by Haley Jenner
“Think about fucking you constantly, Henley. It’s a fucking addiction. Thinking about your pussy, about how hard I’d slam my cock inside you.”
She whimpers, the sound woefully wanton.
“Will you bend over for me, baby? Tip your ass in the air so I can watch myself fuck you?”
She chokes on the stuttered moan in her throat.
Gripping her chin roughly, I pull her closer to my lips. “Say yes, Henley. Say yes, please.”
Her head jerks in my hand.
I bite her bottom lip.
“Say it, Squirrel. Let me hear you beg.”
“Yes,” she stammers. “Please. Brooks. Yes.”
I taste her desperation, licking against her lips eagerly. “There’s my girl. Bend over the basin, baby. Lift that fucking slip of material you’ve worn to tempt me.”
Sidestepping me, she does as I say. Watching my reflection with every step, she finds the hem of her skirt with her fingers and pulls it up painstakingly slow. The front of her body dips down until she’s at a right angle, her bare ass tempting me.
“Tell me you’re wet for me.”
Sucking her bottom lip into her mouth, she groans. “Dripping.”
Stepping up to her, I let my hand explore, sliding down her ass to cup her pussy.
“Dripping,” I echo harshly.
Cupping the softness in her right hip with my left hand, I unzip. I tap the globes of her ass cheeks with the head of my dick, relishing in the thick echo it makes with each whack. Dragging my thick head down the crack of her ass, her eyes widen with fear and lust.
“Virgin ass, baby?”
She wiggles underneath my gaze.
“Don’t worry,” I promise, dropping a kiss on the very bottom of her spine. “We’ll fix that.”
Her lids flutter close, nostrils flaring in unrestrained need.
With the head of my dick kissing her warm hole, my right hand reaches for her left shoulder, my arms crossed over her body like a vise, keeping her exactly where I need her.
She pulls in a deep breath as I slam inside, burying myself completely in the taut heat of her pussy. Her breath catches, a pained groan rolling off her tongue in pleasure.
My hips tip back, my cock pulling from the clamp of her greedy body. Using the power in my arms, I slam her back onto my length, groaning her name loud enough for passersby to hear.
“Faster,” she begs.
I give her what she wants; thick, hard, and fast thrusts in and out of her body, my hands holding her roughly enough to leave bruises.
Her tits fall from her dress, the sweet handful of flesh jerking up and down with every powerful surge.
She’s at my mercy, her arms barely holding her up, braced on the basin as she welcomes my torture. Years of built-up tension exploding between us in sex so sharp we’re free-falling into the pain and suffering we’ve caused one another, searching for forgiveness.
No words are exchanged, no softly spoken endearments of devotion or love. Harsh breathing and jagged grunts echo the heavy slap of skin as I fuck her as deeply as I can, erasing the emptiness we’ve forced upon one another throughout the years.
Sweat drips down my back and across my brow. It glows along her skin like glitter.
Head tipped back, she pants with desire, silently begging for more. It dips her back, lifting her ass, and I curse at how good she feels.
“Come inside me, Brooks,” she whimpers. “Fill me up.”
My eyes close in ecstasy.
Fill me up.
Fuck.
“Give me your cum first, Henley. Come on me.”
“Harder,” she begs. “Break me.”
My hips lurch forward, pushing her into the edge of the ceramic painfully. It’s her undoing. She screams out my name, her pussy throbbing and clenching me in a way that pulls the cum straight from my dick. My release explodes inside her as she spasms around me.
We remain still, eyes anchored in the mirror. Feelings of past hurt and an unresolved love stare back at us. Our eyes reflect the desires of our heart so heavily neither one of us are brave enough to look away.
“I wish I had my camera right now,” I tell her. “Anyone ever tell you you’re beautiful?”
“You.” She stands, and I fall from her body. “Only you.”
