Deep Desires (Mischief Books)
Page 8
He’s not wrong. I think his breath might put me over the edge every time I feel it ghost hotly over that sensitive place.
‘And your voice … I love hearing your voice. It’s better than it was over the phone – so breathless, so full of lust.’ He says the word ‘lust’ the way other people might say ‘holy high heaven of everything I want’. Like it’s something magical, almost unattainable, forbidden. ‘And your skin when you flush so prettily … you like it when I do this to you, Abbie?’
‘What if I say no?’ I ask, though really I’m wondering what he would answer if I asked him the same thing.
‘If you say no, I’ll stop,’ he says, but I can still feel that hot breath ghosting over my pussy. I’m still squirming because of it. ‘We can talk about sandwiches again if you like. Or poets. What was that one you mentioned again?’
I’m so far gone I have to wait until he fills the blank in for me.
‘“I like my body when it’s with your body”,’ he says, while I writhe in agony. He’s teasing me, and he so knows it. He has to know it, right?
‘E.E. Cummings,’ I manage, but it’s not without a price. In order to get words out, I have to let my hips lift towards him, just a little. I have to take my hand away from his so he can just go ahead if he wants.
Who cares about things like resistance when he can tease like this and talk like this and make me so crazy? Who cares about anything then? I just want him to lick my pussy, even if the thought is as terrifying as it is delicious.
‘He has a point, Cummings,’ he says, the contrast between his patient, almost diffident words and his heated actions like a knife in my gut. That’s where the tease lies: between talk about poetry and his fingers easing under the elastic of my panties. He’s going to slide them down now, I think, while he gives me his opinion on a line of verse. ‘My body is easier to like, when it’s with your body.’
I turn blindly towards the sound of his voice, seeking the expression I can’t see. Without it, it’s impossible to tell how serious he is. How much he believes what he’s saying. I mean, no one could hate the shapes his body makes. It’s flawless, it’s golden and glorious. I have dreams about it, and I don’t mind telling him so.
‘Are you seriously saying you don’t like what you’ve got? You know that I’m wet, now, thinking about what you’ve got.’
‘I thought you were wet because that kiss was so intense I wanted to fall right into it and never come back up. Or maybe because I took those sweet little nipples in my mouth, and sucked on them. Feels good, right? Having a mouth on you there.’
Him saying all of this probably wouldn’t be so tormenting if he wasn’t peeling my panties off as he speaks. He eases them down an inch at a time, making sure I can feel the silk sides of them rubbing against my thighs, the insides of my knees, my shins.
And then once they’re off, he parts my legs in this casual, easy sort of way. Like it’s no big deal really. It’s no big deal that I’m blindfolded, and that I can’t even make out how terrible I must look. He’s just going to stare at my pussy, while he talks up a fucking storm.
‘Ohhhh, look at you. Look how wet you are, Abbie. If you could only see what I can see: all of your soft, soft curves, and how flushed you are … and then your legs so sweetly spread for me. Your slippery sex, so wet and ready for me. I can see it glistening all over your clit and down to your hot little pussy …’
He finishes his sentence with one trailing finger, passing over the things he’s just mentioned. My breasts, my hips, every turn and hill of my body … and finally my slick folds, parting them as he goes. Not quite putting any real pressure on, but, ohhhh, the sensation is so good all the same. It’s better in fact. My hips buck up to get more of it, and when they do …
Oh, when they do …
He uses the angle of my body to just slide inside me, all the way in to the webbing between his fingers. Slow and easy, like everything else he’s doing, but so electric because of that patience. I feel every little part of him going in. I feel the rough hump of his knuckle and how slick I am around him, how easily I part for the intrusion, where usually I’m tight and tense and it’s always painful.
It’s always like something shoving into me, rather than what this is: a slippery glide that ends on me moaning.
