Begging for It

by Lilah Pace

  So after a moment’s consideration, I say to Shay, “You did miss out on that time. It’s okay to recognize that. But you also gained so much more time being a wife and a mom. You’ve already found the love the rest of us have to search for throughout our lives. ” I nudge her shoulder playfully. “Besides, this way your kids will go off to college while you and Arturo are still young enough to enjoy your freedom. The rest of us are going to be gray and grumpy at our sixth graders’ PTA meetings—”

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  Shay pushes back, but now she’s grinning. “Stop it. You won’t be searching for love your entire life. ” Her eyes flick over toward Jonah; he’s at the bar, attempting to gracefully extricate himself from some interminable anecdote Mack is telling. “Looks like you might already have found it. ”

  Jonah and I—forever?

  Shay’s only joking. To her, or to anyone on the outside, Jonah and I are a very new pair. We only met five months ago. While we’ve met each other’s families and spent the holidays together, conventional wisdom would suggest that it’s far too early to start speculating about the altar.

  Yet we know each other more intimately than most people do after years. I have shown Jonah the deepest part of my soul, and he didn’t flinch. He revealed himself to me just as fully. Whatever we are, it’s not “conventional. ” We could never walk away from each other in a break like any other couple. Either we will go up in devastating flames, or we’ll be together—always.

  Those are the stakes we’re playing for.

  Jumbled visions crowd into my mind: mostly stupid, ring-commercial bullshit about white dresses and cakes decorated with complicated loops of frosting, the stuff I can barely stand and Jonah probably hates. I recognize this as more of Mom’s programming and push it aside.

  One image, however, refuses to fade so quickly: Jonah holding a child, our child, as tenderly as Arturo is holding Nicolas.

  Could we be decent parents? It’s not like we have the greatest examples to learn from. My parents insist on living life only on the surface, judging by appearances, and avoiding uncomfortable truths. As for Jonah—he’d have been better off being raised by wolves.

  I take a deep breath and shake off my complicated thoughts. That cart is incredibly far before its horse. Besides, this is a party, dammit.

  A limp, tepid party, but it still counts.

  Glancing around the room, I see Carmen in her pretty dress. She’s weaving through the crowd distributing silly paper hats and plastic tiaras. Jonah simply shakes his head no, but her next target is more appreciative. Geordie smiles, checks out the silver top hat, then insists on taking a purple glitter tiara. Carmen laughs—she has the most amazing laugh, one that lights up a room—and Geordie looks more cheerful than I’ve seen him in months. I wonder what might happen at midnight . . .

  “Here you go,” Jonah says. He hands me my glass of faux sangria as he nods back at Mack. “That guy doesn’t know when to stop. ”

  “Tell me about it. What was he going on about this time?”

  “One of those jokes where you’re not sure whether it’s racist, but it’s definitely stupid. I’ll spare you the details. ”

  “Forget about him. ” I take my glass and hold it up. “Shouldn’t we make a toast?”

  Jonah does the same, but his expression is wary. “Superstition says it’s bad luck to toast with anything but alcohol. ”

  “You never struck me as the superstitious type. Besides, aren’t we already tempting fate?”

  “In so many ways,” he murmurs. “All right. I’ll propose a toast. To this year, one of the strangest of my life—but worth every problem and every pain. Because this is the year that brought you to me. ”

  “To this year. ” We clink our plastic glasses against each other, and I laugh at the silliness of it. Jonah takes a drink first; I’m interrupted by Carmen.

  “All right, Jonah, you’re determined to be a spoilsport”—she sticks her tongue out at him, which he takes with good grace—“but I know you’ll have fun with it, Vivienne. Which hat do you want?”

  I take the silver top hat and place it on my head. It slides slightly to the side, off-kilter, but that seems about right for New Year’s. “Finally, it’s a party. Thanks, Carmen. ”

  “You’re welcome—oh, look at the time!”

  This is exactly when Arturo calls out, “One minute to the new year. Get ready!”

  We all gather around the television, which is on silent but displays the thousands of revelers in Times Square. The ball begins to shimmer with countless tiny bulbs, and confetti begins spiraling down from the sky.

