by James, Ella
Instead I rise on my knees, scooting closer before rubbing him where I need him.
“I want you here.”
His eyes peel open. They seem pained, and when he speaks, his lovely, warm voice vibrates. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t—” His eyes squeeze shut, then open. “Finley.”
It sounds like a plea…or prayer.
“You can’t tell me you don’t ache for it. You’re desperate to press into me…and I want you there.” My voice catches. “I crave it.”
I lie on my back beside him, handing him the reins. My heart hammers as we lie there, side by side, both panting. Then he’s up. He’s on his knees between my legs. His eyes are molten as his hand works his stiff sex, stroking from tip to base, making his balls bounce with each firm stroke.
“Finley…”
I reach for him, stroking the twin globes as he tugs his sex. He groans raggedly.
“I need you,” I whisper.
“Oh fuck…Finley.”
I wrap a hand around his shaft, and with the other trace the seam between his testes. Something like shock flickers through his features. Then he rubs himself against me. I can feel the pressure of him, feel the tremble in his arm, the one that’s holding him up. His eyes focus on mine as he rubs me harder with his firm tip.
“You’re so fucking perfect.”
“You are.”
I laugh, and his eyes squeeze shut. I stroke his arm and lift my hips.
“Are you sure?” It’s raspy, an apology in a question.
“Yes.”
His eyes open to hold mine. His hand grasps my hip. I can feel him rubbing at me, pressing there.
“I’m sorry,” he rasps.
The next moment, he thrusts. I’m torn open, soul and body. He’s in me. He’s in me. Oh—I feel him deep inside. The stark invasion has me panting, my legs quaking as I try to make sense of the massive presence, of the stinging soreness of my flesh, and at the same time, such a heady, stuffed sensation. I shift a slight bit, and he presses at my insides, making me groan.
I’m shaking, my eyes leaking. Over me, he’s panting as his hand smooths my hair off my forehead.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck. Ahh, Finley…”
He sounds desperate. I can feel him trembling, too. I grip his arm as sweat rolls down my temple. Then he pushes deeper.
“Ohhhhh.”
It’s exquisite. I feel filled—too full—and somehow in need of precisely that. I shift my hips again, and he moves his—so carefully at first, withdrawing slightly, stinging. Then his wide eyes burn mine, and he presses fully in again, his eyes closing. He makes a grunt-like sound…and I’m impaled. I’m simply stuffed full, all my nerve endings flashing like lightning and rolling like thick thunderclouds.
Light rolls through me—blazing, golden.
“Oh fuck. Fuck…” His body quakes above mine. His face twists. I feel his legs quake. He’s in so deep, I cry out at the pleasure of it. And then he draws out nearly all the way, his hand gripping my shoulder as he pushes back in.
“Oh!”
“Finley.” He’s out and then he’s plunging back in, tightening my belly, trembling my knees.
I can’t help a grunt as he draws out and repeats, filling me with so much pleasure, I fell near to bursting with it.
He groans, repeating the thrust two more times, until he’s buried fully in me. I feel heavy, something tugging at me. At the same time, I’m swelling. I’m starting to spark.
Then his hips begin to thrust more rhythmically. His eyes are shut tightly, his dark brows furrowed, full lips parted. Every time he fills me, I can feel it building. Pleasure rolls through me, lifting me up.
I feel when he’s near release—the frenzied pace, the way he fills me tighter. I’m groaning, grunting, grasping at my own tendrils of bliss.
I slam against him, crying, “Harder!”
He gives what I ask, and two more thrusts—
I scream as his chest comes low over mine. I can feel him trembling, then we’re panting; we’re both panting, and he’s dripping sweat. I’m weeping and he’s whispering, his voice rough and concerned. I’m kissing his salty shoulder.
“Did I hurt you?”
“Yes,” I laugh.
He lifts himself up, and I clench around him. My hand squeezes his hip.
“I like it,” I whisper drunkenly. “I like it.”
My awareness ebbs as he withdraws and moves off me. A rush of cold air sweeps my damp, prickling skin. Then his arms are coming beneath me. I’m being lifted. I’m held against his chest, and his eyes are on my face.
I can’t read his face as he strides into the bathroom, where he sets me on my feet in the cold tub and leans over to start the faucet. He uses his hands to direct the water away from me before it’s warmed up.
I smile at that.
His gaze swings to mine, and I find his blue eyes wide and cautious.
“What’s the matter?”
He gives me a funny little smile, but I can feel the tension underneath it. “Are you okay?”
“I’m lovely.”
I watch as he swallows. “Are you sure?” His voice is low.
“Yes.” I reach for him, my fingers gripping his forearm. “Get in with me.”
His eyes scan the tub.
“Get in. I don’t care how. I’ll sit on your lap.”
