Boston

by Alexis Alvarez

  “Aw, baby, do you need something?” he teases me, but my breath is coming too gaspy and hard to answer back. Finally I choke out, “Boston, please, fuck me,” because that’s what I need, and it’s all I can say.

  He slides out from under me and lies beside me, then pulls my body to his, stroking me. His eyes are flaming. “Tell me thank you for the spanking,” he half croons, half murmurs into my ear. He unties me and tosses the scarf aside.

  I feel a new surge of need between my legs. “God, Boston, I need you now,” I demand, rubbing the front of his jeans with my hand. He’s so hard—so hard! And big. He sucks in his breath at my touch and pushes his pelvis into my grasp, and I rub up and down, tracing his outline. My other hand is on his chest, stroking his muscles. I can’t get enough of him, how he feels to my fingers. I’ve wanted this for so long.

  “You want that? Oh, you’re gonna get it. But you’re gonna thank me first,” he warns.

  I bite his earlobe hard and whisper, “Thank you for spanking my ass, Boston. It felt so fucking dirty and it hurts so good.”

  Chapter Twelve

  And somehow those words make me insane with need. I cry out and arch my body into his, grabbing him hard again and digging in. I want to leave those scratches on his back. I want to bite him and mark his neck with my teeth. I want to have him so deeply inside of me that I feel it for days. I feel like a wild animal, scrabbling and grabbing, and he’s the same way. His hands are nearly frantic, grabbing, tugging, squeezing.

  Finally he gets up and strips his jeans off fast. He’s naked underneath (of course he is), and his erection is huge, hard. I’m mesmerized by the sight of his cock. And as he stands there, his entire body muscled and toned to perfection, that glorious cock hard for me—for me!—I catch my breath and almost tear up at the utter perfection of this rough, sweet moment. He’s mine! Boston is naked and turned on and crazy for sex with me.

  When he comes back to the bed, our bodies meld together without any words at all. Somehow we know exactly how to move together without discussion. Or maybe it’s that our hands and mouths are doing the talking. When he runs his hand up my torso and plays with my nipple, I run my hand down to encircle his cock and squeeze. When he squeezes my nipple, making me gasp out, I lick my palm and begin to stroke him, softly at first, then harder. “Yeah, go harder,” he urges me, so I squeeze tightly and move my hand fast, up and down, learning his size and shape. I love his cock in my hand. It’s hot and velvet and steel and pulses with life, with arousal, with sex.

  He leans back and sighs, and I continue, then I tell him, “Boston, put your hands behind your head for a minute.”

  He looks down his body at me, and narrows his eyes. “Oh, fuck me, Abby, you’re going to drive me crazy!” But in a flash his arms are there and I know he wants this badly, so badly that his cock twitches in my hand. I straddle him and lean down. First I rub my cheek against his cock and he makes a little noise in his throat, then I flick my tongue just over the very tip, where a drop of pre-cum is leaking out; I relish the salty taste—his taste. Knowing that I have Boston in my own mouth makes my pussy clench in arousal. This brings a harsher noise from him and his legs clench. I rub his powerful thighs—not an extra ounce of fat, everything is cut and lean and defined—then lick more deliberately all around the head of his cock.

  He moans and murmurs, “Yeah, fuck, oh, Abby.” He shifts restlessly on the bed, pushing his pelvis up to my mouth. And then it’s game on. I take him into my mouth, as much as I can, and suck. I release and lick him, teasing him like a lollipop, then go back in for another long suck, then I take him as deeply as I can, until I’m gagging at the back of my throat and have to pop him out with a cough. I wipe my eyes; they’re already tearing up the way they always do from the effort of a BJ.

  His voice is harsh. “Fuck me, Abby, god damn, the sound of you choking on my cock has me about ready to come.” He grabs my head and pulls me back down, and it feels rough, but I can also feel the tense control in his strong hands. He pushes me down until I feel his cock in my throat again, and I hold him there until I gag, and he releases me for a breath, then he pushes me down again. It’s a rough, fierce game and after a few minutes I’m dizzy with his taste and the limited breathing and the whole fucking scene, and I’m dying for his touch. I want him between my legs now, I need him to touch me, to lick me, to pleasure me. So the next time I come up for air, I gasp out, “My turn, Boston.”