  The chant begins. “Ten! Nine! Eight!”

  “I can’t wait to spend this year with you,” I whisper to Jonah.

  “I can’t wait to spend tonight with you,” he answers, even more quietly.

  My gut clenches. We haven’t made love since we decided to put the games aside. Will I be able to come? Can Jonah accept it if I don’t?

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  “Seven! Six! Five! Four!”

  Jonah frames my face with both his hands. “If you could see yourself like this—this dress, your eyes, even the damned shiny hat—Jesus, Vivienne. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. ”

  We’ll be all right. We have to be.

  “Three! Two!”

  “I love you,” I whisper.

  “One!”

  “I love you too. ” He pulls me in for a kiss just as the cheers go up, and in the first moments of the new year—our first year together—I forget about everything except the feel of his mouth against mine.

  Twenty-one

  We go back to my place. It’s closer to Carmen’s, and besides—even if we haven’t been drinking tonight, other drivers will have been. As we walk through the door, I find myself thinking, We’re safe. Everything’s fine.

  It was easier to worry about the traffic. Now I’m alone with Jonah, and the moment of truth has come.

  Jonah slides and turns all the locks, sealing us inside. I slip off my cardboard top hat, then hold it out for his inspection. “Would you rather I kept it on?”

  “Interesting idea. ” My little joke doesn’t fool him, though. “You’re nervous. Don’t be. ”

  “Easy for you to say. ” Jonah may share the same dark urges I do, but they’ve never been the only way he could get off.

  He pulls me closer to him; the silver hat falls from my fingers onto the sofa, where it shines softly in the dim light. “Hey. You’ve never been with anyone who knew the whole story. That changes things. Doesn’t it?”

  “I hope so. ”

  “It’s going to be okay. ” Jonah’s broad hands stroke the length of my back. The pale pink sequins on my dress make a silvery sound against his palms. “I’ll take good care of you. ”

  The sound of his voice melts me, every time. If any man can do this for me, Jonah can. I caress the side of his face with my hand, then go on tiptoe for a kiss.

  We’ve kissed less than most couples. Our foreplay hasn’t been sweet or gentle; our aftermaths have been as much about soothing bruises as touching lips. That’s a shame, because the way Jonah kisses drives me wild.

  He buries his hands in my hair as he opens my mouth with his. We kiss long and deep, sharing one breath. Jonah slides his tongue in and out of my mouth—once, slowly—inviting me to think of the way he’ll push his cock into me later tonight. In response I lean against him so he can feel my breasts rising and falling with my quickening breath.

  Jonah likes that. His fingers trace the strap of my dress and push it over my bare shoulder. “No bra,” he murmured. “I like that. ”

  “You like thinking about me naked under this dress?” I flick my tongue against his earlobe. “Is that it?”

  “I always like thinking about you naked. Tonight, I’m glad nothing else is in my way. ” He bends me back slightly, drops a kiss on the hollow of my throat, then slides his hands down my body to the hem of my dress. I gasp as his fin

gertips catch the edge of my underwear. “I could just push those panties to the floor and fuck you right here. ”

  “Show me,” I whisper.

  Jonah tugs downward until my nude-colored panties slip down my thighs to puddle around my ankles. He slides his fingers between my legs, first tracing the heat of my skin, then parting me, probing me—

  “Oh. ” The sound escapes my mouth as he gently pushes two fingers inside me. A gush of wetness welcomes him—so much it would embarrass me if it didn’t clearly turn Jonah on.

  “You like it when I use my hand?” he asks, his voice maddeningly calm, as if he were merely observing this, controlling it, instead of wanting it as much as I do. Only the long, thick swelling down the leg of his pants betrays his arousal. “Then I know how to start. ”

  My head swirls. Dizziness mingles with lust. It’s going to be okay! I think, my excitement peaking. We’ll be all right. Jonah changes everything, I should’ve known he would—

  Jonah pulls his hand back, but before I can protest, he sweeps me into his arms and carries me the few steps to my bedroom. When he tosses me on the bed, I feel a thrill—he’s begun like this so many times, throwing me down before holding me down—but this time, he alters his approach. He curves his hand around my thigh, savoring me for one moment, before he backs off to strip.