When he doesn’t move, I rise gingerly on my knees and wrap my arms around his neck. “Carnegie…” I kiss his cheek as he reaches down to put the stopper in the tub.
When he looks at me again, his face is gravely serious. I stroke his cheek and lean in close. “What’s the matter, darling?”
He won’t look at me.
“Did it hurt you?”
“No. Fuck no.” He stands up, and I scoot toward the faucet. “Sit behind me.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he climbs in behind me, stretching his strong legs out around me. As I wonder if I’ve ruined this somehow, he wraps his arms around my waist. He folds my back against his chest, one arm below my breasts, and I can feel him breathing.
I cling to his forearm. When he kisses my shoulder, I rub his leg with my foot. Then I need the reassurance of his eyes. I turn to face him. Instead of kissing me, as at first I think he will, he pulls me to him, hugging me so hard it nearly hurts.
I hug him back. I stroke his shoulder, kiss his pec.
“I’m sorry.” His voice vibrates.
“Why are you sorry?”
He shakes his head. He shakes his head again, and I can feel him inhale. “It’s been a while.” It’s whispered.
“Was it…”
“It was good. I’m glad I had the condom.”
I press my hand to his chest. I can feel his heartbeat, hard and fast. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
His eyes shut, and he shakes his head once more. When he speaks, the words are soft—so very soft, near murmured. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m not hurt. It felt amazing.”
I frame his face with my hands, gently forcing his eyes to mine. Troubled eyes.
I stroke his cheeks and neck, and then his shoulders. His eyes close. Then his hand comes to his face, his fingers tunneling into his hair.
I hug him.
“I don’t do that…with virgins.” It’s a raspy whisper.
“Why not? Does it…hurt you?”
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t feel fair.” His eyes open. He looks dazed.
“Why not?”
He shakes his head again.
“You’re far from a virgin. Is that why?”
He nods once.
“I knew. I figured,” I amend. “You’re gorgeous and wealthy…a sports star.” I’m trying for a bit of levity, resurrecting the sentiment I expressed in the burrow—that I won’t pity him because he’s so superlative. I want to prompt a smile.
Instead, he holds his head with one hand; with the other, he g
rips the bath’s side. “I can’t fuck you up, Finley.”
“You won’t. You didn’t. Come here…” I try to kiss his mouth and end up kissing his chin. “You would never hurt me. I know that, and I’m not worried at all.”
His eyes lift open, and his mouth takes mine. He kisses me deeply…with a sort of hunger. Then he wrenches away. I feel as if he’ll lean away. Instead, he pulls me to him, holding me against his chest, where I can feel his heartbeat. “When we got back, I was fucking haunted by you.”
When we got back—from the burrow. “Likewise,” I whisper.
He inhales. Blows the breath out. “I don’t do this.” It’s half groaned. He’s got his head bowed near my shoulder.
“Do what?”
“Nothing more than sex. Ever.” The words are rough and soft. Confessional.
“So…no dinners. No dates. No snuggling or kisses…or baths.” I brush my lips along his jaw. “You don’t want those things?” I whisper over his skin.
I feel him shiver before he shakes his head. “Not good at it.”
“I’d argue that on baths.” I smile a bit as I feather a kiss over his collarbone. “You’re sitting up. Staying afloat. In fact, you’re keeping me afloat. Without support, I simply sink. Quite like a stone.”
His mouth curves up on one side. He’s still got his eyes closed, so he doesn’t see me coming as I kiss one dimple, then the other.
“Let me tell you something, Carnegie.” I wait a beat until his eyelids lift. His mouth is still quirked up a bit as I say, “I’m not like your other girls.”
“How so?” He’s smirking, despite the heaviness that’s clinging to the rest of his face.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what they’re like. But I’m not like them. I can sense all your malarkey.”
He grins—just a flash, but it’s radiant. I run my hand down his arm till my hand meets his, and then I squeeze. “I think you’re romantic. It’s your secret, I believe. I can’t imagine you dismissing me after what we just did. But you’re saying that’s what you do normally?”
He casts his eyes away from mine, looking at the flowing faucet. After a time, he says, “It’s different there. Sometimes they want that, too.”
I regard him with my eyes narrowed, my head tilted. “You need women in your bed and bath. You hate to be alone.”
He makes a skeptical face—a bit exaggerated, silly—as a cover for the weight of things. “What makes you say that?” Now he’s looking at me again.
“You’re a barfly. And the whole world knows you throw massive parties. Besides that, I feel it.”
His lips press together, seeming tremulous despite the way he widens his eyes and arches his brows; he’s trying for a silly a face, a much more casual impression.
I lean in, sighing as I rest my cheek on his shoulder. “In any event, I’m not leaving your bath or bed. Tell me you don’t want me to,” I whisper.
