Run To You

by Charlotte Stein

  And what he wants is my pussy, hot and wet in his hand.

  I know he wants this.

  He tells me he wants this.

  ‘I can’t wait to feel this slippery little pussy around my cock,’ he says, while I quietly die of desire. I’m not sure if it’s the ‘slippery’ or the ‘pussy’ or the ‘cock’, or a combination of all three. But they definitely do something to me.

  How could they not? He’s never really spoken like that before. Oh, he’s said sexy things, sure. And in all honesty, he could read the phone book in that accent and I’d be melting. Yet nothing – and I mean nothing – beats him saying filthy words out loud. Nothing beats him talking about his own cock as though it’s an actual part of him, instead of something he hardly acknowledges. Usually he pretends he has no desires at all.

  But now he seems pretty keen on letting me know. Even if I set aside the hand on my breast and the fingers he’s just sunk knuckle deep into my pussy, I can’t possibly overlook what he’s doing against the curve of my hip. He’s rubbing himself over me, though really it’s more than that. Rubbing suggests something fairly innocent.

  This is not innocent at all.

  This is him rutting and rutting at me like a bull in heat. I can actually make out the shape and length of his prodigious cock, even though he still has all of his clothes on. It feels heavy and solid, and somehow so much ruder for all the material around it.

  Like it’s a secret, I think. Like he’s secretly aroused, and can only let me know through this long, slow insinuation against my body. He’s not allowed to say, and he can’t strip, so this is all he’s got.

  Though, God knows, it’s enough. I think I almost come when I first feel him doing it – and I definitely skirt close when he finds my clit with his thumb. He just flicks over it, as he keeps up that long, slow roll against my hip. Never increasing the pace. Never showing me too much.

  But always showing me just enough. He’s really and truly excited, and he wants to do this, and he’s happy to come apart for me. And all of those things make a swell of feeling rush through my body – almost an orgasm, but not quite. I’m right on the edge, and just need a little more to push me over.

  Maybe a bit more of that stroking over my swollen clit. Or a kiss to the back of my neck. And oh, I’d kill for one of his thick, rough fingers sliding into my pussy.

  So I suppose it’s lucky, really, that he gives me all three. He presses down with his thumb over my stiff little bud, and when I shiver – that’s when I feel his hot, wet mouth on the back of my neck. It’s the first time he’s really given me a kiss of any kind – if you don’t count his tongue stroking and stroking through my wet folds – and of course the sensation is electric. I think I actually gasp over the feel of it.

  But the gasping is a little premature. I should have saved it up for the third and final thing on my wish list, and not just because of the sweet, unbearable slide of something easing into my slippery pussy. There’s also the shock, oh, God, the glorious shock of suddenly realising that he’s not touching me with his fingers.

  He’s using his obviously condom-clad cock.

  He’s going to actually fuck me – though I don’t know why that’s so stunning. He did say he was going to. And I guess he came kind of close the last time we were together. Yet still, the idea overwhelms me. I say his name three times in a row, like I need to somehow grind the sense of him into me.

  I need to know that it’s definitely him doing this, despite knowing that it couldn’t be anyone else. I can smell his cologne, light and rich at the same time – and that body couldn’t belong to any other person. All I have to do is lean back a little and I can feel how heavy and solid it is. I can feel how it surrounds me, as he slowly pushes inward.

  And oh, man, am I grateful for it. I can sag against him when the pleasure proves too much, which happens often. In truth it’s already going on, because, good God, it is incredible to feel him sliding into me. He’s as big as I remember and as thick, but he doesn’t force his way in. He rubs and urges and insinuates, until the head of his heavy cock just parts the way.

  And then rocks, ever so slowly, until he’s all the way there.

  It’s blissful and agonising, all at the same time. Blissful because of the feelings – that thing opening me up, then pressing and sliding against a thousand different nerve-endings – and agonising because of how deliberate he suddenly is again. He’s slowed right down, just when I want him to keep going, keep charging forward, keep using me like this.

