And then he drags me back with words that set the air alight.
“If I start to, I’m afraid I’ll never stop,” he says.
It’s really no wonder that my voice trembles when I reply.
“It’s okay to never stop, you know.”
“Not for me it isn’t.”
“Then just be clinical about it. Be a professor. . .analyze my sexual habits. What do you think I like to do, Doctor?” I ask, and I swear I mean it only in a joking way. I don’t expect that one ending word to have the effect it does on me—or to have the effect it does on him. I go all hot and cold, and he falls silent for about half an hour.
By the time he speaks again, I’m aching for all the things he might say.
Though I don’t expect any of the words he goes with. I don’t expect his tone of voice, like the low hum at the end of a sweet song. And I definitely don’t expect the explicitness.
“I think you like skin on skin. You’re very. . .tactile. You become excited at the slightest touch—though that may be due to the parameters of our relationship. Nothing is so arousing as the forbidden,” he says, and I try to be calm. I do.
But would anyone want to be, in this situation?
He said skin on skin. He said arousing.
And more than that: he notices.
Dear God, I think he notices.
“How do you know I’m excited?”
“The obvious signs mostly—flushing of the cheeks and throat, pupil dilation, and a slight shortness of breath. Sometimes you shake just a little, and of course—”
“Of course what? Noah, of course what?”
“I don’t want you to think I’ve been looking.”
“I won’t think that. You can say whatever you want.”
He gets this faint little frown at that, and when he speaks his voice is a little more halting than usual. I get why though. My voice would halt if I had to say the following. My heart halts in my chest, just to hear it spoken aloud in that brittle tone of his.
“Your nipples usually. . .make little tight points under your clothes. It’s very noticeable, though I promise I try not to notice at all.”
“Is there anything else you try not to notice?”
“I do my best to avoid your frequent sex dreams,” he says, and when he does one eyebrow lifts just ever so slightly, as though to underscore what he’s doing here. He struggles to say nipple, but has absolutely no problem teasing me.
His eyes stay closed, but one eyebrow kind of lifts in a way I would find amusing if I wasn’t so busy burying my face in my palm.
“Oh God, you know about that.”
“When your girlfriend asks you to fuck her pussy in her sleep, it’s sort of hard to avoid. But you made a very good attempt with that drowning comment, honestly.”
“I have no idea what to have emotions about first—that I said that without knowing it and you just kept quiet, or the fact that you just said fuck my pussy,” I tell him, even though I do know, secretly. I want to ask him about that one word bright and beautiful word:
Girlfriend. I am his girlfriend.
And apparently, that lets him be a lot bolder.
“There are lewder things I could say,” he murmurs, a single eyebrow still lifted so lightly you could almost believe he wasn’t doing it at all. Or offering what he is definitely offering. Good God, he is definitely offering.
Is it any wonder I sound so breathless when I speak?
Or that I have no problems pushing?
“Then say them. Say them to me,” I blurt out, but I don’t expect what I get.
I could never imagine what I get in my wildest dreams.
“I could tell you that I know how aroused you get when you sleep here next to me because I can smell it, and I can hear it. When you move all the slipperiness between your legs makes a kind of. . .soft slick sound. I try to pretend it’s something else, but I’ve never been very good at that.”
I feel so silly for thinking arousing was a big deal when this is what he’s actually capable of. In the night he lies awake and listens to me, and is able to think of words like slick and slippery. More than that: he can say them out loud in this matter-of-fact tone that somehow makes it even more intense than it has any right to be.
“Oh my God,” I say, when what I really want to go with is some shocked word that hasn’t been invented yet. It has twelve exclamation points and three of them are right in the middle of it, and it ends on an angry gargle.
“Too much?” he asks.
“Not enough,” I answer.
No hesitation. And no real hesitation from him, either.
“All right. . .all right. . .you like to masturbate underneath your clothes. One hand in your panties, the way you want to do it now. Am I close?”
“I think you know you are.”
“And you just stroke your clit in nice little circles—rarely fucking yourself with either your fingers or a toy. Though I imagine you sometimes fantasize about it.”
“I do, I do. God, I do, yes, yes.”
“You wonder what it would be like to orgasm around something inside you. Something hard and thick and good in a way things never really are.”
“That—yeah, yeah,” I say, but only because my brain can no longer think up more coherent sentences. His ability to guess and interpret my behavior was dazzling before, when applied to mundane things. Now it damn near makes my mouth water. My clit swells to hear it; my face burns to know he knows it.
And that’s before he adds the delightful little kicker:
“Slide your fingers down.”
Of course, I’m certain I’ve misheard.
I even ask, despite how clear he was.
“What?” I say, then wait for him to take it away.
He must—he hates to push. He hates to force.
Though does this really feel like forcing?
“Slide them down, and just let them ease in a little,” he says, and his tone is so even and detached I can’t possibly say it does. Instead, it feels kind of like a lesson, with a really wonderful tutor. And though that seems insane, he goes on like that. He goes on so much I can’t think of anything but.
Or be anything other than ridiculously aroused.
