by Selena
“I’m gonna come,” he says, gripping my hair hard enough to make tears fill my eyes again. “Can you swallow for me, piccola mia?”
I bob my head in a nod, feeling naughty at his blunt words, but in a good way, one I didn’t know I could feel. I inhale, filling myself with the scent of him, noticing the hardness of his muscular thighs as he thrusts deep into my throat. I force my throat not to constrict, fighting the urge to choke as he fucks my mouth hard for a minute, his cock battering my throat. Reaching between his thighs, I cup his balls again, now swollen and hardened, and give them a little squeeze.
He curses quietly, but before I know if that was a good or bad thing, his hips jerk forward and his big hand cups the back of my head. His vein throbs against my lower lip, and the next second, salty cream explodes into my mouth and down my throat. I choke, tears streaming from my eyes, liquid dripping from the corners of my mouth.
“Keep it open for me, baby,” he growls, stroking my hair as his cock pulses more into me, spasms wracking his body every few seconds. He doesn’t move, though, which gives me time to swallow what I can and relax my throat again.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks, wiping my tears with his thumb.
I shake my head, swallowing past the ache he left in my bruised throat. I don’t care if I’m a little sore. I feel… Triumphant. He wants me, desires me, so much, it makes me feel almost high. I may be kneeling at his feet with my mouth around his cock, but I don’t feel degraded. I also don’t feel like I’m trapped, the way I imagined I’d feel after sex. I feel… Free.
At last, he pulls back, gripping the base of his cock and slowly dragging it over my tongue until he reaches my lips. “Suck out those last drops,” he croons, stroking my cheek with the back of his other hand.
A naughty thrill goes through me. I didn’t expect him to be so… Dirty. He’s a mess of contradictions—tender yet nasty-mouthed, considerate yet dominating, gentle but forceful.
My throat aches, but I obey, giving his cock a little suck. He draws a sharp breath, spasms going through his body every few seconds for another minute. I keep going until he draws away. He pulls up his pants and grabs me under the arms, lifting me to my feet on one swift motion.
“My turn,” he says.
“No no no,” I say quickly. “I did—”
I let out a little yelp as he scoops me up. I start to struggle, but he carries me to the bed in a few long strides, lying me down like a bride and sliding on top of me. He gives my mouth a quick kiss before moving to my jaw. Tingles shoot through me when he reaches my ear, but my body is shaking too hard to enjoy what he’s doing. All I can think about is what comes next. I grip his shoulders, my nails digging in.
“I want to kiss every inch of you,” he murmurs into my neck, his voice low and rough. “I want to taste your cunt.”
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I keep thinking that over and over. Where did I go wrong? I gave him head. I even made him come. How is he still going? Why isn’t he done?
He rests his weight on one elbow, leaving soft, warm kisses down my neck while his other hand strokes my arm, my side, my thigh. His breathing his coming hard, sending shivers through me as he kisses down the column of my neck, nudging my chin up.
It feels good. It does. I keep telling myself that.
I did fine with the blowjob. Great, in fact. He said only good things. Yes, he did most of the work, but I’ll know a little more next time. And if I could do that, then why can’t I do this?
I can. I can do it. I let him do his thing, moving down my body, pulling down my strapless dress and kissing my breasts. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, and his hands are everywhere, his words, his desire. I’m drowning in it, and I can’t find the surface, so I just lie there while he lets out a soft moan, pulling my nipple into his mouth.
I jerk back to myself, shocked back to the surface with the throb he sends straight to my core with each suck. He tugs the other nipple into his mouth, moaning around it, which makes it even worse. I can feel heat and wetness pooling between my thighs, the pressure from earlier returning full force.
And then he’s pushing me back under the water, because it’s too much, what he’s doing and how much he wants this, how much he needs… I can’t handle it, can’t fight it, so I let myself sink down to the bottom, wishing it was so deep he couldn’t touch me. I can hear the voice that haunts me, distorted like something out of a horror movie when really it was a kind voice with an edge of steel under it.
