I blushed. “Yeah, well, there you go. I jerked him off.” I laughed. “A lot, actually. He, um. He would never…do anything. He wouldn’t make a lot of noises or move, he’d just sit there and watch, maybe his butt would clench a little as he got close, flexing a little. A sigh as he…you know. Came. And that was it. Clean up, and we were done.”
“And then he’d return the favor, right?”
I shrugged. “Not usually. He’d touch me, a little. But he wasn’t…um…good at knowing how to tell what I liked.”
He frowned. “Was he fuckin’ blind? Reading your body is like reading a large-print book.”
I laughed, but it was a little bitter. “So, he’d…he’d start, but I’d get impatient and take over, and he’d just watch me finish myself. And for quite a few months, that was our sex life. Me jerking him off, him watching me masturbate, essentially.”
“Wow. That’s…shockingly shitty, babe.”
“I guess so. It was all I knew, and I got frustrated sometimes, but I thought that’s just how things were, and he was nice to me, and easy to talk to. Our relationship was…cerebral. We could talk about heady, sophisticated things. Philosophy, politics, economics, literature. He was smarter than me in a lot of ways, and I felt mentally challenged by him.”
Crow smirked. “Ain’t gonna get conversation like that with me, I’m afraid. I ain’t even got a fuckin’ GED.”
I frowned. “Crow, you may not have a lot of formal education, but I think you are one of the smartest people I’ve ever met.”
“How the fuck can you tell that?”
“It’s obvious. Intelligence shines out of a person’s eyes, and your eyes just…burn with intelligence. You can read people, you understand situations.” I pointed at his bookshelf. “You read widely, and a lot. You’re curious, I can tell. So, sure, perhaps you’ve never read Ulysses or Kafka or—or Hemingway, or whoever. But that’s just exposure. Anyone can read a book. Being curious isn’t something you can teach.”
He frowned, and his eyes left mine, thoughtful, following my curves, pausing at my breasts, continuing to my hips. He spoke without looking at my eyes. “Thank you for that, Charlie.”
“Hey, I’m just callin’ ’em like I sees ’em,” I drawled.
He laughed. “Anyway. You and Glen.”
I shrugged, and traced my fingers from his shoulder over his pec, dimpling the hard muscle, down to his abs sheathed a layer of what I would just call the insulation of a life lived. He was still mostly erect, but fading.
I didn’t want that to happen.
I wanted to touch him. I felt my brain going into overthink mode—thinking of all the times I’d done it to Glen, how I’d tried different things to get a reaction from him, and never could, which made me feel like I wasn’t doing it right. I gnawed on the inside of my cheek, pulling myself out of my head.
I wrapped two fingers around the head of his cock, and immediately felt it begin hardening again.
I kept talking, because if I was talking, I wasn’t thinking. “Me and Glen. Sex was what you would imagine. Vanilla missionary, and nothing but. I told you this.”
“And you left wanting more often than not.”
“Right.” I slid my finger and thumb down his length. He inhaled slowly, deeply, his forehead tightening. Feeling it. Responding. “Then I found him in our bed with my boss—twenty-six years his senior, overweight and unattractive and not even a nice person.”
“Wow.”
I winced. “That’s not kind, I suppose. I shouldn’t be mean.”
“I’d say you’re allowed to feel a little less than charitable toward her. And him.”
“I suppose. Point is, that was it. I just…upended my life. Moved into a month-to-month furnished rental for super cheap in a not great part of town, lived on my savings, drank during the day and watched Netflix and gained an extra ten pounds, because without my schedule, I had no motivation to work out or shop for healthy food.”
“Good for you.”
I blinked. “What? No, not good for me.”
“Yes, good for you. That’s called being selfish. And after the way you lived, I’m guessing being as much a mom to that shiteater boyfriend of yours as a girlfriend or lover, and probably going above and beyond at work, and being a good daughter and a good sister and voting in all the local elections and helping the poor…you needed to be a little selfish.”
I frowned. “I…” I laughed. “I worked overtime and only occasionally got the time-and-a-half I deserved. Volunteered at a soup kitchen once a week, and counted ballots during elections.”
“See?”
