“It was my dad’s.”
“It has your name on it,” I couldn’t help pointing out.
A pause. “It’s a family heirloom. All I’ve got of him.”
I ducked my head. There was way, way more to the story, I could tell. He was wearing a pair of gym shorts, but tiny ones, almost booty shorts. The kind of shorts track and distance runners wear. Red, with a white stripe.
Nothing under them.
Bare-chested.
“I apologize, Errol. I shouldn’t have opened it.”
He shook his head. Reached past me to fasten the latch, pushed it further back. Took the red bag from me, and made to close the hatch. “No worries, Pop. Just…one of those things, you know?”
The sad bits, he meant, the hard sharp things I saw fleeting in the back of his eyes, buried deep, behind the jovial, easy-going, New Zealander laid-back attitude. The pain, the bitter, tight, shadowy things.
The things he didn’t talk about.
Like me and Dad.
I got it, and I didn’t care to have those particular bags of bones exhumed from their closets, so I didn’t push it.
We went into the room, and he rifled through the bag, came up from the very bottom with a small box of condoms.
But there was that chill in the air between us again. Unspoken, which neither of us dared breach.
I sat on the bed, wanting to ask, knowing I wouldn’t, knowing I won’t. We’re not like that. Shit, there’s no “we” to be like that. We’re strangers whose paths have crossed for a short while. There’s chemistry, sure, and attraction. But sharing the deep, painful things that form the shadows and edges in our souls? It’s not that. Can’t be, won’t be that.
He knows it, I know it.
“I was just curious, Errol. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not pissed off.”
“But the moment’s gone,” I said, sounding plaintive.
“Oh, I don’t know. Give it a minute, eh? We can make a new moment.”
The most awkward silence we’d experienced yet enveloped the room.
I didn’t know how to get the moment back. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to. If we got the moment back, we’d have crazy hot sex, and if we had crazy hot sex, I wasn’t sure my stupid heart—which remained stubbornly and firmly romantic despite my best efforts to squelch it—wouldn’t get involved somehow.
He was flipping the box in his hand, not quite looking at me, staring at me, but definitely aware of me. Waiting for a signal as to how to proceed.
“I’m…I’m tired,” I said. Lame excuse.
I mean, I was tired. Sleeping on the ground hadn’t exactly been restful, and after a night on the bare hard ground, and then hours in the car, had me feeling sore all over, physically exhausted.
But wanting him, needing his touch, needing to filled by him, to taste him…that existed outside the realm of mere tiredness.
But the weight of the emotional baggage we were both carrying around and refusing to touch…was a stumble in the careful steps of our sexual waltz, where we took what we wanted from each other without giving away anything.
I mean, maybe it was just me.
His expression seemed to tighten with anger or disappointment, but then was quickly masked. “Yeah, no worries. Been a long couple days, eh?”
I groaned at the hurt in his voice. “Errol…”
He shook his head, turned away, tossing the box back into the open top of his backpack. “I get it, Poppy.”
I stood up, moved around in front of him. “You do, huh? What is it you get? Because I admit I’m a bit confused about what exactly is going on? Which one of us is upset here?”
He blinked down at me. “I don’t know that I’m upset, exactly. I have a weird attachment to that fiddle, yeah, but it’s over three hundred years old and a family heirloom and the only thing I own that connects me to my father and that whole side of my family. So I’m a bit possessive of it, and maybe I overreacted to seeing you handling it.”
I shook my head. “Errol, you have every right to that. I shouldn’t have been snooping through your stuff. I was curious, especially after that whole thing with the playlist. You didn’t overreact. So I’m not upset either.”
He laughed, pawed his fingers through his hair. “Then what the hell is going on with us?”
I laughed, too. “I don’t fucking know, honestly.”
He let out a slow breath. “How about we just scrap the whole last few minutes? Let’s just lay down and turn on the TV and not have any expectations of each other or ourselves or the situation.”
I felt a small smile cross my lips. “I think that sounds good, actually. I just need to, um, get something on.”
He smirked. “I mean, don’t get dressed on my account.”