How is that possible? How do men and women not throw themselves at her feet? Her long dark hair splayed like a halo around her creamy skin. Kisses of the sun pressed into the coloring on her face like a map to happiness. Full lips screaming to be worshipped, begging to be teased and tasted. How do her melancholy eyes not drag people in, daring them to get lost in her darkness? How does her hesitant smile not break their hearts wide open and ruin them for anyone else?
I place a delicate kiss on her shoulder. “I know it makes me an asshole, but I’m glad. I’m glad I see into your soul like no one else is brave enough to do. It’s fucking sublime.”
“I love you, Brooks Riley. I just hope I know how to love you right.”
“We’ll find our way,” I tell her, ignoring the swirl of doubt twisting in my stomach. The truth is, we’re lost more than we’re found to one another. We’re caught up in the damage of our love, and that pain seems to be the only way we know how to love one another. “Wait there.”
I grab a wad of tissue paper, turning her to face me, eyes lost in hers as I dab between her legs, drying the evidence of what we just shared from her bare thighs. “I didn’t use a condom.”
She shrugs, adjusting her dress to cover up her body.
I pull her toward me, my lips pushing against hers. “Nothing between us anymore, Henley.”
“Nothing between us,” she agrees.
I smile, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “I’ve fucked you nice and dirty. Now let's go home so I can do it hard and slow.”
30
HENLEY
THREE MONTHS LATER
“I picked up a job in Cairo.”
I step from the shower as he hands me a towel. “Oh?”
“Mm,” he confirms, eyes tracking over my naked body in want.
We’ve been living in an easy bliss for twelve weeks. Three uninterrupted months of just us touching and loving one another, acting like giddy tourists. Exploring the buzzing city we’d found each other in.
We rode bikes over the bustle of the Brooklyn Bridge.
We stuffed ourselves full of pizza in Little Italy.
We waited in line until our feet hurt and our tempers flared to stand atop of the Empire State Building and share a kiss in the twilight.
We rode the ferry across to Staten Island to catch a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty.
Brooks surprised me with a carriage ride around Central Park.
We got lost staring at books in the New York State Library and ate pretzels bigger than our heads.
We sat in awe in the theaters on Broadway and watched show after show.
We went to comedy shows.
Ate at the top-rated restaurants in the city.
We lived.
We explored.
Together.
Brooks finished his gig a month ago and has stuck around while I hit the tail end of my current course.
I towel off my hair, pretending to ignore the hardening cock in his boxers. “When?”
“Starts in a week.”
I drop the towel loosely at my side. “Oh.”
“We knew this would happen, Squirrel.”
“I know,” I assure him, working to rid the panic in his eyes. “When do you leave?”
“Come here.” He curls a finger up, beckoning me over.
I go without resistance.
“Two days.”
“Fuck.”
“Mm.” His lips touch my neck, resting there as he plants soft kisses on my damp skin over and over again.
I can feel the words on his lips. I know he wants to ask me to come with him. He wants me to see Cairo with him.
“Don’t ask. Don’t ruin what we’ve started befo
re we’re ready.”
“Before you’re ready,” he combats quietly without animosity.
I ignore the comment.
“When will you finish?”
He grazes his teeth along my clavicle. “With enough time to fly to Bali before I get on the boat.”
“The non-contactable boat.”
He chuckles. “Sounds foreign, considering the world of technology we live in.”
“Is it safe?” I question for the millionth time.
“Baby.”
“Yeah, yeah. I might change my flight out too. If you’re leaving in two days, there’s not much point in me hanging around.”
“You’ll love South America,” he tells me. “We’ll do it together again one day.”
“Then Ireland.”
“Green grass,” he whispers.
“Five months.” I feel sick at the thought.
Knuckle rested under my chin, he lifts it, lips brushing against mine. “We’ve done longer.”
I kiss him. Savagely. Because he’s right. Five months is a blip in the ocean compared to what we’ve trekked through.
Brooks meets my fervor with his own. I can feel the despair in the caress of his lips. I taste the melancholy on his tongue. Preparing ourselves to say goodbye without dispute or betrayal may very well be the hardest thing either of us has ever had to do.