  My God, this man’s body. He could’ve been sketched by Leonardo, with this perfect symmetry, every muscle of his powerful form shown in tantalizing detail. Who could have sculpted him? Michelangelo, says my art-student brain, but I reject the idea almost as fast. Jonah’s unique proportions—his elongated torso, the unbelievable contrast of his broad shoulders and slim waist—they wouldn’t match any of Michelangelo’s hulking mesomorphs. Jonah Marks is a masterpiece unlike any other.

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  And he is mine.

  He finishes undressing, shedding his boxers. His cock, already hard for me, springs free from the elastic. As always, I can’t believe all that is for me. I slide my legs around to get on my knees and crawl toward the edge of the bed. Smiling, I look up at Jonah and lick my lips before saying, “Come here. ”

  Jonah steps forward, brushing back my hair with one hand while using the other to guide his cock into my mouth.

  Usually he’s so forceful with me—shoving deep into my throat, fucking my mouth, pulling my hair. I love that. But this is good too, because I can really give him the attention he deserves. I run my tongue along the length of his shaft, tease the ridge with my lips, suck the head once or twice before pulling back to make him groan. When I finally take him in all the way, Jonah breathes out as sharply as if he’d been struck. I smile around his cock and start working him with my hand too.

  Pre-come slicks my tongue. He could get off like this. He’s so hard, so flushed, that it wouldn’t take much to bring him over the edge. Maybe that’s how I ought to do it.

  And then maybe he’d just want to go to sleep, maybe he wouldn’t insist on trying to get me off too, not tonight—

  Jonah pulls out of my mouth, takes one step back, and shakes his head. He caught himself right on the brink. “Damn,” he breathes.

  I wipe my lips with the back of my hand. “Hey, I wasn’t finished. ”

  “I’d ask how you got so good at that if I didn’t think the answer would make me completely fucking insane with jealousy. ” He visibly struggles for control, and wins. As a slow smile spreads across his face, he pulls me from all fours to my knees and tugs my dress away. Now I’m naked too. The snow-white sheets make my skin seem darker by contrast, an almost dusky pink. Whatever Jonah sees, he likes. “Stand up for me. ”

  I get off the bed, willing but uncertain. Then Jonah drops to his knees in front of me, and I barely have time to gasp before he gets his face between my legs.

  Reeling, I brace myself against his shoulders. He grips me at the hipbones as he works, his tongue parting the soft folds of my cunt before finding my clit. Then Jonah goes for it, caressing me in spirals until I’m seeing stars. I don’t think it can get any better than that until he starts to suck. After that I can’t think anything any longer.

  This is it. This has to be it. I’m so close—so fucking close—my heartbeat has sped up, the muscles of my inner thighs have locked, and my body is poised right there, right there . . .

  Any moment now . . .

  But I don’t come. All the pressure and tension is there, but it’s not enough to break the walls down.

  Fuck, I think in frustration, then decide that’s the answer. “Fuck me,” I pant as I run my fingers through Jonah’s short hair. “Please, Jonah, I want you to fuck me. ”

  Instantly he pulls back and climbs onto the bed, tugging me down alongside him. First he’s distracted by my breasts, caressing them roughly, rubbing my already-hard nipples with his thumbs until I writhe. But it’s only moments before he slings one of his legs between mine, the hard muscles of his thigh spreading me wider.

  As Jonah crawls over me, he whispers, “You won’t—you promise not to—”

  Not to fantasize about him raping me. I want to so bad, because it would get me off. And the way I feel now, helpless and overwhelmed, would work so well . . .

  But I promise. “I won’t. I won’t. Just fuck me. ”

  It’s going to be enough this time. I know it.

  Jonah covers my body with his and starts rocking back and forth; I’d say he was dry-humping me, except that this is anything but dry. The wetness between my thighs is all over his legs, his mouth and his hands, and his pre-come only makes this slicker. His cock slides over my clit, between the folds of my cunt, teasing the entrance but never quite sliding in. The friction is just enough to make me start panting again.

