortably have them on this counter.

  He ignores this and rinses one of the brushes in the sink then dries it with a towel, trying to squeeze all the water out of the bristles. Taking the newly cleaned paintbrush in hand, he goes to collect a stool and sets it in front of me. He sits and his head ends up right in between my legs. Yes. I want his mouth on me, his fingers, anything at this point.

  “Close your eyes,” he instructs.

  “What are you—” I begin to ask.

  “Red,” he interrupts. “I’m going to get a condom. Just lean back, close your eyes, and relax. I’m going to make you feel good,” he promises.

  I nod and do as he says. His footsteps pad to the door and through it, leaving me in silence for a couple minutes. I try to just empty my mind. I feel the way my lungs expand with each breath, the excited thrum of my pulse, the hard wall behind my head, the cool surface of the counter under my hands and legs. The smell of paint lingers in the air, but instead of being unpleasant, it’s familiar. I relax into the moment and try to imagine what Charlie is doing right now. Is he back yet? What’s taking so long?

  The song changes and “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails comes on. Fuck, what a good song. The insistent beat of the music fills the room, seemingly louder than the last song, and it makes me feel electric. My skin tingles, waiting for something, anything.

  Then I feel something cold and soft and wet on the inside of my thigh, right next to my knee. Must be the paintbrush, I realize. It feels…good, not what I expected. He drags it up my leg, the damp bristles causing goose bumps. Higher, I think, touch my pussy. But when he reaches the crease where my thigh meets my sex, he skips over and drags the brush down the other thigh. Bastard.

  “Charlie,” I whine.

  “Shhh.” The brush travels lazily along my other leg and back up again, over my hip this time, circling my navel, then up toward my nipple. Yes. I welcome the attention to my nipples, loving the feel of the soft, wet bristles on the sensitive skin. I lean into this touch, needing more.

  The lyrics start and they ratchet up my arousal. This is the absolute sexiest song to fuck to. I need him. My clit needs him. I spread my legs farther apart, tilting my hips up as if to show him my pussy.

  “Please,” I whisper.

  “Trying to show me something? I see it, Red. Your pussy is soaked for me.”

  I shiver at his words, his voice smooth velvet. My focus is on the one point of contact he has—that paintbrush. It swirls around both nipples, going back and forth, and then finally it travels toward my pelvis. Keep going.

  It brushes over my pubic hair then travels down the crease of my right thigh and up the crease of my left thigh, just missing all the parts that are screaming for attention. He is torturing me, and my thighs start to tremble with need. I move my hips to chase the paintbrush, but he chuckles and moves it out of reach. My eyes are still closed, so I can’t see him, but I feel his breath on my thigh, just inches away from where I want him to bury his tongue—or his cock.

  Fuck, I’d even take the paintbrush right now.

  I’m desperate.

  He’s apparently a mind reader because the next thing I feel is a swipe of the paintbrush up the center of my pussy. He circles my opening, collecting my arousal, and then sweeps it up and over my clit, painting my pussy with my desire. Up and down, around my clit, then up and down again.

  “Oh, God,” I cry. I rock my hips, seeking out more friction. My entire pussy is slick, but the paintbrush is too soft. I won’t be able to come like this. I need more.

  I think Charlie finally needs more, too, because I hear the paintbrush clatter on the countertop, then the rustle of the condom wrapper. He steps in between my legs, gripping my hips to pull me closer to the edge of the counter, and our skin collides. His skin is hot, his touch strong. His mouth meets mine in a sloppy kiss as he thrusts inside. I’m so wet he slides all the way in.

  “Fuck,” he curses. “This is going to be fast, Red. Hold on.”

  I wrap my arms and legs around him as he cradles my head in one hand and takes hold of my waist in the other. Then he fucks me.

  It’s fast.

  It’s hard.

  It’s animalistic.

  It’s fucking amazing.

  His sweat drips onto my skin as he pounds into me and I clutch at his back, holding on tight. The backdrop of the music feeds our frenzy. We’re eating at each other’s mouths, grunting, pleading, moaning, cursing. Before I know it I’m there, right on the edge of orgasm. I buck up, trying to chase my pleasure, but it remains just out of my reach. With an agonized groan, Charlie’s movements begin to get uncoordinated and he leans down to bite my shoulder. The unexpected burst of pain does it, and I teeter over the precipice of pleasure, shattering in his arms. His orgasm hits right after mine and he clutches me to him, slowly pumping his cock in and out, milking the high.

  That was intense.

  We hold each other, panting as our senses return.

  “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns and Roses starts and the intense, animalistic, I-want-to-devour-you mood is broken. Charlie chuckles. I love hearing that light sound.

  “Feel better?” I ask him.