  I needn’t have worried, however.

  The second he’s inside me, something shifts. It’s like he knew he had to be careful at first. Anyone with a cock like his would have to be careful. But once I’ve taken him all and am obviously insanely happy about that fact – panting and mewling and twisting like a maniac – he returns to that feverish, frantic state.

  His hand snaps up to grip the back of the seat – knuckles white with tension, one bicep so firm and hard next to my head. But it’s a good thing he does, really. I need something to hold onto, when he finally cuts loose. His arm is my safety bar for this ride I’m suddenly on.

  And I cling to it. I have to cling to it. His first thrust is so jolting my teeth snap together, and his second is even better. It hits places I’d only previously read about in implausible books, and a moan just gushes out of me – too loud in this silent space.

  But I don’t care. How could I? He’s driving into me, and besides:

  He’s not being quiet now, either. He’s breathing so hard it would probably qualify as grunting, if he was the kind of person to do something like that. And after a while of this fierce and furious pounding, he actually becomes the kind of person to do something like that. He makes noises – real and actual noises. They’re all breathless and hard won, as though he has to strain and strain to get them out, or else strain and strain to keep them down.

  And then he says my name, and I’m lost.

  I’m already shaking. The hand I’m holding onto him with is sweaty and spasmodic, like it can’t decide if it should grip him close to the elbow or further down towards the wrist. And I know I’m crying a little. I can taste the salt on my lips.

  But there’s still that other level of abandonment. There’s still a place of complete pleasure, where I’m sobbing and begging and twisting against him, close enough to orgasm to almost taste it, but not close enough to get that relief. No, no, I need something else to get to that perfect point.

  Something like him speaking.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he says. ‘Come all over my cock.’

  And I do, I do, oh, God, I do. Of course I do. I can hear his gorgeous voice – fraught with his own pleasure and desire – and his gorgeous voice is saying things. He’s talking about his cock again, and about coming, and most of all:

  He knows I’m almost there. He can probably hear it in my newly urgent moans, and see it in each shudder and twist – or at least that’s what I think until he speaks again. After which, I don’t think anything at all. ‘Oh, I can feel your sweet pussy tightening around me,’ he says, and my brain goes on a much-needed vacation.

  My body takes over, shuddering through an orgasm so intense I can hardly stand it. It’s just like before on the bed – I try to get away. I buck and twist and attempt to climb the back of the seat, and the way he fights me just makes it worse.

  His hands go to my hips, holding me in place. Then, just as I’m processing this sensation, he uses that grip he’s got to pull me back and back and back onto his cock, until I’m reeling. I can’t breathe. I can’t make the sounds I want to make. They’re all stuck, and when they eventually emerge they’re too much like a throttled grunt.

  I sound like an animal.

  Though he doesn’t care.

  ‘Yes yes yes, do it, do it,’ he says, in a tone that sends me inside out. It’s as guttural as my voice currently is and almost too low to hear, like he can’t expend too much energy on talking. He has to really focus on fucking me
and fucking me, all the way through this orgasm and right into the next one.

  Which comes as just as much of a surprise to him as it does to me.

  ‘Oh, szeretett, are you coming again? Are you? Tell me. Say something to me,’ he demands, but it’s the desperation in his tone that really makes me want to answer. His voice almost breaks around ‘say’ and ‘something’, in a way that makes me wonder:

  Has he been waiting all this time for that? Has he been waiting for my words? I think he has, but if so he has to know: I’ve never been much of a talker. I’m always at a loss what to say, or mired in worry that I’m saying the wrong thing. What if I talk about cocks when someone is wanting a pussy?

  What if I go too far?

  And then I realise:

  There is no too far with him.

  ‘Fuck my pussy,’ I say, and he hardly flinches.