  “Oh, baby, I’ll fucking give you a turn,” he growls, and flips me onto my back. “Open your legs,” he orders, and then he buries his head between them and I scream out at the touch of his tongue to my clit. He grabs the sides of my thighs and begins to lick along my clit, long licks on either side, and short tiny teasing strokes just on top of it. Damn, he’s good with his mouth… this isn’t the kind of thing you pick up from reading a few websites. For a split second I think about Annalise and imagine his head between her perfect legs, but then the image is gone, because she’s gone. She is gone and I’m here, and it’s me who he’s licking, it’s me who has him so hard he can’t see straight.

  And all I can focus on is that exquisite pleasure he’s bringing to life between my legs. Now he’s using a few fingers, too, driving into my pussy to rub and touch in between licks and strokes, and every once in a while he reaches out to rub my own juices over my breasts and tweak my nipple. And then he gives me a light slap on whatever part of my ass he can reach, and soon I’m insane, wriggling, moaning, bucking up into his mouth, his hand, anywhere that’s close to him. I have my eyes squeezed shut and my hands are fisting near my head and I’m just panting, begging him, “God, yes, keep doing that, yes, there, touch me there, fuck, oh, Boston, fuck, baby, that’s so sweet, yeah.”

  I want to come so badly. I like waiting for it, because that feeling is magnificent, but I don’t think I can wait any longer. I open my eyes and he’s looking right at me, his face tender and passionate and fierce all at once, and I pull him down to kiss my lips. His body is hard and heavy on top of mine and I don’t care, I love it. I love feeling his weight and his crazy strength on me, his heat and his muscles, and I wind my legs up and around his to pull him closer.

  He pulls his head back and holds my chin in his hand. “Abby, I want to make love to you right now,” he says urgently, and I almost cry to hear the word “love” on his lips. I love hearing him talk dirty, the sound of “fuck” in his East coast accent makes me burn, but “love” does something else to me, something deeper and more intricate.

  “Okay,” I whisper, unable to look away. And although I want him inside me so badly, I almost don’t want this moment to end either, this moment where he’s looking at me with such tender passion and need. But at soon as I speak, he’s reaching for a condom, and then he’s back, his body hovering over mine. “You ready?” he whispers, and winks.

  I’m about to say something smart-ass but then I feel his cock between my thighs. I’m so wet that my inner thighs are slick and shiny, and despite his size, he pushes in without any pain at all. I close my eyes again at the pleasure of being stretched and filled so well by his warm, pulsing cock—it feels so perfect, like he was made to fit me. As soon as he’s in, I wrap my legs around his back and squeeze, and he props himself up on one arm to thrust with more power.

  “Does it feel good?” he asks. But he doesn’t wait for an answer before he thrusts again, pushing his cock in, then pulling out so slowly that it drives me wild.

  “Go harder, go faster,” I urge him, pulling at his strong shoulders in supplication. But he doesn’t; instead he goes even slower, taking his time to pull out and then push in, and the sensation is such an exquisite tease that I can’t stand it.

  “Boston!” I kick at his ass with one bare foot and he laughs and growls.

  “You trying to spank me, Abby, with that delicate little foot of yours?” he asks.

  I kick his ass cheek again, and he starts pumping harder, in a good deep rhythm. “This how you want it?” he growls, and
I nod and gasp, “Yeah, like that, God.”

  “Tell me what you like, Abby,” he demands as he fucks. “Tell me everything you want from me. I’m going to make every time for you so fucking good that you scream my name and forget than any other guy ever existed. Tell me!”

  I reach up to bite at him, glancing my teeth off his shoulder, pulling ineffectively at his hair. “Boston, I want you to fuck me like this all the time.” There are more words, but they’re lost in the lightning pulsing behind my eyelids, and I let go and just enjoy the moment.

  “Oh, Abby, you’ll feel my cock every day, baby, and my hand, and my mouth. I’m going to fuck your pretty pussy when I want to, and I’m going to fuck your mouth, too. And I’ll even fuck your ass, Abby. You like that?”

  Yeah, I like that, and now the orgasm is coming up so hard and fast that I can’t hold it off.