But it’s necessary. I’ve come to terms with that. If we can survive the distance while we navigate this new normal, we can survive anything. Our love will be stronger.
“Hen, baby, put your lips on my dick?”
A desperate plea for an intimacy shared between lovers.
“Kiss my cock for me.”
I fold onto my knees, giving in to his request without preamble, words unnecessary. Air pushes from his nostrils forcefully, relief and hunger hooding his lids and pulling at his smirking lips.
Hand wrapped tightly around his shaft, he uses his stiff length to push down his boxers, dragging his head against my agape lips.
“Good girl,” he growls as I flick the tip of my tongue out to collect the bead of cum at his crown.
I circle my lips over his tip, sucking gently.
He moans.
Wrapping a hand at his base, he covers mine with his own, squeezing our hands roughly on the velvety skin.
He groans in approval. “Like that, baby. Squeeze me.”
Tongue to the roof of my mouth, I swallow, letting my spit coat his tip before sliding my lips over his cock, taking him into my mouth.
Up.
Down.
Tensing the length of my tongue, I hold the crown of his cock against the roof of my mouth, the soft suction of my mouth working as I pull lightly at his length.
A thick grunt escapes his lips. “A-h-fuck.”
Free hand cupping the heavy fall of his sack, I massage his balls in the palm of my hand. Knuckles white with his grip on the vanity, his nostrils flare in pleasure, and I hum in gratification. Turning Brooks Riley into a mass of heavy breathing and tensed muscles as I tease him to orgasm might very well be my favorite pastime.
I pull gently on his balls.
Feet arched, he pushes onto the tips of his toes, forcing his cock farther into my mouth. My eyes water at the intrusion, and a carnal look of lust flares in his eyes. I meet his stare, begging him with the tears on my temples.
He thrusts forward again.
A small gag sounds in my throat, and I swallow.
“Fuck, Henley. ’Bout to paint your lips with my cum, baby.”
His words are barely audible, back strained in pleasure.
I pull gently on his balls one last time. He bends in, abs contracting heavily as he milks his cock over my lips, in my mouth, and down my chin.
Hand twisted in my hair atop of my head, Brooks yanks me backward. “Ever told you I love you?”
Pulling the palm of my hand against my lips, I smile.
(almost five months later)
The air smells different in the country. Fresher, of course. Possibly the scent of manure and a slurry pit if you're unlucky. But there's something else. A promise of more. The scent of dew on still wet grass, the remnants of an open-air fire burning clumps of the earth. A clean start. Maybe a new beginning.
The romantic notions in my head have obviously been exaggerated by the excitement I feel at seeing Brooks again. Five months is a long time. Previously, our separations have been clouded with regret and a longing we've both forced ourselves to ignore. This time, our longing was discussed in depth. It was whispered over lengthy conversations saturated in lust and the sounds of self-pleasure. It was embraced and openly encouraged to help us cope with the distance. Being apart didn’t feel as arduous as the times before. Maybe the presence of Brooks heavy in my heart helped. There was a comfort in knowing time was now just a small hurdle, and we’d be together again as soon as we could manage it.
I arrived in Ireland three days ago, making my way to Dingle after spending my first night in Dublin. I couldn't let the opportunity pass to explore the Temple Bar District and let the infamousy of Ireland's hospitality welcome me to my latest pit stop.
I moved from bar to bar, tasting the flair of creativity on each bartender’s signature cocktail.
I listened heavily to the Irish brogue, struggling to keep up with more than my fair share of conversations when the accent was kilted with drink and an additional slur or two.
I was more confident than I’d ever been. More willing to engage strangers in tales of my life if only to encourage them to tell me more of theirs.
It was happiness. I’m certain of it. A giddiness in my person that made me more approachable than my regular morosity.
I was excited. I was animated and merry. The days until I could wrap my arms around Brooks were dwindling with every passing moment.
