Addicted (Mischief Books)

by Stein, Charlotte

  For the second time in my life, I’m sort of ashamed of what I wrote. Though at least it’s for good, honourable reasons in this instance. And they’re not feelings he’s forcing me to have, either – they’re just kind of there, admonishing me for not letting him know sooner that I don’t care if he re-enacts page seventy-seven or not.

  ‘So that’s what all of this comes back to. Stuff that you think I want because it was there on the page? You don’t think I can be anything else?’

  ‘I didn’t think you could say, “I love you.”’

  ‘And now that I have?’

  ‘Now that you have, my heart is trying to escape out of my chest,’ he says, while mine does that exact same thing. I think it actually makes it to Bristol, before it remembers that I’ll die without it.

  ‘Is that good or bad?’ I ask, tentatively, and then watch as he rolls his eyes at himself. He slaps his own forehead, like he’s a complete bonehead for not realising one rather important fact – though I’m imagining it’s I’ve left the gas on, rather than what it actually turns out to be.

  ‘Oh, fuck. I haven’t said it back! Oh, man, I totally forgot to say it back. See what I mean? I’m such a moron when it comes to this stuff, seriously. And your book was absolutely no help on that score, I gotta tell you. All that emotionally stunted bullshit and oh I can’t possibly reveal my feelings because I’m so cool and manly … gimme a break.’

  I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to hear a bit of literary criticism in all my days. I actually giggle when he’s done, despite the heart that’s still in Bristol. He just makes this withering sort of expression, and amusement bursts out of me.

  And then he straightens, and makes his face all serious, and something else bursts out of me. I think it’s my soul, which sort of tries to hug him before he’s even said the words.

  ‘I love you,’ he says, though once he’s done it I can see he isn’t happy with it. He shakes his head and clicks his fingers, then puts his hand on his chest as he makes the declaration. ‘I love you.’

  ‘The second one,’ I tell him, mainly because the second one gave me goose bumps. ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Or I could do it on one knee? Maybe add a bit of poetry? My love is a rare rose that blooms at the sight of you …’ he offers, but of course we’re both trying not to laugh now. Something as terrifying as love, and somehow I’m relaxed enough to laugh. ‘But that’s not really me, right? If I was going to go with the honest version, it’d be more like this: my love is like a giant rampaging mutant from another dimension, intent on actually ingesting you in case you had any ideas about running away.’

  ‘Bingo.’

  ‘Yeah. You like that one, huh?’ he asks, as he stalks towards me across the bed. This time, however, I don’t mind him doing it. I don’t even mind when he bites at my left thigh, because now it’s tied to something so awesome I can hardly comprehend it.

  He loves me. He loves me enough to turn himself into a monster who chases me across dimensions. What could possibly be more perfect?

  ‘I’m more than happy to be ingested by you.’

  ‘I thought you might be. You do seem to love being eaten.’

  ‘It’s true. I do,’ I tell him, but I make sure I give his shoulder a nip, directly afterwards. Just to … you know. Keep things on track. ‘But it’s not about me any more, remember?’

  I pinch him again – harder, this time. And lower down, too, in a way that feels a little like testing the waters. Is this the kind of tormenting he’s kind of into? Or is it something a little more subtle and insidious, like his predilection for teasing? If his answering expression is anything to go by I’d say he’s definitely not averse to the former, at the very least.

  He actually bites his lip when I do it, and his hand jerks out as though he wants to restrain me. To stop me before I go too far and he gives away too much. But then he seems to realise that it’s a little too late for denials – he’s already told me everything there is to tell.

  Or at least I think he’s told me everything.

  Until he tells me more.

  ‘So you really want to go there, huh?’ he asks, as though there’s actually a chance that I might not. As though the mark I’ve already created just below his ribcage isn’t making me flush all over, before that look on his face finishes the job.

  The blue of his eyes has darkened almost to navy, made worse by those heavy lids. And as I drink every inch of him in, he just lets his tongue sort of … slide over his lower lip. Too quick to allow me to linger long, too slow to be anything but deliberate.