I swallowed hard. Because those tiny shorts he was wearing wasn’t helping my libido. His bare chest was a hard plane of masculine muscle and sharp angles, and I wanted to run my hands over it, over the furrowed ridges of his abs, wanted to trace the hard V-cut where torso met abs met hips met cock.
Trace, taste, with hands, tongue.
“You can’t look at me like that, Poppy. Not and think this is going to stay platonic.”
“Look at you like what?” I asked. “And what makes you think I want anything to stay platonic?”
“Maybe I was mistaken, but in my experience, when a woman says ‘I’m tired,’ that’s generally code for ‘piss off, mate, it’s not fuckin’ happenin’.’”
I laughed. “Yeah, that’s pretty accurate, generally.”
“So that’s what made me think you want this to stay platonic.”
“Maybe I don’t know what I want.”
His lip curled in amusement. “You talk dirty like you can’t wait to fuck, and then you go through my personal effects, and then you say you’re tired, and then you look at me like I’m something to eat and you’re fucking starved. Yeah, Poppy, I’d say you’re a smidge unsure of what you want.”
A silence, breathing and coiling and hissing between us like a rattlesnake, taut with tension. Did I dare go down that road with Errol?
How could I not, though? That was the real question. After the way he’d made me come? Fast, and hard, and numerously, just with his tongue and fingers? Could I—and more to the point, would I—let slip an opportunity to experience what promised to be the hottest sex of my life?
Yeah, probably not.
I was working out what to say, how to push us past this silence, when Errol did it for us.
“Fuck it,” he breathed, his voice a low, guttural snarl. “Not gonna stand here waiting for you to figure yourself out, Pop.” His fingers closed on the edges of my towel, applying enough tension to begin loosening the knot at my chest, but giving me ample opportunity to demure. “You figure out you don’t want it, now’s the chance to say so. Otherwise, I’m taking what I want from you.”
I held my breath. “What you want?” I echoed.
“What’s the matter, Poppy? Cat got your tongue?”
“That’s such a stupid saying. What does it even mean?” I reached out, rested my hands on his hard waist, touching firm warm skin and angular bone.
“Dunno,” he murmured. “Don’t rightly care, either.” He was still holding the edges of my towel, still threatening to rip it off. “Last chance.”
I tucked my fingers inside the waistband of his short shorts. “Or what, Errol?”
“Or I’ll have you facedown on this bed with my cock inside your tight little pussy before you’ve blinked twice.”
I stared up at him, eyes wide. Blinked once. Twice. Bold, daring him to follow through. “Weird. Didn’t work.”
He growled a laugh, yanked sharply on the towel. The rough, cheap white terrycloth fluttered to the floor, leaving me nude.
Oh, shit. He was not playing. His fingers hooked into me, driving into my slit, two of them filling me and scissoring, his thumb pressing against my clit. Tugged me closer.
Heat billowed within me, abrupt and tumultu
ous and fervent. My knees buckled at the sudden assault, but I was held up by his touch, his two middle fingers scissoring and twirling inside me, his thumb scraping and pressing and circling, and it was all at once, and not gentle, just rough enough to feel so good.
All he needed was the one hand, apparently. The other just dangled at his side, and he took me from unsure to orgasm in sixty seconds flat, had me quivering and shaking, had my knees buckling yet again so I was forced to cling to him and be held up by those same digits pierced inside me.
As I came, gasping, whimpering, needing to fall, laughing in disbelief at how fast he could bring me to climax, he just watched, a slow grin on his face, lips smirking, eyes wild.
His fingers slowed as my orgasm blossomed to full flower, leaving my face buried in his chest, my arms around his neck, hips driving against his fingers.
“Fucking hell, Errol,” I gasped. “How do you do that?”
He growled a gruff laugh, his fingers slicking out of me and releasing me unexpectedly, so my knees gave out. He let me fall, pushing me backward onto the bed. I hit the mattress, and he was on me by the time I’d bounced once. Lips locked around my left nipple, tonguing my piercing until I screamed, another climax shearing through me—or the precursor to one. My hips bucked and I snarled my fingers into his hair, and he did not let up, one hand cupping my breast and shoving it into his mouth, his other hand around my other breast, fingers tweaking the bar and flicking my nipple.