For the first four months of our separated dalliance, we spoke daily. Conversed via text message more. It was familial. It was a comfort I could never have imagined would fulfill me as significantly as it did. As it has.
When I finish a long shift, a message on my phone has now become the equivalent of a warm embrace on arriving home. It may sound pitiful to someone who lives with the actuality of that warm embrace, but for me, for Brooks, for us, it was an intimacy we hadn’t yet shared. It was a step toward a future I was trying my hardest to remain optimistic about. Brooks and I were used to being alone. We spent our days lost in a world that happily swallowed up our gypsy souls, yet the relief his words could bring offered my searching soul more.
For now anyway.
The last four weeks have been a whole new normal. He’s taken a voyage on the dreaded non-contactable boat. A black hole in a world rife with technology. The very center of my stomach quivers, my toes tingling in apprehension.
Brooks, on a vessel in the middle of the ocean, with no way to contact anyone should anything go wrong. The possibility of tragedy seems endless.
I palm my stomach, pushing heavily against the unwelcome feeling. I clench my toes before stretching them outward.
He was confident in the boat’s safety, which is all I’ve been able to hold onto these past few weeks without the reassurance of a simple text message.
Digging my hands into my pockets as deep as I can, I shiver at the bite in the air. My cheeks are windburned. My lips coated with a thick balm to stop them from cracking in the frigid temperatures. I inhale the cold through my nostrils, enjoying the niggling pain it brings. It’s uncontaminated. The crispness engulfs you the moment you step from the warmth of inside, expanding your lungs pleasantly.
Dingle is exquisite.
Saturated in the true and often talked about Irish charm, it’s not just a melody to the eyes. The friendliness and hearty welcome of the locals are unlike most other places I’ve visited. I felt at home the moment my feet touched land, and being lost on the juxtaposition of the cold climate and warmth in people is something my heart has searched for my entire life.
The cobblestones of the s
treets are uneven under my feet. Some loose enough to shake under my step. I smile, knowing Brooks will fall as heavily in love with this country as I have.
I smile at locals as I pass them, their ruddy cheeks not unlike my own. I’ve been spending my days exploring. For a population of just over two thousand, Dingle is home to thirty different bars. Thirty different opportunities to learn, to observe, to soak up knowledge I’ve yet to discover. I’m determined to make my way through them all.
Day by day.
Tasting cocktails and losing myself in conversation with the men and women tending bar.
Brooks and I agreed on a hiatus from work over the next few weeks. Time together was to be exactly that. No distractions. No complications. Hours spent with only one another. Exploring not only Ireland and its beauty, but one another. We wanted the time to become lost in each other the way we longed to.
I smile at the soft bell that sounds as I step through the door of the coffeehouse only doors down from the bed and breakfast I’ve rented for my time in Dingle.
“Mornin’, Henley.”
“Morning, Mrs. Doyle.”
“Tea for you this morning?”
“Please.” I hand over a bunch of coins which she picks up without counting, dropping them into the register before sliding it shut with her hip.
“Where to today?”
“Dick Mack’s,” I answer from the seat I’ve claimed as she makes my tea.
“Popular one that one.”
“Hmm.”
“When does your man arrive?”
Butterflies flutter in my stomach at the mere mention of Brooks. “Three days. Though, I thought I would’ve heard from him by now.”
“Ah, from what you’ve told me of ‘im”—she places the teapot down with a beautiful teacup—“he probably wants to surprise ya.”
“Thank you.” I gesture to the tea. “He knows how much I hate surprises,” I joke. “But maybe you’re right.”
I sip on the tea as I watch locals come and go from the coffee shop, the familiarity Mrs. Doyle greeted me with similar to those she’s known for forty-plus years.
I let the fantasy she planted in my head expand as the citrus of my Earl Grey dances along my tastebuds. Maybe Brooks surprising me wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I smile in spite of myself, my feet tapping against the floor in time with the old Irish tune drifting from the small radio Mrs. Doyle keeps behind the counter.