  Then, to top it off, he takes hold of the hand he almost restrained.

  And presses it to his throat.

  ‘Because if you do, you’re gonna have to be a lot meaner than that.’

  ‘How mean?’

  ‘So mean I barely know it’s you.’

  ‘I don’t think I can choke you.’

  ‘No? Then what can you do?’ he asks, in this dreamy, creamy voice that almost makes me melt right off the bed. ‘Show me. Show me what you can do.’

  I confess: I was sort of hoping he’d carry on giving me hints. Little nudges in the right direction, just in case I’m wandering down the wrong path. Though the thing is … once I’ve moved a little closer to him – once my mouth is almost on his mouth, and his breath is ghosting warm and rapid against my skin – it’s actually much easier than I thought.

  Or at least it’s easier to go with my instincts. Because my instincts immediately tell me to move away, when he goes to close the kiss. And they also urge me to carry on, once he’s made a slight sound of frustration. The slight sound of frustration is a good sign, I think. It’s a sign that I’m getting this right.

  And so is the move he makes, the moment I go lower.

  He sort of sprawls onto his back in this excessive sort of manner, like he’s luxuriating in whatever I’m doing. Even though I’m not really doing anything at all. I’m just nearly pressing kisses to various parts of his body, before dancing away at the last second. Occasionally, I’ll let him feel the heat from between my lips, or maybe the slightest slick promise of something more.

  And then I’ll move on to another bit. The mark I made on his side, maybe, or the slant of muscle just above his groin. That last one in particular gets a good long groan out of him – though I think the noise has more to do with the obvious bypass I make around his rigid cock than with anything else. I don’t even let him feel my breath in that particular place. There’s no hint of a kiss for that long, delicious curve.

  Despite the overwhelming urge to do just that. Oh, God, the urge is so strong. I think my mouth actually starts watering the second I manoeuvre my way back up his body, but I resist. I keep true to my course, even though my course is sort of starting to make me tremble now. He just smells so good, and his body is so tempting … from the flat, many-muscled planes of his stomach, all the way up to that amazing chest of his.

  I want to lick him there, I realise – but I’m not allowed to yet.

  Because apparently I’m teasing myself as much as I’m teasing him. The air between us is like a living thing, and every time I move it brushes against my body. It makes promises I don’t want to cash, such as he’ll feel so good when you slide down onto him. Just do it, right now. No one would blame you, if you did.

  And while that’s true, it’s still too early. It’s too early for anything but these little tormenting nearly-kisses that are now making his body roll like the ocean. The movement starts at his feet and goes all the way up through his hips and thighs, until our bodies almost touch by accident.

  Though I know it wouldn’t really be an accident at all. He’s progressed from muffled noises to outright grunts of indignation, and he’s definitely trying to get me to do stuff by default now. He’s trying, but the point is – he’s not trying hard enough.

  He’s not doing the things he could do if he really wanted to. He could throw me over onto my back with a flick of his wrist. He’d h
ardly need to exert any strength to force our bodies together. So the fact that he doesn’t …

  It definitely suggests I’m on the right track. It’s almost as though we’re in opposite land, in fact. When he complains, it means I’m doing well. And if his hand comes up to grab me, but stops short by several inches … well.

  I should take it as a pat on the back.

  And I do. Oh, I definitely do. I’m almost glowing by the time I get to anything substantial. I’m stuffed full of victory – of the sort I never thought I’d get to feel – and it only gets stronger, the longer I hold out. I honestly don’t know what’s more intoxicating: the sense of actually doing something sexual in a half-decent manner, or the waves of arousal that keep hitting me every time I ratchet this thing up a notch.