“Don’t thrust or fuck yourself or any of the things most people do in ridiculous porn,” he tells me, while I die inside of being turned on. “Instead make a hook, like you want to lift your body up with two fingers. Don’t worry about finding anything—you won’t. Just sort of rock or tug at yourself right there, nice and hard. Do you understand?”
I have no idea if I will ever understand anything again.
But I do what he asks all the same. I slip my hand underneath my panties, and ease through what feels like a torrential downpour. And when I find my very tight but oh-so-greedy pussy, I push in a little. I make the shape he asked for with my fingers, and tug just once. Just once, I think—only once isn’t enough.
I hear that slick sound he probably did and get this jolt of something too vicious to be pleasure, then just have to do it again. Harder this time, faster this time, until I know exactly what I’m pushing against and precisely where it feels best.
After which, all is lost.
“Does it feel good?” he asks, and I can hardly answer him. I try, but then he presses down on the back of my hand and I forget where my tongue is supposed to go.
“Ah, yes, yes,” I say, and am amazed I manage that. He’s pressing so I’ll do it harder, and go in deeper, and just the thought of that is beyond what I can reasonably cope with. I twist into it and twist away all at the same time, not sure if I want this much pleasure. Or want this kind of pleasure.
But he helps clarify for me.
“Use your thumb on your clit,” he says, and I know then for sure.
“No—I need to. . .I need to. . .” I start, fighting for the right words, the right sentiment to match this sensation. I don’t have to though. He already knows.
“You need to come like that,” he
says, and oh, he is just the best.
All I can do is moan and nod in answer, that pressure now so hot and hard it sort of feels like my orgasm is being squeezed out of me. My legs don’t want to stay down on the bed in some polite and pretty sort of pose. They want to come up, real close to my stomach.
They want to make me look wanton and desperate, so lost in sensation I hardly care about anything but feeling more of it. Getting more of it. I practically have three fingers inside myself now—though that isn’t the thing that is really putting me over the edge.
It’s the sense that he is very close to touching more than my hand.
That maybe he even likes it, or wants it. I feel the pad of his finger sort of stir against my skin, and suspect he does it because some of my wetness is there. It must have spread up over my fingers, and now he gets to feel it. He gets to stroke it.
And all while pretending to focus just on me.
“Think you can?” he asks, voice just a touch shakier than it was before. Not so much that it really gives the game away, but enough for me to want to push. To hardly feel bad about pushing him.
“God, yes, yes just. . .say more things to me,” I pant, hoping for more suggestions or maybe directions, or best of all, oh, best of all please just order me to do whatever you want. If he ordered me I think I’d burst, yet somehow, what he gives me is so much better.
“Thank you,” he murmurs into my hair, and the words are such a shock I come close to stopping what I’m doing. I even turn my head and look right at him, sure I will see some kind of explanation there. It will be in his eyes, I think.
Only his eyes are still closed.
His eyes are closed, just like I asked. All this time, all this heat between us, and he stuck to my one request—though that isn’t even the best part. No, he saves that for last. He waits until I’m so on the edge I could stick out my tongue and taste it, and then he tells me exactly what he’s grateful for.
“Thank you for telling me to talk like this. For telling me to be detached—you have no idea how good this is for me. How good it feels to just say these words and hear you and know that you like this,” he says, and I answer in kind.
I give him everything I’ve got—including the sight of me like this.
“I do, good God, I do. Look at me, and see for yourself. See all the things you do to me just by being you,” I say, and when he does just that everything breaks open inside me.
He sets that heated gaze on me, and I do what I’ve never been able to before:
I come, without a single stroke over my clit.
Chapter Seven
HE GETS MORE daring after that. Not by much at first, but enough to make everything just that little bit more electric. His hand might brush my ass when we kiss, and he has absolutely no problem telling me to touch myself when I get to that overheated point. I even suspect he’s starting to like it. That this is a nice, safe space for him to have some kind of sexual experience. He drives me to the brink of insanity. . .
And then I just take the edge off, while he watches.
Because he does watch now. I can tell that his eyes are open for himself, as much as they are for me. The idea of someone looking at me as I do the lewdest thing possible is starting to excite me, and the more it excites me the better he seems to enjoy it. He makes comments without prompting, and sometimes his voice doesn’t seem so detached.
Or is that just my imagination? Mostly I think it must be—I’m in no fit state to judge by the time he starts talking. Sometimes, I feel like my skin is about to burn off my body. My face gets so red and so flushed I could almost call the cause embarrassment.
If it didn’t feel so good at the same time.
Everything feels good with him. Even his most innocuous offers make me shiver—like the offer to let me lean against him while I stroke my clit. “Just lie back,” he says, and I do. “Just let yourself relax,” he says, and I do that, too.
“Take your panties down,” he says.
Though he really doesn’t have to. The moment the words are out they practically melt right off me. I freeze in the middle of what I’m doing—just sort of barely stroking underneath the material, primed from a kiss that had a lot of tongue and a ton of moaning in among it—and try to think. I need to get my mind in order, because seriously. Did he just say that?