  He does moan for me, however. And he grabs my shoulder, as though he needs something extra to hold onto. He needs to stabilise himself, just like I did – and oh, that thought is so very welcome. There’s absolutely nothing better in this whole world than Janos Kovacs truly going to pieces.

  And it’s definitely happening now. He can’t seem to stop himself moaning my name, though I know he wants to. Each syllable is thick and throttled, punctuated by an increasingly shaky thrust. He can hardly contain himself any more.

  And I just have to lean on that a little.

  ‘Yeah, that’s it, fuck me,’ I say, then bolder, and louder: ‘Oh, God, I want you to come so bad, oh, I want you to fill me, yeah, fill me.’

  Though I swear I don’t expect him to actually do it. I thought it was just me who bent to the will of words, but apparently not. The second I’ve said it I feel his hand tighten in the material of my shirt, and his body stiffens.

  But that’s not the best part.

  No, the best part is the sound he makes, oh, God, the sound. It’s got this note of disbelief running through it, like he can’t quite credit that this is happening. And when his body jerks and this orgasm really takes hold, he calls out my name. He draws it out like a plea, one sweet syllable at a time.

  With that unknown word on the end: szeretett.

  Though I don’t need a lesson in Hungarian to know it’s an endearment. I can tell it’s an endearment from the tone of his voice, so soft, and sweet. And when I glance back – just to see how he looks when he comes, just to watch him give everything up for a second – I know for sure.

  His eyes are dark with feeling, so obviously full of tenderness and love I couldn’t pretend otherwise if I tried. I don’t want to pretend otherwise. I want to revel in his honest-to-God emotions, and for a while I do.

  Before I realise that there’s something else there too. It’s just flickering around the edges of all of those warm feelings, and at first I can’t quite place it. It’s lost amongst the stuff that makes my heart catch fire, though maybe that’s more my fault than his. I want to focus solely on them for just a moment, despite knowing that I can’t.

  I can’t because I’m pretty sure it’s yearning. It’s yearning, even though he has to know he has me. He has me so completely I almost say it then and there: I’m yours. You don’t have to keep reaching for something I’ve already given.

  But I know why he does, all the same.

  It’s not because of something I’m not offering.

  It’s because he doesn’t know how to accept it, even when it’s there.

  Chapter Eleven

  He doesn’t seem to know what to do, in the aftermath. He manages to straighten my clothes, and follows it with straightening his. But his movements are not half as fluid as I’m used to. They’re all jerky, like his arms and legs are suddenly independent from his body. They belong to someone else, who didn’t just fuck the living daylights out of his semi-girlfriend in the back of a moving limousine.

  And then I slowly start to realise what being in a moving limousine means. I forgot for a while – mostly due to all the overwhelming pleasure. However, once he’s seated opposite me and everything is almost normal, it’s hard to think of anything but. Did the driver hear us? He probably didn’t, thanks to what I’m hoping is a soundproof partition.

  But that doesn’t solve the other problem:

  Why are we still driving around? He must have told the driver to just keep going and going, and really there’s only one reason why. There’s only one reason why we’re in this lavish car, too. He knew we were going to be doing God knows what in the back, and wanted to make that experience as pleasant as possible.

  He’s such a thoughtful guy.

  Who can’t actually express any of the thoughts he’s having. For a long, long time he simply sits there, moving from trousers that need brushing to cuffs that need neatening to his hair, which is still barely out of place. You’d honestly never know that he just took me roughly against the back of this seat, if it wasn’t still warm from our bodies.

  Though, if I strain, I can almost feel the indentations where his knees went. And when I do, other things become apparent – like how warm and wet and over-sensitised I am between my legs. My body is still completely raw and ripe from my orgasms, and any kind of pressure proves problematic.

  I think my clit actually jumps and jitters when I accidentally press too hard against the seat. And my nipples definitely don’t like the brush of my bra over their tips. It makes this funny feeling buzz upwards through my body, before ending somewhere strange – like my teeth. I don’t think I’ll be able to walk when I get out of the car.