  Though I suspect it’s the latter. When I finally let him feel my mouth on his body – just around some place innocuous, like his right shoulder – it’s akin to detonating a bomb between my legs. The taste of his skin is so much sharper after all that waiting. And oh, the feel of him. The give of his flesh, beneath the press of my lips …

  It’s really no surprise that I do more than kiss. I think I’ve actually waited too long, and the thousand years of no touching have sent me somewhat doolally – because I swear, I only intend to leave a soft, wet trail over his skin. But once I’m there, I accidentally sink my teeth in.

  I bite.

  And even worse:

  He likes it.

  Though in all honesty the word ‘like’ is understating it somewhat. ‘Like’ implies something you mildly approve of, possibly. It could be applied to a can of mushy peas, or a Saturday-night light entertainment programme on BBC1. It cannot be applied to his reaction, which is roughly the same as mine on realising that I’ve done this to him.

  I’ve turned him into a writhing, groaning mess. His back actually arches up off the bed, as though I’d licked the tip of his erection. And once he’s done with the arching, he twists until he’s almost completely turned away from me – until his face is buried in the pillow, and his body is this contorted sort of S-shape.

  His upper half hides, while his lower half remains where it is. Though I suppose that makes some sort of sense. I don’t think he could bury that cock of his in the mattress if we’d dug it a metre-deep hole, because, by God, he’s so hard. He’s so impossibly, improbably hard.

  And that’s pretty much the point where I go nuts too. I can feel my own wetness on the insides of my thighs. My clit is so swollen I’m sort of afraid to move, in case some random part of my body brushes against it and accidentally triggers my orgasm. Hell – I think my elbow could probably do the deed, with very little effort at all. It might be a good foot away from lady-parts and in a physically impossible position, but my clit’s such a danger zone I’m fairly certain anything could do the job.

  Including him, and his orgasm-inducing moans.

  And even worse – he’s actually using words now, too.

  ‘Again,’ he says, which is bad enough on its own. But then he seems to remember that talking really turns me on, and gives it to me both barrels. ‘Do it again, just like that, yeah, just like that – make me come.’

  I pause mid-kiss while that one sinks in. Though even after I’ve given it a good few minutes, it’s still kind of lodged in the back of my mind. It keeps jabbing me between my legs with a red-hot poker, every time I ask myself the question: can he really come, just because I sink my teeth into him?

  Until the question is three feet tall and surrounded by incredulous exclamation points. He can’t, I think. No one can come because of a bit of biting.

  But I can already tell I’m going to test that theory. The urge is in me, before my brain has even finished laughing about it. My brain’s still busy being amused, while my entire body flushes hot, and then hotter, and then hotter again. If I get any more aroused I’m going to melt myself, and possibly the bed beneath us.

  So I have to act fast. I can’t go for half measures now. I need to feel him buck beneath my bite, and he does, oh, he does. I sink my teeth in just above his hip, right over that glorious dragon tattoo, and the moment I do he almost lifts himself clean off the bed. He pounds the mattress with his fist, and makes this almost giddy sound.

  Then dissolves into actual elation when I bite a little harder than I’d intended.

  I don’t mean to, of course. I want to stop at just a hint of him … just the smallest sense of his flesh giving under the pressure. But his reactions are so beguiling it’s hard to hold back, once I’ve seen them and heard them and felt them. He spurs me on with his squirming and his little half-laughs and his words, oh, his words: ‘Go on, go on, make it hurt,’ he tells me, which shouldn’t sound sexy at all.

  And neither should ‘make me bleed’, if we’re really getting into it.

  Yet both things make me shiver. They make me climb all over him, teeth bared, until he’s a mess of raw red marks. Until he’s shaking the way I’m shaking, and practically kissing the pillow in this desperate, lewd, open-mouthed sort of way, and then just as he’s on some kind of impossible edge of control … just as he’s begging me to be brutal …

  I go in the opposite direction. I lick over some little dent I’ve made in his flesh, all soft and wet and soothing – then watch as he goes even crazier for that than he did for the biting. He actually goes all still for a second and snaps one hand to his cock.