‘You like that, huh? Want more?’ he asks, but he doesn’t wait for me to answer. He just interprets the jerk of my hips, which say yes for me. I’m almost fucking myself on him before he even adds a second finger, or tells me how amazing it looks. Like this, like this: ‘Oh you take that so good, baby. That’s it, that’s it – work yourself on me.’
God. God. Does he know how crazy his talk makes me? The dirtier he gets, the thicker his accent is, and the thicker his accent is, the more I moan. The more I rut against him. It’s a vicious circle, which ends with me saying something very bad indeed.
‘Let me suck your cock while you do that,’ I tell him, and I don’t even stop there. ‘Let me touch you, let me stroke you … please. Please, I just want to feel your body, God, your body. You have to know how incredible it is. Let me show you.’
His hand gets a little rougher, between my legs, those maddening fingers becoming more like a fuck than anything else. It’s good though. It’s so good, and not just because of the rough bursts of sensation it produces. There’s also the motivation behind it:
To stop me begging for things he kind of wants to give, now, but can’t.
He’s breaking, it seems. Just a little more might do it …
‘Don’t you want to feel my mouth on you, while you make me come? Because, ohhh, you’re gonna make me come so hard. Please, Ivan. Please,’ I try, but he still doesn’t make a move. He just keeps up that relentless pressure, and soon I know it will be too late. I’m close to the edge, and, once I’ve gone over, I’ll be too embarrassed to ask him for things like this.
And I think he knows it.
‘Let me,’ I say, only this time he answers with a little lick.
Right between my legs. Right over my swollen, sensitive clit, and then, just when I want to cry foul and call him a cheat, he does it again. He pins my hips when I try to jerk away, and holds me fast when I protest, and after that he’s free to work on me in any way he wants. He can rub that killer tongue over my little bud, and pump into my clenching pussy as he does it.
And I can’t make a single demand once he’s there. All I can manage is a kind of rough blurt of air and a lot of gasping, followed by my hands that seem to want to clench in his hair. I get hold of it tightly and squeeze, but it doesn’t really help.
I’m going to come, and after a second I tell him so. It’s the only words I can get out, as rude and wrong as they are.
‘Ohhhh, yeah, right there, right there, lick my pussy,’ I tell him, as though I never thought there’d be a problem with him doing this at all. I wasn’t nervous before. I just didn’t know how fucking amazing this would feel – oh, amazing enough to make me lose my mind and spill out things like this: ‘God, I’m going to do it, I’m going to do it.’
I don’t even know what doing it means.
And, apparently, neither does he.
‘Doing what?’ he asks, in between kisses.
Only it’s the sort of kisses you couldn’t tell your mother about over dinner. Kisses for my clit, for my pussy. Kisses that leave me hovering on the brink.
‘Orgasm,’ I say. ‘I’m having an orgasm.’
And then the pleasure washes over me in a bright, tight wave. It starts at my clit and bursts outwards, but there’s an underlying note to it, an intensity to it that I don’t quite know how to process. He’s been rubbing at something inside me, something I’ve never really been able to uncover myself, and when the pleasure lets go there’s a dull pulse underneath it. It’s like a weight, dragging that wave of sensation back. It pulls it in until I can hardly bear it, until I want to tell him no, no, that’s too much.
Though I doubt he’d listen. I can hear him groaning, too, over
my own embarrassingly guttural grunts, like maybe he enjoys watching me lose it this way. In fact, I know he enjoys watching me lose it, because once I come around from this incredible orgasm, once I realise I’ve curled myself into a ball halfway up the bed, and that my ears are kind of ringing and my body is in spasm, I can hear him.
He’s masturbating.
He’s masturbating and, even more delightful, he’s saying things in Russian. Dirty-sounding things that drag another little spike of pleasure out of an orgasm that should be long done.
‘Tell me what you’re saying,’ I ask him. ‘Tell me.’