  “Definitely.”

  His eyes hypnotize me.

  ANNA HAS THE MOST delicious mouth. I kiss her, licking her lips, suck
ing the top one in my mouth, then the bottom one. I sweep my tongue inside, seeking out her tongue to play with mine. I can’t get enough of her.

  A noise startles me and I pause, listening for the sound. “Did you hear that?” I ask Anna.

  She laughs, her brown eyes twinkling at me. “Hear what?”

  “It sounds like a baby crying.” I focus on the faint noise, but just as soon as I hear it, it goes away.

  “No, silly. Why would you hear a baby crying? There’s no baby here.”

  I nod, knowing she’s right, of course. After waiting a beat longer and hearing nothing, I relax and capture her lips once more.

  “Mmm, I love your lips, sweets,” I murmur.

  “I love you, Charlie, so much,” she tells me, sighing sweetly.

  Then I hear it again, louder this time. It’s a baby crying for sure. I freeze and pull back. “You have to hear that.”

  She looks up at me, confused. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “I have to go find it.” This baby is upset, wailing. I don’t know anything about babies, but I know something must be wrong. I get up and leave Anna in her bed to search for the source of that horrible cry.

  I exit her bedroom and go down the hall, pausing near each door to see if the cry gets louder or quieter, but it seems to be getting farther away. I open every door anyway, just to check. My heart is hammering in my chest, anxiety spiking over what could be wrong. I have to get to that baby.

  The closer I get to Anna’s room, the louder it gets.

  Huh, that’s weird. I started in Anna’s room, so I know there’s no baby in there.

  But I step closer, and sure enough, the sound is louder.

  Wails turn into screams and I feel full-on panic. I have to find this baby.

  I open the door to Anna’s room and find a crib has been placed in the corner. A little baby is lying in it, arms and legs flailing wildly, screaming to get someone’s attention.

  “Hey, shhhh, it’s okay little baby, I’m here now.” I talk to the infant as I approach it, hoping if it hears the sound of my voice it’ll know that help is on the way. I lean over the crib, peering down to see the smallest baby I’ve ever seen. He’s wrapped in a blue blanket, so I’m assuming it’s a boy. Red faced and sweaty, he continues to kick and squirm, helpless to do anything but lie there and cry.

  I’ve never held a baby before, but how hard could it be? I reach into the crib to pick him up, but as I reach over the railing, the bed drops, putting the baby just out of my reach. I stretch my arms farther, but still, I can’t reach him.

  What is going on?

  I jostle the crib rail, unsure how to lower it. I squeeze every button and try to lift and lower it, but I can’t figure it out.

  His screams are piercing my brain.

  “Anna? Can you help me?”

  She appears next to me, clicks a latch, and lowers the crib railing without a problem. She reaches down and scoops up the baby. He quiets instantly and my panic starts to subside. Thank God for Anna, she’ll know what to do.

  “What do you think is wrong with him?” I ask her. She’s facing away from me, so I can’t see the baby anymore. She starts to move her arm around, jostling the baby, making him cry again.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” I ask her, worried she might hurt the baby. Don’t newborn babies need you to support their head?

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll take care of it.”

  All of a sudden, the cries stop, and the silence that follows is deafening. The panic comes back, clawing at my insides, squeezing my chest—what the fuck just happened? I have to hold that baby. I circle around to the front of Anna and freeze.

  “What the fuck?”

  “I’m so sorry, Charlie.” Anna says, frantic. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “No!” I shout. “What did you do?”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “NO!”

  A SCREAM YANKS ME out of sleep and I bolt up to a sitting position, worried there’s an intruder. Blinking rapidly, I search the room for a bad guy. It takes a couple seconds to clear the sleep from my brain, but as my vision comes into focus, I can tell no one else is in my bedroom except for me and Charlie.

  “No, no, no, no. WHY?” Charlie shouts, the words being ripped from him, saturated in agony. His eyes are still closed, but his face contorts in pain. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he shakes his head back and forth.

  “Charlie?” I touch his shoulder tentatively. Are you not supposed to wake someone up when they’re having a bad dream? I can never remember. He’s hot, covered in sweat, and his fingers clutch the sheets, trying to get a hold of something.

  “How could you?” he whimpers, sounding utterly broken.

  I lean over him and smooth his hair out of his forehead. “Shhh,” I whisper. “It’s okay, Charlie.”

  He turns toward me and wraps his arms around my waist, burying his head in my chest. I think he’s still asleep as he hasn’t opened his eyes yet. I just wrap my arms around him and hold him tight. What on earth is he dreaming about?

  “Anna,” he moans. It’s not a sexual moan; it’s a heartbreaking one.