Of course, I can tell he likes to direct me a little. But usually the direction is aimed at making it better for me. It skirts the edge of whatever he might want, never quite crossing that line. Most of the time, it seems like he never wants anything at all—but this, this, this. It means he wants to see, right?
He knows I kind of like to be covered up, to hide myself just a little—even from my own eyes. But somehow he seems to be asking anyway.
So what should I think here?
Apart from, oh my God, that is the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me?
And then he goes and says it again.
“Take them down,” he says. “And open your legs a little.”
I swear, I come so close to looking at him. The urge is enormous—I would kill to see the look on his face right now. But I fear that any slight movement might break this spell, and I don’t want it to. I don’t care why he wants me to do this. No long-held streak of shame is standing in my way. How could it possibly when he asks for so little and gives so much?
When I feel so safe, lying here in his arms?
Not to mention how arousing it is to ease those little cotton things down over my thighs. Suddenly I’m seventeen again, trembling and terrified, standing on the brink of something I’m sure will be so amazing. That newfound thrill is back, and it makes my breath hitch. I fumble with the elastic and shake at the thought, and when I’m done my legs don’t really want to part.
But I part them anyway.
And I look, even though I’ve never looked before. I see how wet I am and how swollen, my clit like a taut little bead between soft, flushed folds. Nothing horrible about it, or shameful in any way—on the contrary. The sight makes me shiver, and I get this good hot bloom in my lower belly, and when he strokes the back of his hand over my cheek, I do something I would never have dared to before.
I kiss his fingers. I lick his fingers—which seems like way too much for me. As soon as I realize what I’ve done, I expect him to pull back or put a stop to things. He did the other night when the kissing got a little too much, and his hand strayed kind of close to my backside. But this time he doesn’t.
He lets me do it.
More than that, in fact.
“Bite down,” he tells me, the request so sudden and so strange that I do a double take. I even turn my head to ask—or maybe give him an incredulous look—and stop short only when he gets there before me. He reiterates in no uncertain terms, with a little added extra just to make sure I understand.
“Sink your teeth in while you stroke yourself,” he says.
How could I possibly misinterpret? He even turns his hand so I know where he means, and the moment I do it I know what he really meant. He wasn’t trying to please me.
He was trying to please himself.
He was obviously and completely trying to please himself. I can tell by the way he reacts—I bite and he kisses the side of my face in a manner completely unlike him. His mouth is all open and hot and greedy, and the hand he has on my waist definitely seems to move up a little. Some might even categorize it as groping the underside of my right breast.
Though I try not to. It seems better not to get my hopes up, considering they’re already sky-high. He’s kissing me and saying things, and my hand is between my legs. . .what more do I need? Nothing, nothing, and yet when I bite down again I get why I’m doing it.
I want to see what happens.
I want to see if that hand will move up a little farther, if his guard will drop down another level, though it shocks me to feel him actually do it. To hear him sigh against the side of my face and just ever so slightly cup my breast with that one big han
d. . .
It makes me wild. Suddenly I can’t seem to stroke myself fast enough, and my hips don’t want to stay still. He doesn’t even have to tell me to fuck my pussy—I do it all on my own. I slide two fingers in as deep as they will go, and rock against that delicious pressure. I do myself the way I want him to do me.
And in my most excited moments, I come close to telling him that. I think of filthy ways to ask and words that I could never actually say to him—like use and cock and fill me. I think of him coming inside me, making me sticky and wet, and all over the barest touch I’ve ever had on my body.
I still have most of my clothes on. He doesn’t even graze my stiff nipple.
Yet somehow, I’m at this delirious point where all my boundaries suddenly don’t exist. Thinking of him making a mess of me is really the least of my wild fantasies. I imagine his tongue where my finger is, making slippery circles around my stiff clit. And when he gets a hold of my face, when he kisses me as the pleasure reaches some terrible crisis, I see myself doing the same to him.
I kiss him, and kiss him, and think about sucking his cock.
But can I really be blamed when he asks me things like, “Are you going to come?” He even looks me right in the eye as he says it, watching me in that assessing way of his, waiting for some spark of telling pleasure. The second it hits he will know, I think—and I’m right.
“That’s it, that’s it—go on, honey, take it, take it,” he says, at the exact moment I feel my orgasm start to bloom low down in my belly. Then just as it really takes hold—as every muscle in my body tenses and a thousand trapped moans and sighs press up against my gritted teeth—he does the thing that always pushes me higher.
He puts his hand over mine. He presses my slippery fingers over my clit, just as the pleasure gets kind of scary and I want to pull away. In truth, I’m desperate to pull away—any more of this and I’m going to make some really awful noises.
Never mind screaming—I need to grunt.
But he keeps it going. He carries on until I’m almost sobbing, drenched in sweat and near delirious, each thick pulse of pleasure so intense I want to tell him to stop. Instead, I find myself begging him to carry on. I babble about how good he makes me feel and how much I like this, always edging closer to words I know I shouldn’t say.
Intrusion Page 8