But of course he can’t. He’s now in the position I was in five seconds ago: struck almost mute by sensation. Even the Russian words fall away, and then I’m trapped in a sightless world made up of his breathing, harsh and frantic. The sound of his hand on his cock, slick-clicking back and forth, back and forth.
Lord, how I wish I could see him. I wish I could just rip this blindfold off, but I know the effect it would have. He’d back off, I know it, though I’m still not quite sure why. Because the closeness of this and the closeness of me seeing him would just be too much together? Because he mysteriously hates his own body?
Even though it doesn’t sound like he hates it now. The stroke of his hand speeds up, and so do his near shameless moans. It’s like he can’t help it and, of course, if he can’t help this … if he can’t stop this … maybe he won’t be able to stop a few other things too.
Like my hand tentatively reaching out for him. Just for his arm, maybe, or possibly his chest. Perhaps if I start out someplace innocuous, he’ll let me progress.
Or at least that’s the theory, until I actually make contact. I think I find his elbow, but he goes stiff anyway. He flinches as though I’ve struck him, and that maddening, delicious sound I can hear stops.
Then just as suddenly resumes. Oh, it resumes. Is there any sweeter sound than that? I can hear his breathing getting more unsteady and there’s a protest hanging on his tongue, I know there is. But he doesn’t really try to stop me.
He lets me run my hand up his arm, over that thick bicep, the touch made easier by the perspiration that’s lightly coating him. Then I move on, upwards first. Upwards is nice and safe, and he doesn’t have to worry about it. Who cares if I touch his shoulder?
Apart from me?
Because, God, it drives me nuts to feel him like this. His shoulder is like something carved out of wood, solid and unyielding. And his throat … ohhhh, his throat. Would it be so wrong if I just leaned forwards and bit him there, where the flesh feels firmest? He’d probably send me away and never let me come back, but at this point I’m not sure I care.
I want to taste him. I need to taste him.
Don’t stop me, I think at him, and by some miracle, he doesn’t. He must be able to see my every move – I’m not being crafty in the slightest – but he lets me slowly lean in. He lets me put my mouth on his chest, and then, after a bit of manoeuvring, his throat.
I don’t bite as I’d been intending to.
I lick, and feel him shudder for my trouble.
‘Abbie,’ he says, but there’s no real resistance in his voice. The word is almost a sigh, and he doesn’t stop the stroke over his cock. I know he doesn’t. I’m so close now that I can actually feel the brush of the back of his hand over my thigh as he slides it up and down. And when I shift a little … that’s the head of his cock just touching my bare belly.
It’s obvious it is, because after a second I can make out the slipperiness of his pre-come. He’s marking my skin, making it shiny. And he’s moaning and shuddering and leaning into my teasing mouth as he does it.
It’s almost like a victory. I just triumphed over the opposing team – the one called his bizarre hang-ups – and now I get to run my hands down his body. I’ve won the game; I’ve got to try for more. I’ve got to rub my palms over his rigid abdomen, and map out his hips the way he did mine.
They don’t jut the way mine do, but there’s that lovely slant of muscle sliding down from them, like an arrow pointing at his groin. I remember it from the window, but it’s even better beneath my touch – so firm, and so slick with perspiration.
Followed by the things beneath it.
I hardly dare touch him there, but his lack of resistance makes me bold, as bold as he was with me. He didn’t wait when I held back, so why should I wait here? Why should I be nervous? Why is my heart beating so hard and fast?
Because it is. I’m surprised he can’t hear it, thundering away in my chest, and all for something so simple again. Just my hand over his hand, as he strokes himself. And then, when he lets me, a little more. I press my thumb against the rigid base of his cock so that I’ll have the memory of his actual flesh when I come away from this.
After all, this may be the limits of what I get. He’s stopped making any noises – as though he’s holding his breath, maybe – and any second he’s going to tell me that I should stop. I’ve gone too far, pushed him too hard, and I’ve got to consider that.
How would I feel if he did the same?