Don’t be afraid of your own body, Eliza. Don’t fear your own pleasure.
King’s mouth is on my stomach, and I’m shaking so hard he has to feel it, but he must think it’s just the fear of a virgin because he doesn’t stop. He takes my dress down as he goes, dragging it over my hips. He sits up to pull it over my feet, then kneels there, looking down at me.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he breathes.
My legs are shaking. I just stare up at him. I can see the light above, blurry as if through water.
“Are you okay with this?” he asks, a stitch pulling between his eyebrows.
Of course I’m not fucking okay with it. How can I be okay? I’m drowning, screaming inside my head, but if I open my mouth, the water will rush in, so I only nod.
“Have you ever done this?” He pulls my legs onto his shoulders, running his hands from my ankles and along my calves, cupping my knees before he runs his hands down the front of my thighs.
I don’t have the strength to worry what he’ll say, if he’ll be mad. I nod again.
“Good,” he says, giving my legs a reassuring squeeze. “Then you know it doesn’t hurt. I’m not going to make you have sex with me, Eliza. Just relax and let me make you feel good.”
Don’t be afraid of you own body, Eliza. Don’t fear your own pleasure.
It’s like a taunt inside my head, the chants of a hundred cruel bullies on the playground. But there was only one bully, one bully and a bathtub, and the water was too cold and I can’t stop shivering.
I nod.
He slides down the bed, pressing his nose to my underwear and inhaling. “You smell amazing,” he says, his voice husky.
It’s not so bad, I tell myself. It feels good. But I’m not sure, because I’m not here, I’m somewhere else, and the feeling good part is not connected to my brain, only my body. King hooks his finger in my panties, pulling them aside and murmuring again how beautiful I am. Then his mouth touches me. And I shatter.
thirteen
King
Eliza shoots out from under me like she’s propelled by something inhuman. I don’t even know how she gets out of my grip, only that one second I’m taking the first taste of my wife, and a split second later, she’s tumbling off the bed. She spins on her heel to face me when she’s halfway across the room, her stance defensive and ready, like she might bolt in either direction if I move a muscle. She stares at me with her bourbon eyes incomprehensible, wild and animal and filled with what can only be described as instinctual terror.
“Whoa,” I say, kneeling up on the bed and holding up both hands. “What’s going on?”
My words seem to bring her a little closer to reason, and she crosses her arms over her tits. “I—don’t—like that,” she says, grinding out her words between heaving breaths.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Then we don’t have to do it. Jesus, Eliza. I asked if you wanted to. You could have told me.”
“I’m telling you,” she says, her voice loud and strong. “I don’t like it.”
I search around on the crumpled blankets and toss her dress back to her before finding my t-shirt and pulling it on above my sweats. Then I hop off the bed and pad into the kitchen area, leaving her to dress in the bedroom while I make coffee and try to clear my head. What the fuck is wrong with me? Yeah, it’s been a while since I’ve had sex, and I’m frustrated as hell that I can’t fuck my wife, but that’s no excuse. She was obviously not okay. She was shaking like a leaf. I told myself it was just first-ti
me jitters, but is that really an excuse?
Even if that’s what it was, I should have stopped and made her comfortable. I’ve screwed up during sex before, but not like that. If I start to doubt it, all I have to do is replay her reaction. She couldn’t get away fast enough. I’ve sure as fuck never had a girl want to get away from me that badly, not even the drunken mistakes or married women who woke up and took one look at me and realized they’d ruined their marriage for a taste of youth.
Okay, so I’ve always been a complete dick, not just tonight.
I watch the coffee gurgle into the pot, the sound mingling with the rush of the shower in the other room. Great. Now she’s showering to get the feel of me off her. Just when we’d started to have some kind of breakthrough, I managed to immediately fuck it up beyond repair.