  “Boston!” I cry out. “I’m going to come.”

  “I’m ready, too,” he pants. “Look at me while you come, Abby. Say my name. My real name.”

  I look into his eyes and my words are pulled from me with the force of my passion. “Parker!” I wail, and my body explodes with such exquisite sensation that I can’t breathe for a few seconds. I’m frantic—I’m using my entire body strength to squeeze at his cock, to rub my clit along his edge, to twist him around inside of me to hit those spots that send sparks zinging along my spine and into my eyes and throughout my skin. It’s the most powerful feeling in the world, this burst of joy; nothing else matters but my body and his body and my burning need to squeeze every drop of sensation I can before the wave crashes.

  It’s on him, too; he cries out and throws his body into mine hard, pulling at my hips with his hands, digging his fingers in hard, and he shudders and spasms in me as frantically as I’m grabbing at him. It’s so intimate to come together, both of us so wild and needy, and when the feeling finally peaks and subsides, I’m still so full of residual arousal that I lie beside him, panting, squeezing my thighs together again and again as each aftershock hits me and drives an electric spark of pleasure through my clit and pelvis. I moan out at each one, tossing my head around on the pillow, completely free and uninhibited as I milk my own body for all I can.

  He’s panting beside me, and he puts one hand on my thigh and squeezes, and groans out a long sound of pleasure. When my sparks simmer down, I just lie there with my eyes closed, enjoying the after-burn thrumming in my belly, and reach my own hand out to drift around his chest and arm. It’s like touching my own warm Greek god, my very own Michelangelo sculpture, and I’ll never get tired of how he feels. He runs his hand over my belly, my breasts, my arm, too, as if he likes touching me as much as I do him.

  I reach down to touch his cock in the condom; he’s semi-soft now, but still an impressive size. I stroke along his balls—I didn’t really play with those at all when I was sucking him. “Next time,” I think to myself with a smile, and run one finger along his inner thigh, then touch the place between his balls and anus. He starts a little and I push up on one arm. “Are you sensitive there?”

  He nods. “A little, right now that I just came, everything there is sensitive.”

  I move my hand back to his thigh. “Well, once you desensitize some, I’ll just have to play around over there to see if I can get you all hard again.”

  He growls, pulls me to him, and bites my bottom lip. “I fucking can’t wait to have you play around down there, Abby.”

  His mouth tastes of my sex and his own breath and I like the mixture. We kiss and I get lost in his mouth, and when we make love a second time, slow and sexy and passionate, I feel my heart slipping into his hands, and the really scary thing is that I want to give him all of myself. So I do. All that night, as we doze and then come together in each other’s arms time and time again, I give him everything I have.

  ***

  We sleep in late—really late. So late, in fact, that we wake up to the doorbell. At first I’m confused—where am I? Why does the light feel so warm and slanted on my face? Then I realize and it comes back in a rush of emotion. I flush and he kisses me hard on the lips before jumping out of bed.

  “That’s Lise,” he announces, “and Chelle. We’re supposed to be ready to shoot right now!”

  He pulls on his jeans and starts for the bedroom door, then arrests himself; turns back. “Uh. Abby. You, um. Do you want me to let you… sleep in? Or you wanna get dressed, too?” His voice is uncertain. There’s a flush on his face.

  I stiffen up. What does he mean? Is he trying to say he doesn’t want Annalise and Chelle to know that we slept together? “I’m fine,” I say, jumping up and grabbing for my clothes. “Just give me like five minutes, okay? I’ll be right out and nobody will have any idea.” I smile. “I need to head home anyway to get some… stuff. So, you know, I’ll get out of your way for the shoot. No worries.”

  “No, I’m not worried,” he says. “I just, you know, don’t want to rush you, but we do have the shoot.” He sounds apologetic, then turns to the door, where someone is leaning on the bell.

  I move like lightning, and I shove my feet into my sneakers and grab my hair in the ponytailer and run into the kitchen as he heads for the front door. I start coffee in the machine, hearing Chelle’s voice as she comes in: “Parker! You look like shit. Were you out whoring at the bar again?”

