by Frankie Rose
He releases his hold on his erection and lays flat on the floor on his stomach, half propping himself up on his elbows as he begins to lick me. Sitting up like this at an angle, I can see everything he’s doing to me, the way he laves his tongue up and over my clitoris, slowly at first and then faster, more determined. I love watching his mouth work over me. It’s so sexy, and I get so turned on by how much he seems to enjoy doing it. He’s amazing.
My body already feels like it’s splintering into a thousand pieces when he slips his fingers into me again. The two sensations combined—the internal fullness, coupled with the direct stimulation of my clit—tips me over the edge very quickly. I dig my fingers into the powerful muscles of Luke’s back with one hand and bury my other hand into his hair, holding him to me, not letting him go and he sends a roaring riptide of heat crashing through me. I want to close my eyes. It’s so hard to keep them open, in fact, but I want to watch him like he told me to. He groans deeply as I come, slowing down with his tongue but making the motion more drawn out and intense. It takes my orgasm deeper, sends the sensation down to the bone. I stop breathing as bombs start going off inside my head.
I scream, and I can’t hold it back or stop myself, and I don’t fucking care. I scream at the top of my lungs, and Luke makes the hottest snarling noise at the back of his throat as I fall apart. “God damn it, Avery. You taste so fucking good. I could do that to you all day.”
I doubt I could actually take him doing that to me all day. I would pass out, for sure. I tell him so, and he laughs. “I hope you’re not too sensitive right now, beautiful girl, because I’m about to make you come again. Do you think you can take it?”
My body is still pulsing, pins and needles from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair, but I nod my head, yes. I’ll never be able to say no to sex with him. Ever. He could rub and suck and lick me raw and I would still want him inside me all day long. Picking me up off the floor, Luke tosses me onto the bed, making me squeal.
“On your front, beautiful,” he commands.
I spin over, my heart still slamming in my chest, every square inch of my body burning with lust. Luke grabs me by the hips and pulls my ass up toward him, making a very appreciative sound as he rubs his hand over my buttocks in slow circles. “I’ve been thinking about this view all day,” he says. “Your ass is a fucking religious experience, Ms Patterson. Now. Please excuse me while I worship at the altar.”
I didn’t think it was possible to lose myself any further to him today, but it turns out I was wrong. Luke spends the next ten minutes caressing and licking and stroking my body in ways I’ve never even thought about before. If someone had told me I’d be enjoying this kind of attention a year ago, I would have called them a liar, and yet here I am, begging and pleading for more. I can sense Luke getting more and more turned on as he ministers to me. It’s fairly obvious from the sheer amount of curse words that pour from his mouth in a constant stream. He’s not normally like this, doesn’t swear a great deal in day to day life, but right now it’s as though he’s suddenly misplaced ninety percent of his vocabulary.
When Luke eventually can’t take it anymore and he slams himself inside me, my vision actually feels like it’s blurring. He thrusts into me hard, his body on top of mine, and the weight of him feels suffocating and delicious at the same time. He spins me over moments later and wraps his arms around me so that our bodies are fused together in the best possible way, his face in my neck, my legs tight around his waist. My mouth on his temple. His hands on my breasts, my hips, my ass, my stomach, my face. Everywhere.
“I love you so fucking much, Avery,” he tells me, his face buried in my hair.
“I love you, too. God, so much.” I hold on, clinging to him as fiercely as he pushes himself inside me over and over again, gripped by a sudden and desperate need to be as close to him as I can possibly get. From the way he holds me just as tightly, it seems as though he’s gripped by the same feeling.
We come together, and it’s the most perfect moment. Luke roars, his whole body shaking, and it feels like he’s expelling some sort of war cry as he falls like a dead weight on top of me. My ears are ringing like crazy, muffling out the sounds of our labored, too-fast breathing and the charging of my heartbeat.
I could lie like this forever, spent and feeling fluffier than a cumulus cloud, but it seems like Luke as other ideas. He jumps up, grabbing a sheet from the bed and tugging it around his body. He gives me a broad, reckless smile that makes my toes curl, but the grin doesn’t seem to travel all the way to his eyes.
“Hey. You okay?” I ask.
“Of course. I just got a little lost there. Should have been more conscious of the time. I don’t wanna be late for work.”
I check the alarm clock beside the bed, and it reads three forty-five pm. He has an hour and fifteen minutes to get to the station for his night shift. Plenty of time, but who knows? Maybe he has extra paperwork he needs to prep before he clocks on. I burrow down into the bed, blowing him a kiss.
“Okay, baby. I hope you have a good shift.”
Luke stoops down quickly and places a kiss on my forehead. “Will do. Always do.”
I let him shower alone. Sometimes it’s better for him to have a few moments to himself before he goes to work, just to get his head in the zone. I stay exactly where I am, drifting in and out of a pleasant, sex-sore sleep that feels wonderful and earned.
It feels like a few minutes has passed when I’m startled awake by the sounds of a loud crash coming from the bathroom. Another, louder crash comes a second later, and I’m up and out of the bed, running down the hallway. I try and open the bathroom door, but I can’t, it’s locked.