“Oh fuck,” I groaned, arching up to press my tits against him. “Yes, fuck, yes, please, Errol.”
He laughed, pulling away from my tit just long enough to let the sound grumble out, and then he was at me again, plying my peaked nipple with his lips and tongue and teeth; switched to the other one, and now I ached deep inside. A thrum of need pulsed low, and there was stimulation to my clit to push me over the edge. His mouth on one nipple and his fingers at the other with equal stimulatory skill, I felt myself rising, rising. Back and forth, from one breast to the other, sucking and flicking, biting and licking, tweaking and twisting, he slowly and unhurriedly brought me closer and closer to climax from nipple play alone.
I’d always had sensitive breasts, and after the piercings they were even more so, and I’d long wondered if I could come from nipple stimulation alone but had never been able to get myself there, and neither had anyone else.
Errol did.
I scoured his back with one hand and knotted my fingers in his hair with the other, hips thrusting against his thigh and hip as he moved from breast to breast, hands never idle, his rhythm one of insatiable need. And I was aching, pulsating with heat, and the more he slathered his tongue over my nipples and flicked the bar with his tongue and twisted it with his fingers, the more the rollicking pushing thundering need inside me built and built to a crashing crescendo, and he did not hurry, even when the thrusting of my hips and the quavering plea in my whispered chant of his name begged for more, for him, he didn’t alter or falter.
I was taut with need, an orgasm that wouldn’t break coruscating and burgeoning inside me. Thighs splayed wide around his hips, his waist. Hands on him, everywhere.
Digging into the waistband to clutch at his firm ass, rounding his hard shoulders, his angular waist, the furrows of his abs. Seeking him.
He didn’t hurry.
Licked.
Tongue flicked and circled left nipple. Right. Lingered on the right side for a while, and then his fingers replaced his tongue, which moved left.
“Errol…please,” I whispered.
I needed to come.
I was building to a painful pressure, and this nipple play alone wouldn’t get me there, wouldn’t take me past the climax into screaming orgasm.
And then, as he suckled my entire nipple, piercing and all, into his mouth and flicked and twisted the piercing with his tongue and his fingers pinched my nipple around the metal bar,
I came.
I came so hard it fucking hurt.
I coiled into myself, clit throbbing in desperation for stimulation, slit clenching on nothing, breasts full and nipples hard, he was there. Above me. Surrounding me.
I clawed at him, hands raking his sides. Elastic caught in my finger and he moved, wiggled, and I was still coming and I felt hard warm skin under my hand. Need guided me, my hands blindly seeking as I came and came, wave after wave of bliss crashing hard and fast, a new kind of pleasure heretofore unknown—tighter, hotter, higher, an orgasm from nipple stimulation alone was clearly its own unique beast and it showed me its teeth as it ravaged me for what felt like long minutes.
When I returned to my senses, I was slicked with sweat and Errol was kneeling between my knees, naked. Hard abs narrowed down to his cock, which was standing erect and begging for me, pink and thick and veiny, the bulbous head shiny, straining. Balls heavy, taut against him. Belly pulled in, eyes wild. Muscles hard with restraint.
He had the condom box in his hands, fumbling with it. I yanked it out of his grasp, stuck the corner in my teeth and tore at it like a lion ripping flesh from fresh prey. Black foil packets within—these were upscale condoms, I noticed. I yanked the string free of the box, ripped one packet away, tossed the box and the rest of the string aside. Somewhere, I didn’t care where it went. With my teeth again, I made quick work of opening the condom.
I gripped the enormous shaft of his cock and rolled the condom onto him—this I did slowly, caressing him with the act.
It was an oddly still, quiet, slow moment. His pulse was pounding in his throat—I could see it beating and wanted to kiss that spot on his neck. My own was hammering like a war drum. Sweat cooling on my skin, nipples aching, slit begging to be plundered, filled, used.