  Her voice is teasing, but I stiffen up. I said I didn’t care about the morning after, but of course that was a lie. I do care. We never talked about anything, let alone exclusivity. I have no idea what he does or who he sees. I mean, I don’t think he’s dating anyone—wouldn’t I have known, with all the time I spent here? But hearing Chelle say that, like it’s a regular old thing for him, is like a knife through my lungs, and I say lungs because my breath comes in short, raspy bursts and I feel a pain in my chest.

  “I’m gonna shower,” I hear him say. “I’ll just be five minutes. You wanna start setting up for today?”

  The ground beans smell wonderful, and while the machine starts to grunt and burble, I remove my hair tie, smooth my curls, and rewrap the hair in a neater ponytail. I rub my eyes to get any eye goobers out and smooth down my shirt. I probably don’t look like someone who’s wearing two-day clothes, because the shirt really isn’t wrinkled, and I’m sure Chelle doesn’t have my clothing inventory memorized.

  I hear random swishes and clanks and I know what she’s doing, because these sounds have meaning to me now; I can associate them with stands going up and umbrellas unfolding. It feels a little like I’m blind and reading my environment with the other senses. I should go say hi, but I need time to compose myself, so I stay in the kitchen, undoing and redoing my ponytail nervously, waiting for the slow percolation process to complete.

  More voices—I’m surprised. I take a deep breath and come back into the room. Annalise is here, too, and then Erik is at the door? What the fuck? How did this turn into a party?

  Erik has a pile of papers in his hand. He probably printed out something useless so he’d have a chance to come and ogle Annalise again, I think, not feeling charitable at all. Sure enough, he clears his throat and says, “So, sorry to interrupt, but I was on my way to work and wanted to drop off the amended contract for Annalise and Chelle for book number two. Here it is!”

  Has this guy forgotten that something called the “Internet” exists? I roll my eyes, but Annalise seems charmed. “Oh, thank you!” she squeals and touches his arm. “This is amazing. It’s so much nicer to get a real printout than have to read tiny words on a screen.” For real? Maybe these two will be perfect together.

  Annalise smiles at me. “Abby, a bunch of us are going to grab a drink at O’Reilly’s this evening. Want to join us?” Boston looks at me, his eyes dark. I can’t read his expression. “Boston’s going, too,” she adds, giving me a little smile. Her gaze moves to Erik, and she drops her eyes and flushes. “Um, Erik,” and she seems to get a little redder while saying his name, “you can come, too. If you want, of course. I know that maybe
the bar isn’t your usual place to hang out and all, but if you feel like stopping by and stuff—”

  “I’d like to,” he interrupts.

  Annalise’s smile vibrates through her. “Great!”

  “Great!”

  “So meet back here around seven?” Annalise suggests. “And we can drive together?”

  “Great!”

  I gag in my head, dying to say, “Get a room!” But I can’t do that. Annalise would probably wither up and die with embarrassment, and Erik? I’ve never seen him this socially awkward. It’s kind of funny. I’m not the tiniest bit jealous, so I don’t know why I stand closer to him and adjust his lapel and tell him, “It’s been a long time since we just hung out.” Then I link my arm through his and smile into his face.

  I feel more than a little mean at the way Annalise’s smile fades so fast, and the guilt hits me hard in the chest, like a softball of ugly. But it also gives me this insane energy, and then I give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I’m a bad person, but this is a new superpower and I can’t help exercise it. For the first time in my life that I’m aware of, a person like Annalise is jealous of a person like me. It’s incredible. It’s insane. It’s irresistible. It’s wrong for me to use Annalise’s emotions against her this way, for my own selfish reason: It’s Boston’s reaction that I want to understand, control. Is he jealous at all? Does he care? Is he sorry we slept together?

  I almost don’t want to go home to clean up and shower and put on nicer clothes. Of course I end up doing it. I mean, this is not the third world. I don’t have to choose between a shower or drinking water for the week. It’s just—I’m all confused inside. Maybe part of me feels that having Boston on my skin will give me extra confidence at the bar, like, “He’s mine, ladies. You can even tell because sex residue is on me. Smell the pheromones with your unconscious nose-mind and leave him the hell alone.” Maybe I’m afraid to leave his side, worried that any tenuous bond we now have will disappear once he leaves my sight and we’ll go back to being nothing to each other.