I’d be devastated; I’d be terrified. I’ve got to say sorry. In fact, I come so close to doing just that I almost taste the words in my mouth. I’m inches away from moving my hand and shifting back down the bed when he takes his own hand away.
And puts it over mine.
‘Like this,’ he says, and this time the sense of victory is so keen I could cry over it. He’s not resisting me; he’s urging me on. He even kisses me as he works my hand over his solid cock, like everything is fine and we’re both so normal. We’re completely normal, and I can touch him and put my arms around him and stroke him in intimate places.
No barriers get in the way now. I’m so close to him I can feel the way his body is shaking all the way through mine. And after a while those sounds he was making a moment ago go through me too. He moans right into my mouth, as he forces my hand in a steady, driving rhythm, almost too tight for me to bear it, but so arousing even so.
I can feel him swelling under my grip and I know he’s going to come. He’s going to come for me, with me touching him, and my mouth on his. All those times through the window, so far away, narrowed down to this:
His face pressed tight into my shoulder, as he finally lets go.
It takes me about an hour of lazing around in a pleasure-stuffed stupor to realise something pretty sad: I got more pleasure out of a blindfolded handjob with him than I did out of every previous relationship I’ve ever had. We haven’t even had sex, and yet somehow I’m utterly satisfied. I’m a cat, fat with food and sunning myself in the heat of whatever this is. This … thing. This … relationship.
Though I can’t really call it that, can I?
People are usually allowed to look at each other full in the face when they’re in a relationship, but somehow I still don’t feel comfortable taking the blindfold off. Baby steps, I think. If he moves too fast I might run away, and if I move too fast he might run away, so I guess we just have to take our time.
Crawl towards each other in stages, until finally …
‘I love you, Abbie.’
All right. That wasn’t what I was expecting. And I show this total lack of expectation by vacating the little comfy space I’ve made in the crook of his arm, to stare at him sightlessly through my blindfold.
It feels somewhat less erotic when we’re just having a conversation.
In fact, it feels kind of ridiculous, and this ridiculousness shows itself in the little laugh he lets out. He even reaches forwards and pulls the thing off, as though me seeing him doesn’t really matter at all anymore.
And then I go and spoil it with my giant blundering awfulness.
‘Did you really just say that?’
Why do I have to be incredulous? We’ve practically been weird boyfriend and girlfriend for over a month. We’ve had more intense conversations about feelings and issues than I’ve ever had with anyone, not to mention all the talk about BLTs.
Apart from the obvious psychological problems, he’s the perfect man.
‘I have a feeling it’s weird that I did.’
‘It’s kind of weird that you can say those words, but you can’t have me looking at you during sex. Or touching you during sex for that matter.’
‘Why?’
He sounds genuinely puzzled, and almost bizarrely unconcerned. He’s not even really concentrating on the conversation – he’s running the backs of his fingers over the long section of hair that’s fallen over my shoulder, watching it lift and then drop, lift and then drop.
‘Because loving someone is a lot more intimate than giving someone a handjob.’
‘And you think I have problems with intimacy?’
‘Don’t you?’ I ask, but when he flicks his gaze up to mine my question is answered. I can almost feel how much I mean to him, every time he looks into my eyes. It burns out through them – it has ever since the hallway.
And he’s never shied away from showing it.
‘I struggle with physical things. Not emotions.’
I have to ask. Don’t I? I’d be a fool if I didn’t.
‘Why?’ I ask, while my head fills with every terrible thing it could be. What makes someone afraid to be touched, but fearless when it comes to something I can’t even say yet? I feel it, but I can’t say it.
He could still turn out so wrong, after all. Maybe he doesn’t really want me in the messy state I’m in. Maybe he wants to mould me until I fit seamlessly into his touch-less world, both of us dancing around each other for the rest of our lives, with punishments for every transgression I make.
I get a punch, for accidentally grabbing his ass. A kick in the stomach for an elbow brush in bed.