  But he doesn’t seem to have that problem.

  He doesn’t seem to have any problems. He just gazes out of the tinted window at nothing and no one, in a way that should seem completely cool and calm and at ease. In any other circumstances it would definitely give that impression – I can imagine him in the boardroom sitting like that, with one leg over the other and a faintly bored expression on his face.

  However, in these circumstances it’s a little different. He’s not trying to get through another dull presentation. He’s trying to present a perfect front – and he’s failing quite badly. Everything just looks too poised and put on, like he slipped on a mask right after we’d finished. And though he wears it well, I can see the cracks around the edges.

  Though I don’t have to.

  After a long, long moment, he quite suddenly says:

  ‘I don’t know why I am the way I am.’

  ‘I was going to guess childhood trauma.’

  ‘No, no childhood trauma. No terrible event in my teens, no sudden grief that forever formed me into this closed-off creature who doesn’t even know how to talk after sex.’

  He sighs, like it’s some minor inconvenience. Instead of a terrible truth that makes me kind of ache for him. And I think he knows it makes me ache, because my voice goes all soft and funny when I finally speak.

  ‘You’re talking now,’ I say, and he seems to like that. His mouth twists up on one side, at least, though after a second I realise it’s actually ruefulness.

  ‘Because we’re trapped together,’ he says, and then I’m sure it’s ruefulness.

  He really knows how to beat himself up.

  ‘You could tell the driver to stop. You could get out.’

  ‘And fail at the one thing you wanted?’

  ‘I don’t think it would matter all that much. I can hardly remember what it was,’ I say, which is a complete and total lie, but never mind. It’s more important that he feels better right now, because I can’t bear him to be this strange and sad.

  It’s tearing me in two.

  ‘It seemed important to you before.’

  ‘Well, maybe it isn’t now. Maybe it’s more important to me that you feel comfortable,’ I tell him, intending just that. But when he glances at me, his expression isn’t the least bit consoled. His eyes are the same as they were when I looked back at him over my shoulder – shot through with this vulnerability that shouldn’t suit him at all.

  I’m used to
him being impenetrable, implacable, unable to show feeling.

  But suddenly the feeling is starting to spill out.

  ‘Have I told you before how kind I find you?’ he says, in this low, grave voice that makes me shiver. ‘And it fills me with such pleasure, when I see all of these little gifts you give me, and all of these little allowances you make for me – but even with all of this, I cannot allow you such small matters. I cannot let go without feeling cut loose of my moorings. And more importantly: I cannot stay.’

  ‘And yet you’re still here.’

  He nods, but it’s not the nodding I notice. It’s those ever-shifting eyes of his, running their way from almost wounded to something like warmth. Oh, they’re so warm I could sit by them, on a cold winter’s night.

  ‘That is true,’ he says, and there’s a short silence.

  But this time it isn’t the least bit uncomfortable. It spreads between us instead, a great and beautiful blanket unfurling. All we have to do now is sit in its centre and talk a few things through. Maybe soothe each other little.

  If I’m capable of something like that – which I’m sure I am.

  ‘It’s not a crime, you know,’ I say, and that seems like a good start. I can do this. I swear I can. ‘To want to control things and be aloof – in fact, I often wish that I could be the same way. It sounds like you get hurt a lot less often.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Are you hurting now?’

  I ask it only half seriously, but he glances away once I’ve spoken. And it’s definitely not a dismissive move, either. It’s a full-on avoidance tactic that makes me want to do some damage control. The blanket is being folded back up as I sit here, slightly panicking.

  So really it’s no wonder that I blunder my words out, searching in vain for whatever is making him suddenly suffer.

  ‘Because you should know: if you choose to stay, I won’t suddenly leave,’ I tell him, fumbling towards more before I’ve even fully formed the first part. ‘I won’t let you down. I don’t know if that’s what you’re thinking, but –’