I chuckled. “It’s like you know me.” I didn’t quite look at him as I said that, focusing instead on the feel of him in my hand. The thick hard girth, the seemingly endless length. The way the fat round head seemed to strain as I caressed him, my whole fist wrapped around him.
“I wanted more,” I whispered. “I would fantasize about…about what you did for me. Someone going down on me, just…just to make me feel good. I fantasized about…” the whisper became nearly inaudible. “About just being…desired. Seven years with Glen, and I never did, not really. He would want sex regularly, and we really did have a lot of it, but it was quick and not satisfying for me. It took a lot of introspection during my selfish time in that shitty apartment to come to grips with exactly how unsatisfying my sex life with him had been. And I’m still coming to grips with…myself, I guess. With letting myself really open up to…to who I am. To what I want. Because I think…” I paused to put this into the right words, no longer whispering. “I think I kept the true depths of my real…needs, and desires, sexually, physically, and even emotionally, under wraps. Repressed. Because I didn’t think I could get more than what I had. That Glen was all there was. He fit my plan for my life and, more than anything else, I’ve defined myself as a person who follows my plans through to the end, no matter what. Move to Boston. Work my way up at the firm. Partner by thirty-five at the latest. Get my masters, maybe a PhD and lecture at a university. There would be kids and a two-story brick Colonial in an upscale Boston or New York suburb, and we would have sex every Saturday or Sunday, and then kids and life would get in the way and I’d probably just stop wanting it. That was…that was what I assumed would happen.”
He shook his head. “Wow. You had that planned out to the last detail.”
“I had kid’s names picked out, boys and girls. Interior designs chosen. Dog’s names. I knew the kind of curtains and fine china and silverware and linens I wanted in my formal dining room.”
“Jesus, babe, what about, like, spontaneity?”
I snorted. “What’s that? This road trip, getting drunk, ending up with you, this is the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done in my life. And it feels so, so reckless.”
He laughed. “I’ll have to show you real deal reckless spontaneity. That’ll open you up.”
All the while, my one hand, loosely curled around him, was sliding up and down. Lazily, almost, and he was seemingly capable of ignoring it. But I saw the corners of his eyes tightening, his jaw ticking.
I wanted to see more of his reactions. See him…a little wild.
I closed my fist around him, gripping him. Twisted my fist. Plunged it downward, fast. He sucked in a breath, and his abs tensed. I watched his eyes, his body—I loosened my touch and caressed him in slow measured gentle movements, and his jaw fell open, and his eyes went glassy. Yeah, he liked that. More than the hard fast stuff, he liked the slow and gentle.
So I stayed with slow and gentle. I rubbed the pad of my thumb over his tip, and he stopped breathing for a moment. Gave each upward stroke a twist around his girth, and then at the top, shallow twisting half-strokes, until he started flexing his hips.
“Fuck, Charlie. You have any fuckin’ clue how good that feels?” He snarled.
“Tell me,” I whispered. “I want to know what you like, what you want.”
“You wanna know what I want?”
As I n
odded I plunged my fist down to his root and squeezed at the base, and pumped him. “I really do.”
He closed his eyes a moment, his breathing going deep and rapid. Eyes opened, focused on my hand, his cock. “I want your mouth, Charlie. I want to see those pink lips around my dick. Want to feel your tongue. Want you to fuckin’—to lick it. Want you to make my cock all sloppy wet with your spit and…shit, woman. I shouldn’t say this, but I’m gonna. I ought to want to be inside you more than anything, and I fuckin’ do, so bad. I want to sit you on top of me and watch you bounce on my cock until you scream. But right now, Charlie, all I want is to come all down your pretty fuckin’ throat. Knowing you never done that before? Feel fuckin’ dirty for this, but I wanna be the first.”
I felt fire in my lungs, a burn in my sex. A flutter in my gut. I slid down, so I was lying mostly on his legs. My face near his cock, the huge thick thing bobbing with his rapid breath. Comfortable with it in my hand was one thing, but putting it in my mouth was another. I’d considered it any number of times over the years with Glen, but never had the courage to try.
Did I have the courage, now?
It felt like there was a mental block, a part of me telling me I shouldn’t. That I wouldn’t like it.