  Ah. He’s dreaming about the woman from the country club, Anna. Seeing her must have brought back some heck of a memory because this dream has him deep under.

  “It’s Quinn. I’m here with you, Charlie. It’s okay,” I murmur in his ear.

  “Oh, God,” he sobs, his whole body shaking. Is he crying?

  My heart squeezes painfully at the thought of someone hurting this strong, sexy man in my arms. She must have done quite a number on him, and I hate her for whatever she did.

  “Charlie, it’s okay. I have you,” I say, louder this time, wrapping my whole body around him. I need him to wake up, but I don’t know how to snap him out of this dream. I kiss his forehead, rubbing my hands up and down his back and arms.

  He rolls us so he’s on top of me, but he’s still clinging to my body as if he’s drowning. I keep petting him, hoping my touch will wake him. I touch his face, startled to find his cheeks are wet. My lungs collapse at the realization that he really is crying. I wipe his tears away, their presence so wrong on the face of this man. Charlie is jokes and innuendo and inappropriate remarks. He isn’t a serious or sad kind of guy—he’s light and laughter, so full of life, so full of fun.

  But right now, in my arms, this six-foot-tall, golden-haired man with ocean blue eyes and irresistible dimples is falling apart. He pants, trying to catch his breath. My eyes burn at the sight, my heart breaking for whatever he went through.

  I kiss him again, my lips touching his warm skin wherever I can reach—his forehead, his hair, his temple. I shift, trying to reach more of his face. His breath, hot and humid, hits my skin with every shudder. I cradle him as he cries in his sleep, and I can’t stop the tears from overflowing. It’s stupid—I don’t know what I’m crying for—but Charlie is in pain, and somehow, his pain hurts me, too.

  He gasps all of a sudden, jerking awake. Wild frantic eyes look all around and settle on me.

  “Quinn?” he croaks, voice thick with emotion.

  “I’m here, Charlie,” I reassure him.

  “What happened?” he asks, looking so vulnerable I could cry all over again.

  “You had a bad dream,” I tell him gently, continuing to pet and soothe him. He’s like a spooked wild animal, and I can’t bear the thought of him retreating. I need to make sure he’s okay.

  He stares at me, his pulse hammering wildly in his neck, his heart pounding so hard I can feel it on my stomach where he’s lying on me. He takes a deep breath and settles back down, his head on my chest. We’re naked, having gone to sleep shortly after sex last night, and his sweat-slicked skin slides over mine. I run my fingers through his hair and wait to see if he will fall back asleep. We lie in silence, entwined together for a while. It could be five minutes or an hour, but I’m too wound up to fall back to sleep.

  “You still awake?” he whispers.
<
br />   “I am.”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “You okay?” I ask.

  He sighs. “That dream, it took me back in time. I can’t shake it.”

  “You don’t have to tell me about it, but I’m a good listener if you want to get it off your chest,” I offer quietly.

  He’s silent for so long, I assume he doesn’t want to talk about it. Then he sighs again and shifts us, pulling me over him so my head is pillowed on his chest this time. “It’s about that girl we saw at dinner, Anna,” he starts.

  I stay quiet, letting him have the time he needs to say what he needs to say.

  “She was my high school girlfriend. We dated freshman, sophomore, and most of junior year. We were each other’s firsts and we were so in love. We had our whole lives planned out. She wanted to be an obstetrician and we were going to get an apartment while she went to a pre-med college and I went to art school for photography. Then I’d support her while she finished med school and residency. We were going to have four kids and live happily ever after.”

  Knowing the Charlie I know now, the one who hates relationships and has sex with many different women, I’m surprised to hear about this younger version of himself. How did he go from totally in love to who he is now?

  “I was devoted to her. She was my best friend and I would have done anything to make her dreams come true, anything to make her happy.” He says the words with such sincerity that my heart hurts.

  “What happened?” I have to ask.

  “She got sick, told me she had the flu. So, I took care of her, brought her soup, missed assignments from school, the whole nine yards. I did anything I could think of to make her feel more comfortable. Then she had to go to the doctor because she didn’t get better, and I offered to take her, but she dodged me, telling me she was fine to go by herself. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, other than wishing I could have taken her because I wanted to be there for her, but I was busy with school, too, so I shrugged it off.

  “But after her doctor’s appointment, she…changed, became withdrawn and sad. She couldn’t look me in the eye. I kept asking her what was wrong and she kept saying she was fine, but I knew she wasn’t. She stopped running track, stopped wearing makeup, started wearing baggy clothes instead of the pretty, girlie things she used to wear. Up until then we’d had sex all the time. We were 16 years old and inseparable, sneaking away every chance we could to find a place to be together, but then she just…wasn’t interested.