And yet, despite our wild need, we both held utterly still, eyes locked as I slowly, slowly rolled the condom down his cock, one little brush of my fist at a time, each stroke starting at the top. When the ring of latex was fully seated at his base, I cupped his balls in both hands, caressed them, squeezed, kneaded. He let me, eyes on me.
And then he pulled from my hold, pulled away. Knelt over me, on all fours above me. Dipped, and his mouth brushed mine, lips gently nuzzling mine. A touch, only. His tongue licked over my upper lip, my lower. I moved to kiss him back, but he pulled away. Lifted upright, slowly.
I reached for him, but he imprisoned my hand. The other. Pressed them up over my head. A momentary vignette, then. Me, stretched out, nipples peaked and need piqued, aching, breasts sagging to either side and upward, on my back, hands over my head; him, up on his knees over me, cock straining and sheathed in white latex, the tip extending, waiting to be filled with his cum, balls heavy and thighs bunched and muscles heavy and hard, eyes bright and Aegean blue and roving my flesh and my curves.
His hands pinioned my wrists.
Gripped.
A slow smile curved his lips.
“May have taken longer than two blinks,” he murmured. “But I said I’d have you facedown on the bed with my cock buried inside you.”
“But, I’m not—” I began.
The third word had barely left my lips when he roughly flipped me, kept my hands pinned up beyond my head. Hands gripped my hips and yanked my ass backward, toward him, lifting. Ass down, face up. I groaned as his palms caressed my spread ass cheeks, and then he plied them apart, and I felt his tongue slip against my clit, licking downward, tickling and wet and unexpected and gentle, his lips then, more of a kiss than anything.
And then I felt him.
The broad round head nuzzling against my entrance. Breached me, slowly, gently, carefully.
I gasped at the size of him, a shrill, breathless whimper. “Oh fuck,” I hissed. “Errol, oh fuck, Errol, you’re…oh fuck, your cock…god, oh god, so fucking big.”
Barely an inch. Maybe less, and then he pulled back. “Poppy, Jesus you’re tight.” His voice was wild and low and desperate. “Can you take me? Tell me you can take me, Pop.”
“Give me more and I’ll tell you,” I murmured. “Give me
more of that big fat fucking cock, and I’ll let you knowOHFUCKYES—yes, fuck, yes, fuck, yes.”
He had my ass in his hands, fistfuls of flesh gripped in rough, clawed hands. And then he let go and caressed sweetly, delicately. Pushed, just a little, and that tiny pulse of his hips gave me another huge penetrating inch, and god, thank fuck he wasn’t any longer, wasn’t any thicker, or I couldn’t have taken him and enjoyed it. He was just barely too big for me, more cock than I’d ever taken and so fucking good, stretching me so it hurt so deliciously, filling me until I was unable to breathe, gasping for air at the shock of him inside me.
He was so gentle, so careful, despite his otherwise rough use of my body. I gasped as he fed another inch into my clenching slit, and then paused. Leaned forward so his belly was pressed against my back, and his long arm slid under me and his big roughened gentle palm cupped my breast and his other wedged low against my hipbone, reaching between my thighs to where we were joined, and then he was pressing two fingers against my clit and circling, and I gasped, and the gasp became a whimper and the whimper a shriek because how the fuck did he know I needed that extra stimulation, when I didn’t even know myself until he did it?
I was already on edge, and that little touch pushed me over, and I came with his thick cock only partially inside me, his hands cupping my tit and swirling around my clit and making me come and the orgasm sent a rush of heat through me, wet and slick.
He slithered a thrust, a gentle one, no deeper yet than maybe half his length, out and in, and I felt his veins stuttering against my sex through the now-wet latex of his condom and I needed more. I needed all of him.
“Pop?” he growled, voice low and feral.
“Yeah?” I breathed.
“Can you take me?”
I swiveled my hips in answer, writhing to get him deeper.
“Need your words, Poppy.”
“Yes,” I gasped. “Yes, I can take you. Give it to me, Errol. Give it all.”
His forehead touched my spine and his breath huffed hot, and he growled in animal relief as he pressed his hips forward until they kissed my ass cheeks, and he was fully within me.
Goode Vibrations Page 15