That he wouldn’t. That I’d do it wrong.
I pulled his hot, silky-soft yet iron-hard cock away from his body. His stomach was pulled in, his eyes watching me. I could see him thinking, wanting to tell me to not do anything I didn’t want to.
“Don’t say a word,” I said. “I want to, I just have to get over my mental block.”
“Whatever you want, babe.”
“I…” I touched the tip of it to my bottom lip. Soft, so soft. Tender. Springy. I licked my lips and tasted skin. “I just…I need…”
“What, Charlie? Tell me.”
“I want to know what you’re thinking. How it feels. If I’m…” I swallowed, feeling stupid for saying this. “If I’m doing it okay.”
He chortled. “You can’t get it wrong as long as you don’t bite me, honey.”
“I won’t bite,” I said, giggling a laugh. “Is it stupid I’m so nervous? That I’m so insecure about this?”
He shook his head. “No, not at all. Nothing stupid about it.”
I drew the tip through my lips, and then again, and then a third time. I let my tongue touch him and tasted skin and something salty and liquid. He sucked in a breath.
“Fuckin’ killing me, girl,” Crow snarled.
“What?”
“Teasing me.” He grinned. “It’s good. No hurry, no worries. It’s just…beautiful fuckin’ torture, that’s all.”
“I’m not trying to tease you. Just…working up the courage to put my whole mouth on you.”
Growing up on the East Coast, we’d had oysters a lot, and the flavor of his cock, his pre-cum, tasted a bit like oysters. Not unpleasantly, as a matter of fact. I ran my tongue over the tip again, and he flinched, bodily, groaning. Salty liquid smeared on my tongue, and I grinned at him.
“I like how you taste.”
“Feeling is mutual, I fuckin’ promise you.” His eyes met mine, hot and boiling with barely restrained need. “You taste like sugar. Can’t want to get my mouth on your sweet fuckin’ pussy again.”
I stroked him, root to tip, and then held him upright again, and drew a deep breath, parted my lips…tasted pre-cum, and then flesh, and then his tip was sliding along my tongue and I pressed my lips around him and he was in my mouth and I was swallowing hard, because he was huge and thick and holy shit, any more and my jaw might crack, but he was groaning and his hips were pushing up and his eyes were crossed and rolling back in his head, and that was reason to keep going.
I pulled away, a string of my spit connecting my mouth and his cock.
“Fuck, Charlie.” He met my eyes, swallowing hard. “You are making it so damn hard to not just blow my load right now—”
I palmed his heavy balls, cradled them, caressed them, and he sucked in a breath. Fisted his length with the other hand, and stroked his cock and caressed his balls, and then added my mouth and did all three at once, and he went from speaking to just wordless gasping breathless wondering groans of pure bliss.
“Oh shit, oh shit, Charlie, god, you’re fuckin’—so fuckin’ good. So, so fucking amazing, what you’re doing.” He reached down and touched my hair, gathered it in his fists, held it, the long shimmery mass of black. “Fuckin’—god, oh god, oh shit.”
Tasted him, salt and skin, and felt his belly tightening, felt him twitching, his cock jerking, his balls pulsing.
And then, right then, as I knew he was nearing the edge, there was a jerk. Not from him, but from the bus.
I’d forgotten we were on a bus.
“Fuck—no, no, no, not now,” Crow snarled. “Goddammit, not now.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Shit––I think we just blew a motherfucking tire.” He thumped his head backward. “Goddamn it, I was so fucking close.”
“So close. I could probably…” I went back down, put my mouth on him.
A voice shouted from somewhere near the front. “Myles! Crow! Major problem.”
He caressed my face. “Gonna have to pick this up later.”
I felt…disappointed. Achy. “This sucks.”
He hissed, gently pulling away from me. “You got no fuckin’ clue, babe. Gonna hurt all fuckin’ day.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken so long.”
He cupped my cheek. “Nope, don’t take this on yourself. It’s just shit luck. I’ll be fine.” He lay still, closed his eyes. Focused. He somehow ran through some sort of mental gymnastics, and I watched as his cock slowly subsided.
“Crow!” I heard the voice yell again.
“Coming!” he shouted. “Or not,” he muttered. “Gimme five fuckin’ seconds, dammit.”