“Luke? Luke! Are you okay?”
He swears behind the door. “Yeah, I—shit, it’s nothing.”
“Open the door, baby.”
“It’s okay, don’t worry. I’ll be out in a second.”
“Luke, open the door. I’m worried.”
I can hear him sighing heavily, and then the door swings open and there’s shattered glass everywhere. All over the floor, in the sink basin, in the toilet bowl. So much glass. “Shit! What happened?”
Luke surveys the destruction around him, a towel wrapped around his waist, water beading off his shoulders, and he looks utterly perplexed. “I don’t know. I was reaching for my toothbrush and the next thing I know the damn mirror was falling off the wall.”
I notice the blood pouring from his hand, then, dripping onto the floor. “Babe, you’re cut. Here, let me look at it.”
Luke shakes his head, holding his hand away from me. “All good. Give me a second. I’m gonna clear this up.”
“I can help.”
“You’re naked. You’ve got nothing on your feet. I don’t want you getting cut, too. I’ll be okay, just give me a moment and I’ll be out. We can grab a bite to eat together before I have to go if I’m quick.”
He looks stressed out, but I know him. He really does want to fix this himself, and he’s definitely worried about me getting hurt. “All right,” I tell him. “I’ll throw some clothes on and see what we have in the kitchen.”
He nods, bracing himself against the counter, staring at the mess on the floor. “Thanks, beautiful. I’ve got this handled.”
M. J. Rafferty MD, PHD,
Suite 8, 2365 Wellbeck
Beachwood Canyons
CA 90068
Patient: Lucas Andrew Reid
D.O.B: 10/06/1989
Past treatment files: XXSEALEDXX
Permissions: Granted
Current Medications: Triazolam
Session Record
Since diagnosing Lucas with PTSD, we seem to be making progress. His sleep pattern is improving somewhat, though not without the aid of the sleeping pills that I have now prescribed him.
Lucas’s relationship with his father continues to prove problematic. Typical of all victims of child abuse, Lucas harbors intense feelings of self-hatred and poor self-worth. He has s
poken of deserving the treatment he received from his father. Working with him to break the mental associations of sex and violence will take time, but I am noting gradual progress.
Lucas’s willingness to participate fully in sessions is improving. His eagerness to steam ahead and ‘fix himself’ by the end of each of our sessions shows commitment on his part, however I have explained to him that rushed healing of deep psychological issues rarely ever lasts.
I will continue to monitor his progress, and I have tentatively agreed to a secondary weekly session. Should this prove counter-productive, Lucas has agreed that we will step back and regroup.
Michael Rafferty.
TWELVE
LUKE
I throw myself full-force into writing. Cole and the guys are depending on me; I’ve realized I can’t allow another day to slip by while I sulk and feel heart sore over a situation I, myself, am responsible for. I made the damn decision to let Avery go and now it's time to man up and be done with it.
The apartment I’ve rented is in Irvine—a nice enough area, but my place is tiny. There’s barely enough room to swing a cat. For the past six years, I’ve sent the majority of my paychecks home to help support my mom and put Emma through nursing school. I’m lucky enough that I have savings and I can continue to do that for them, but that means I’m living on a budget out here right now. Who gives a shit about the high life anyway? It's just not me. I pour another cup of coffee and head out onto the balcony—four feet wide and eight feet long. Enough room for two small chairs and a miniature table.
I sit down, placing my coffee and the notepad on the table, watching the burnished golden curve of the sun climb up over the horizon. Mother Nature is a fucking badass. There’s nothing more awesome than witnessing the start of a new day. I can appreciate the beauty of it, which is oddly a little reassuring. Recently I’ve felt like I’m becoming increasingly numb to my surroundings, but this spectacular show somehow manages to get through to me. It’s beautiful.
I wish I could describe the music I’ve been writing in the same way. As it stands, dark, black, depressive, and angry are all far better descriptors. And they’re good. It may sound like my ego’s swelled to disgraceful proportions, but that’s not the case. A musician has to know when he’s producing good work. Normally, when I hate a new piece, it means it inevitably ends up being the best thing I’ve ever written. And right now, I despise every single last one of these new fucking songs. I want to gather up the crumpled sheets of paper, covered front and back with hastily scrawled out black ink, and I want to throw them over the side of the balcony and let them fly on the wind into the oncoming fucking traffic of the streets below. I never want to see or hear them again.
Butler says they’re brilliant.
I take a long drink of my coffee, allowing my thoughts to wander. It's been three weeks since Butler busted my balls over the lack of new material. He said he wanted two new songs by the end of that week. I gave him three, just to show him I could. I write a new song every day now. I’ve left a pile of sheet music on Cole's dining table—more songs than he can realistically look at in any one day.
Some are good. Most of them are great. When I was hanging out at Cole’s place every day, the guys would continually take turns kissing my ass, which got very old very quickly, so now I don’t go over there unless I really have to. I can see it coming on the horizon as well—the huge deep-and-meaningful Cole is just itching to have with me. He's the only one who seems to understand that the dark shit I’m pouring out onto paper has to physically come from somewhere inside me, that it’s a reflection of my very soul. I don’t want to talk to him about it, though. I don’t want to talk to anyone.