I rake a hand through my hair before carrying two mugs of coffee back to the bedroom. Then I just sit on the edge of the bed, waiting for her. I don’t want to drink the coffee, to wash away the only taste of her I’ll probably ever get. It wasn’t enough. If I’d known it was the only one, I would have taken more, like the greedy bastard I am. I wouldn’t have started with a tiny lick. I would have driven my tongue so deep into her cunt that she couldn’t call herself a virgin anymore.
She steps out of the bathroom a minute later, her hair wrapped up in a towel on top of her head, a thick robe concealing her entire body. She balks when she sees me, her expression guarded.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She blinks at me a few times, like she wasn’t expecting that. And why would she? She already thinks I’m an even bigger asshole than I am. “For what?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.
“For doing that even though I knew you didn’t want to.”
“I told you to.”
“It should have been obvious you weren’t into it. I went ahead because I wanted to make you feel good, like you did for me, but if I’d really been paying attention to what you wanted, I’d have known it wasn’t that. I’m sorry.”
She stares a me a minute, and then her shoulders slump. “No, I’m sorry,” she says. “You didn’t know.”
“So… You want to tell me what happened?” I ask, holding out a cup of coffee.
She shakes her head, but to my relief, she steps forward to get the coffee.
“Was it just too much?” I press. “You seemed into when you were going down on me. Or were you hating that, too?”
“No,” she says, slumping onto the edge of the bed a few feet from me. She sips her coffee, staring miserably into the cup. “I just… I’m messed up, King.”
I scoot down next to her and lay a tentative hand on her back. “What is it?” I ask. “I know you hate my family, but we’re a family now, too. I want you to trust me, Eliza. How am I going to survive in the Life if I can’t even come home and know my wife doesn’t want to kill me?”
“I don’t,” she says quietly. “I just… Don’t like to be touched.”
“Anywhere?” I ask, taking my hand off her back.
“Not if you think it’s going to lead there,” she says.
“Oh.” We sit there in silence for a minute. I don’t know what to say, what to think of that. I knew she was scared of sex, but this is different somehow. How can a girl not like her pussy touched by anyone? I mean, if she hates me, I get her not wanting me to touch her, but it’s not like I can deny that having my dick sucked feels good. It’s biology. I’ve fucked lots of girls I don’t care about—because it feels good.
“I’m sorry,” she says at last, standing from the bed.
“Wait,” I say, snagging her hand. “I want to talk to you about this.”
“Why?” she asks. “I’m not going to change my mind, King.”
Still, she sinks back onto the bed when I tug at her hand. “You said you’d done it before,” I say. “Is that how you know?”
She swallows, setting her cup in her lap and staring down at it.
“Because… You didn’t want to,” I guess, keeping my grip gentle on her fingers. “Someone forced you.”
She takes a long, shaky breath.
“Who was it?” I ask, my voice so quiet, so calm and still, she’d never guess the murderous rage gripping my heart. If Al wanted to know if I’m capable of murder, I could give him a real clear answer now.
Eliza shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispers. “I don’t want you to do anything. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“So you were going to just let me fuck you when you didn’t want to, just like some other asshole?” My hand fists at my side, but I keep the other one relaxed, gently holding Eliza’s, almost scared she’ll pull away. Her hand feels so small, so delicate, in mine. It makes me want to massacre anyone and everyone who ever hurt her.
“Not that,” she says quickly. “I wasn’t lying. I promise. I’m still a virgin.”
I measure my words carefully. “Do you really think I fucking care about that right now?”
She looks at me and then away. “I guess not. But just so you know. It wasn’t rape. We didn’t do that. They just did… Other stuff.”
“That’s still rape,” I say quietly, squeezing her hand. My head is spinning so hard I think I’ll be sick. “So you’d better tell me who did that to you, so I can take care of him.”
Them.
Fuck. She said ‘they.’
“You can’t,” she says, pulling her hand from mine. “I don’t want you to do anything. There’s nothing you can do. It was a long time ago, and it’s already been taken care of.”
“You told your dad?”
She doesn’t say anything.
Fuck. My heart freezes in my chest, and I remember my earlier suspicions. “It was your dad,” I say flatly.