I handed him his jeans and underwear, and he wriggled into them. Tugged the blanket up over me, covering me, and then yanked the curtain aside and slid out, fastening his fly and tugging on his cut over his naked torso as he moved barefoot and messy haired and beautiful toward the front of the bus.
“The fuck is the problem?” I heard him snarl, audibly pissed off.
Poor man. He’d been so close. I still tasted him.
I was lying there, thinking of him. Of how he’d tasted and felt. How much I’d loved his reactions, his snarled, desperate, blissed-out words. The feel of…of control.
A body flopped into the bunk, and I smelled Lexie—perfume and old alcohol, and…sex. “Hi.”
I twisted to see my sister, her hair absolutely wild. Eye makeup smeared—it looked like she’d been crying. But her eyes were bright and happy—wild with crazed joy, if anything.
“Hi,” I responded.
She snatched the blanket up and peeked underneath. “You fucked him!”
I yanked it back. “I did not!” I grinned, then. “Well, sort of. Almost.”
She frowned. “Almost? How do you almost fuck?”
“It’s complicated.” I bit my lip, stifling a huge grin. “His beard stubble? Scratchy and soft against my thighs, just like you said it would be. I’m still a little tender, actually.”
She squealed, wriggled close, excitement so extreme and bubbly she couldn’t contain it. “He went down on you?”
I couldn’t help my own excitement from bubbling over into girly squeals of hilarity and excitement. “Three times!”
She was wearing an old black faded Johnny Cash T-shirt with the sleeves cut off—huge on her, and obviously Myles’s, and obviously was not wearing a scrap of anything else under it. “Tell me everything. Every. Single. Detail.”
Crow
Goddamn torture, is what it was. Absolute agony. Damned cock would not go down, not all the way. I’ve heard of blue balls before, and I’ve felt the tense ache of needing to get my rocks off in a bad way, but this? This was pure hell. My poor balls fuckin’ throbbed, and not in a sexy way. In an “every move was raw
brutal agony because they’re so hypersensitive and tender” sort of way. My cock stayed semirigid in my jeans, and no matter how I focused on other shit, I just could fucking not make it go all the way down.
Even thoughts of Sister Maria didn’t help.
Mainly because Charlie’s image was superimposed over everything I looked at.
The bus had blown a front tire, which was bad news especially since we were stuck on the side of the highway in the middle of nowhere, probably several hours from Denver. We could have hobbled along if it had been a back tire, but a front tire was bad, bad news. It meant hours of delay as we waited for a maintenance team to arrive and repair it, because a giant RV like that required specialized tools and training to repair.
Which meant, if we wanted to make our show in Denver, we had to transfer whatever personal shit we needed off the bus, wait for the limos our manager Barnett had called in, and book it for Denver, and hope to fuck the rest of the crew and equipment made it there without further issue.
What time was it? Daylight, but not past noon. My phone was on the bus, and I didn’t wear a watch. But growing up with only the sun to tell time most days, I knew it had to be somewhere between midmorning and near noon.
During the transition of stuff and deciding what to do, Charlie had come out of the bus with Lexie in tow, and they were giggling and chatting and damn if they didn’t look alike, and sexy as hell. Lexie was wearing one of Myles’s workout cutoff shirts and, if I wasn’t mistaken, not a lot else. Confident in her skin, that one. Charlie was back in her clothes, black leggings and black V-neck T-shirt, and an open button down over it, unbuttoned. No bra. Perky tits pressed hard against the tight fabric, especially when she stretched languorously in the sunshine, arms overhead, shirt hem lifting to show her belly button.
Now why the fuck did my heart go pitter-patter at that fuckin’ belly button? Who the hell has a belly button fetish? Not me. Yet the way she stretched, arching her spine inward, thrusting her breasts skyward, arms windmilling to meet palm-to-palm overhead, face turned to the sun…shirt lifting until the bottom swell of her breasts peeked out under the shirt and her belly button seemed to wink at me…Fuck, fuck. My heart thundered at the sight of her. I wanted to lick and kiss every inch of her skin, rub my beard all over her until her skin was pink.
Not So Goode Page 14