I lean back and close my eyes, letting my emotions bleed into the current piece I’m working on. I can see Avery running from me, her long blonde hair flying behind her. She turns and looks back over her shoulder, accusation all over her face, eyes piercing me through to the core. She must be so hurt and confused. She must hate me so much by now.
A huge part of me wants to comfort her, but then again, the sick, twisted part of me wants to push things further, to have her hate me some more. That way she will never come back to me. She will never forgive me, and in turn, I’ll never be able to destroy her life.
I continue to hum as I close my eyes, the pen tapping on the paper in front of me.
I catch up with her and reach out, pulling her flush against me. The curves of her body are addictive. I can’t stop touching her, feeling the satin of her under my fingertips. If she were real, I would kiss her. I would press my lips against hers and I would never come up for air. I would happily die with my body formed against hers, our limbs intertwined and locked together. If she were real, I would take hold of her and I would never let her go.
But this version of her isn’t real. Nothing is anymore. My music is all I have. I'll give myself over to it fully.
If I lose that, I am nothing.
******
“We're going out tonight whether you fucking like it or not.” Cole pushes at my chest as I stand in his living room. I wrapped up the song this morning. I would have spent the rest of the day fucking around on my acoustic for the sheer pleasure of it but Cole called me over, telling me we had urgent business. Fool that I am, I believed him. Now, it turns out that I’ve been roped into a surprise drinking session.
Fuck. My. Life.
“Fine. Shit. Whatever.” I give him attitude for the first time in three weeks. I hate going out and Cole knows that. The cop within will never be able to head out and slam shots for hours on end in that kind of environment. I’m always on the alert, looking for trouble, waiting for a fight to explode or someone to get fucking shot.
“Dude, the pussy is epic out there. What the hell is wrong with you?” Pete laughs, shoving his fingers through this hair, probably trying to tame it into some form of style.
“So I hear,” I tell him. Pussy never has and never will be a huge concern for me. I was celibate for three years because I didn’t love my ex before Avery. Why the hell would I go out and sink my dick inside the first pretty girl I come across, just because she’s willing? It’s never sat right with me. It’s never felt like the right thing to do. I know that makes me an exception to the rule where most guys are concerned, but hey. I don’t want my fucking dick to fall off. And sex isn’t about coming for me. It’s more than that.
Jesus. If these guys could hear my inner monologue they would cut my dick off and confiscate it simply for letting the side down.
Anyway, I’ve already decided that I’ll slip out of an exit when their backs are turned. We’ve been playing gigs every other night in local clubs, trying to get the band’s name out and on the streets while we’re recording, and so far it appears to be working. People are starting to recognize us.
Weird.
I was accosted at the grocery store by a gaggle of screaming girls earlier this week, and that wasn’t the first time. It’s so goddamn surreal—I can barely believe this is my life anymore.
“So, yeah. We’re going,” Cole tells me, punching me in the arm this time. “No getting out of it.”
“Not yet, though. You guys need to hear this.” I pick up the electric guitar I’ve left here for our practice sessions and loop the strap over my head.
“Hear what?” Butler walks in from the balcony, a cloud of pot smoke following him. “Don’t worry, it’s legal, mister police officer,” he says, grinning. “I have trouble sleeping.”
“Cole shoves coke up his ass like it’s going out of fashion. A little pot smoke isn’t going to bother me,” I say.
Cole gives me the eyes, like I’m embarrassing him in front of his friends. He gives Butler a broad smile, shrugging his shoulders. “I’d love to say it’s not true, but it is. Anyway, Luke wrote a new song. He’s convinced this is the one we’ve been waiting for.”
“Yeah, fuckers even got the video figured out in his head.” Paul adds his two cents, which is about the depth of his investm
ent. Ever. God love him. “Hey, do we get a music video?” he asks, like the thought just occurred to him.
“If the song performs well on poling, yes. Let’s hear it first. We’ll figure out the rest later.” Butler motions for me to start playing. I feel like I’m his personal performing clown. Still, this is the nature of the beast.
I do what I always do. I close my eyes and I shut him out. I play like I’m alone and this is only for me. Like my ears are the only ones hearing the chords and the transitions, the pain and the anguish.
I think of Avery.
I'm sporting a painfully hard erection by the time I'm done, and my blood is pumping violently in my veins. The guitar hides what’s going on in my pants, but it can’t hide how visible worked up I am, how fast I’m breathing.
“Fuck me,” Butler mutters. “You all right, kid?”
I blink a few times, clearing my vision as I look around at everyone. The shock on their faces tells me all I need to know.
Yeah.
This is the one.
This is the one that will make us.
******
“I fucking hate you,” Cole mutters as he drives us to the club. Butler is almost bouncing up and down in the back seat, the fat little bastard making me smile. His excitement is contagious. Performing for a living was never my dream, but helping these guys realize their dream admittedly feels pretty damn good. It’s slowly becoming the only light in the darkness for me.