  But it’s not to give himself the pleasure that I’m denying him. He doesn’t stroke himself into a frenzy, without a bit of regard to all the careful effort I’m putting in. He squeezes himself tight around the base of his stiff shaft instead – so tight it kind of looks like it hurts – and once he’s relaxed it, he lets out this series of panting, shuddering breaths.

  And then I know exactly what’s happening here. He’s holding himself off. I licked him, and he almost went over.

  So I lick him again. In fact, I take an even greater delight in doing it this time. This time it’s almost like the first barrage in a battle, between his ability to keep himself in check and my greediness for his orgasm. I try more dangerous places, like the sensitive insides of his elbows and that place just under his ear, and when he complains, when he says, ‘No, come on, come on, enough now,’ I take that as my cue to make things worse.

  I draw a slow, slippery circle around one of his nipples, until he actually gasps. He gasps for me, and those hips come again – only this time I’m right over his body when it happens. His cock slides over my belly, so hot and shocking that I do the same thing that he does when it happens.

  I clench all over, and groan his name.

  At which point he clearly believes he’s winning that war. Or, at the very least, he’s certain he’s just triumphed in one of the lesser battles.

  ‘Yeah, you want that, baby?’ he says, and then he does it again, just for good measure. He bumps his hips up and that hot hard thing rubs right up against me – almost between my legs, in fact. ‘You want that big cock inside you?’

  I do, if I’m being honest. I really, really do. My pussy is a perpetual ache, and it keeps clenching around everything that isn’t actually filling it. And I’m now so wet I can hear it, every time I move. He can hear it, every time I move. His eyes keep drifting closed, and he makes this urgent, desperate sound at each little hint of it.

  But whether he does or not, I don’t care. I’m not ready to give in yet. I’m not ready to stop teasing. I haven’t given him my grand finale, after all.

  And my grand finale is good. I think he knows it is, too, before I even reveal it. He goes all tense again as I start sliding my way down his body, and I can’t help noticing the hand he puts in his hair. It’s a mean hand – a rough hand – and it only gets meaner as I carry on with whatever this is.

  I outline the shape of his erection, as it rests there on his belly. First with my fingers, and then with my tongue – always promising that I’ll go closer, but never quite delivering. And then just as he’s bursting with it, just
as he’s actually saying no to anything more in case it proves too much, I let the very tip of my tongue flick over that glossy, swollen head.

  Just the very tip of it. Nothing more.

  But nothing more is enough.

  It’s enough to get him to fist his hand in my hair instead of his own. And once he’s gone that far, he does something even more electric. Something that makes me buck this time. He pushes my face real close to his cock, and angles himself towards my mouth.

  Then tells me, in no uncertain terms:

  ‘Suck it.’

  Of course, I think two things when he does. The first being: I guess he really does like things the other way around, too. And the second being: Oh, my God, I think I’m going to faint from arousal. I’m actually going to faint. It’s not possible to be this aroused and maintain consciousness.

  Though I’m proven wrong on that score. It is possible to carry on. It’s just that all actions have to be done in a kind of mindless frenzy. He’s barely finished ordering me to do it when I take him in my mouth. And my blow job technique could best be described as sloppy, with a side of enthusiastic.

  I suck him as though I’m the one who’s been teased for the last twenty minutes. I lick him like my life depends on it. And all the while he talks in a way that only spurs me on.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ he tells me. ‘Take that cock. You like that, huh? You like sucking me off?’

  I do. But in all honesty I think I like it a little more when he turns my body so he can put a hand between my legs. Especially after he’s parted my lips, and found that incredibly wet and wanting place.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Kit,’ he says, and I know why. He doesn’t even have to work to slide three fingers inside me. He could probably get a fourth in there if he really tried. I’m just so slippery, and so flushed, and so ready to take anything … it’s easy. And clearly he likes easy. ‘Guess you liked teasing me, too, huh? Did it make you all wet, seeing me suffer? God, baby, you’ve no idea what that does to me.’