“No,” she says quickly.
Too quickly. Too emphatically.
Who else would have access to her… And not be terrified of what Anthony Pomponio would do?
“Look, King,” she says, turning to face me at last. “I’m sorry that you got a wife who’s broken, who can’t give you the one thing you want, but I didn’t tell you that because I didn’t want you to know, or be mad, or get some vigilante scheme in your head. I wouldn’t have told you at all if I hadn’t freaked out like that and given it away. I would have just endured it like a good little wifey and kept my mouth shut. That’s how much I didn’t want you to know. So please, please respect my wishes and just drop it. I don’t want revenge. I don’t want to talk about it. I want to forget it happened and move on with my life. Please.”
I don’t know what to say to her. I can’t just forget it. I can’t drop it and let it go and pretend I don’t know. But it’s her body, her experience, and she’s right. I should respect her wishes, even if it feels wrong to the very core of my bones.
“Okay,” I say at last.
“Okay.”
I pick up my coffee. “You’re never going to want me to touch you?”
She shakes her head. “No, but I’ll do my duty to the family. I know we have to have a baby. I’ll get used to the idea, I promise. Or I’ll just get really drunk or something, so I don’t even feel it.”
“I’m not going to do that,” I say, taking a sip of the black coffee. I relish the sting on my tongue, the bitterness. I don’t want to remember what she tastes like if I never get to taste her again. It will only make it worse, knowing I had the smallest taste, a single small lick. It only makes me know what I didn’t have, what I can never have. What someone took from me, and the immensely more devastating thing they took from her.
I take her coffee and set it on the nightstand with mine. Then I take both her hands. “I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want, Eliza. Ever. No matter what. I don’t care what the families want, what they expect. You’re safe with me, and I’m going to prove that to you, no matter how long it takes. I want you to know that you can trust me.”
She looks up at me, her eyes all question and vulnerability. “Promise?”
“I promi
se.” I lean forward and kiss her forehead.
“What happens when they ask about a baby?” she whispers.
“We tell them we’re trying. And when that stops working, we can tell them you couldn’t get pregnant. As long as we’re married, the families are united. A baby would help solidify it, but even without one, they have us.” I squeeze her hands, and she nods, a tear sliding down her cheek.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I turn off the light and slide into bed next to her. Instead of turning my back and staying on the far side, though, I pull her close. She tenses, and I curl my body around hers, kissing the back of her neck. “Can I just hold you?” I ask. “I don’t want anything else.”
“Okay,” she whispers, and I feel her begin to relax. I hold her gently, like a fragile thing, though I know she doesn’t want that. No one wants to be thought of that way. But the burn of my anger has cooled into something warm and fiercely protective, and I keep my arms around her, as if I can protect her from something that is long gone, something that only lives in her memory now.
I don’t know when I stopped thinking I would never care about this girl. Maybe it happened sometime during the week, when I was counting the freckles on her skin, watching with envy as she laughed at everyone’s jokes but mine, admiring the fearless way she dove into the water from a cliff. Or maybe it was tonight, when I saw inside her, saw the cracks in her armor that look so much like mine, even if the cause of our brokenness is so very different. I only know that I’ve failed already.
I’ve broken the vow I made to myself. I promised I wouldn’t let her love me, but I forgot to worry about my own stupid heart. My sister once told me that I’d make a good father because I want to protect people, to take care of them. I may never be a father, but the other part is true. I didn’t ask for it, but I’m cursed with an instinct that makes the life I’m bound to even more dangerous.
I know what it’s like to hurt, and when I see someone hurting, I want to take that hurt away. It binds me to them in some way, a way that has nothing to do with the vows I made to Eliza or the rings we put on each other’s fingers. I can’t help but care about what’s mine, and I will go to the ends of the earth to protect it. And the instinct isn’t just for family, for a girl I vowed to protect. It’s more than that. She found my weakness. When I know a girl is hurting, something primal inside me awakens, an instinct to protect her, to care for her, to heal her.