  Then I realize—the head of his cock is penetrating me, just barely, but slightly more with every stroke. Jonah is working me open as slowly and deliciously as possible.

  Maybe this is what it’s like between two virgins, I think in a daze as the whole head of his cock dips inside, only for a moment. Moving from foreplay to intercourse without even noticing the boundary line. Pure and perfect.

  I’d like that sometime—if I pretended to be a virgin again and Jonah took my virginity by force, but in some completely unexpected way—

  No. He asked me not to have those fantasies. I can resist, even now.

  Jonah’s cock finally penetrates me fully, and we both moan in mutual bliss. He takes his time, moving us in slow spirals. I clutch his waist as he straightens his arms, separating our bodies enough for us to see his cock sliding in and out of me.

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  “I want to fuck you like this all night. ” His voice is tight with strain. He’s just barely holding on, waiting for me.

  And as good as this feels—I’m still not able to come.

  Why not? The voice in my head has become insistent now. Almost a shriek. Why can’t you do this? The hottest man you’ve ever seen is making love to you with all the strength and technique and tenderness you could ever want. You can come just from feeling a cock inside you. So why not his cock, right now? Come on. Come on!

  My arousal fades, rubbed out by frustration. My cheeks flush in humiliation and useless exertion as I try to match Jonah thrust for thrust. If I could bring him off, maybe he—wouldn’t notice?

  Stupid idea. Worthless too. Because as Jonah slows down, then stops, his expression clouds over. “You don’t like this. ”

  “I do! I love it. ” He feels so incredibly good inside me. It’s just not enough. “But I can’t quite . . . get there. ”

  “We’ll keep going. I can hang on for a while. ” Jonah smiles unevenly. “And if I jump the gun, that just gives me an excuse to go down on you again. ”

  Most women would be singing the “Hallelujah Chorus” right around now. What else could you ask for in a man? But all I can imagine is minute after minute, hour after hour, of Jonah watching me, working me, all the while needing me to come. Feeling observed like that—judged—that only makes sure orgasm remains completely impossible.

  “Please don’t,” I say. “Please. ”

  “Why wouldn’t you want to—”

  “I don’t want to disappoint you!”

  “You couldn’t, Vivienne. Not ever. ”

  He sounds so sweet, but now there are tears in my eyes. “I’m disappointing you right now, and we both know it. ”

  Jonah sighs. His head droops against my shoulder, and then he pulls out to flop down by my side. “Okay,” he says heavily. “Okay. ”

  “You don’t have to stop. ” I curl along his side and slide one thigh invitingly over his groin. His cock is still half-hard; he must be aching from the release he’s denying himself. “I don’t mind. Like I said, it feels amazing just having you inside me. ”

  “I can’t use you, without at least trying to get you off too. ”

  “You did try. You’re not using me. ”

  “I’m not, because this is over. ”

  “Jonah—”

  “Please, don’t. ” He grimaces, then covers his face with one hand. “Besides, at this point, we’ve killed the mood. ”

  He’s right. What had been so passionate, so glorious, now feels like nothing but failure.

  A few tears escape, and Jonah must hear me sniffle, because he gathers me into his arms and kisses my hair. “So we didn’t get there on our first try. We have a long time to work it out. ”

  Those words are meant to be kind. Instead they make me feel even worse. “How long is too long? I can wait—I can work on it—but you don’t want this, Jonah. ” No man could. I’ve gone from being Jonah’s wanton fantasy partner to the endlessly dissatisfied woman out of a thousand sexist jokes.

  “I want you. What you’re going through—it can’t be forever. You deserve so much better than that. So much more. ”

  “Some scars last forever, Jonah. You ought to know. ”

  He goes quiet then, but he holds me even more snugly against him. It helps.

  There’s a bleak symmetry to this, I realize. A kind of poetry. Once we believed we shared nothing but a sexual fetish. Now that fetish is the only thing keeping us apart. It is beautiful to be so tied to someone. It’s terrible to know that’s not the only way you’re bound.

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