His cheek rests on my hair. I hold my breath as he inhales slowly, perhaps deciding if he’ll give me honesty. After a long second, he says, “I don’t want you to.”
He takes my face in his hands, peering into my eyes before kissing me. His mouth is hard and firm, his tongue forceful and smooth. We kiss until my hands are squeezing his shoulders. I need air, but I don’t have the self-control to pull away.
When finally we part, I gobble down a breath or two, and then I’m laughing.
“What’s so funny?” His eyes burn into mine.
“I’d rather kiss you than breathe.”
I run my hand down his side, and he cups my breast. A moment later, he gathers me in his arms, slowly stands, and, holding me to his chest, grabs a towel, which he folds around me.
He grins down at me as he carries me to the bed, where he tucks me in and delves under the covers. He rests his cheek on my thigh, and I stroke his shoulder then his bicep with my foot. He kisses the back of my knee. I’m panting as his mouth crawls upward.
Then his lips and tongue are where I’m warm and needy. And for all my talk—all my bluster in the tub—I’m reduced to whimpering. I come so fiercely, I’m near-instantly tugged under afterward.
I feel him situate beside me, pulling me against his chest. With no ado, he folds himself around me, and we sleep.
Five
Declan
I told her I wasn’t going to jump, but that’s not completely true. I didn’t want to jump. I fall asleep with that thought in my head and sleep a few hours before waking. I lie still for a while longer, my body curved behind her smaller, softer one, my lips wanting to kiss her hair—although I don’t.
At five, when I don’t think I can keep from rubbing my erection against her ass, I climb out of bed and start on pancakes. While I stand there flipping them, I think that it feels like I did jump. Not in the way of the relief I think that would be—I feel like I’m in a free fall.
Should I be fucking her? Obviously not. It’s been high school since I fucked a virgin. There’s a certain type of woman I go for back home, and it isn’t never-been-kissed. I prefer the older ones, the one-night-standers who tell me from square one all they want is a night full of Homer. Or the married ones whose husbands fuck around my circle, so I know it’s okay to take them for a quick spin out of wedlock; there are no expectations.
The best ones are the so-called “bat bunnies”—the ones who fuck the whole damn team—the unattached ones, anyway—then tag us all on Instagram or post a pic in someone’s boxer briefs.
If a girl in Boston, or New York, or LA looks younger than me, I give her a second thought. I try to say “no” if she’s fucked up on something, if she mentions anything about the future, or gets breathless when I kiss her. If she even hesitates unbuttoning my pants, sometimes I’ll get cold feet and throw the brakes on.
I feel like a stranger to myself when I think of Finley curled up back there in the bed, probably just a little while away from waking up sore. Sore because I let myself take what I wanted.
But—fuck me—I can’t seem to do things differently. I can’t stay away from her. Even if I wanted to, I can’t. The worst thing is, I don’t want to. I’ve got no sense of restraint when I’m around her. No self-control. I don’t like that. If nothing else, I want to be someone who’s…not predatory.
She seemed like she knew what she wanted, but does she really? How will she feel when it’s time for me to go home? How the fuck do I respect her right to decide what to do with her own pussy and also protect her?
By not fucking her, dipshit.
Just say “no.”
I move some pancakes from the skillet to the plate and think hard on that option. Thinking of ending things with her makes my stomach lurch. Gives me that bad free-fall feeling.
I’m still thinking when I spot her in the doorway. She’s got on the same clothes as last night—dark jeans and a plain gray, long-sleeved shirt—but her hair’s flowing down her shoulders, and her face is soft, her eyes sleepy. When she sees me, she grins like she’s won the lottery. She bounces over, throwing her arm around me as she laughs softly.
“Look at you.” Her hand comes to my neck, and I frown before remembering I put an apron on. I shake my head, and she hugs me.
“That was Gammy’s. It looks better on you, though. What are you doing in here?” She looks at the skillet, and her green eyes widen. “Incredible.”
“You think I can’t cook?”
She laughs. “Of course. I’d imagine you’d have a harem of lady chefs who feed you grapes in bed.”
I snort. Then I wrap my arm around her, pull her up against my side so I can hold her up against me while my free hand flips the pancakes. “I can cook a few things, Siren. Mac and cheese. Bacon. Cheese toast.” I chuckle. “Pancakes…waffles.”
“These smell lovely.”
She breaks away from me, setting up the table for us. I can feel her eyes on my back as I finish cooking. While we eat, my heart starts kind of racing and my hands start shaking, but I keep on talking—we’re debating whethe
r aliens will visit Earth (she thinks yes, I think maybe)—and keep eating, even though I’ve got that never-ending seasick feeling.
When we’ve almost finished off the pancake pile, she drops a piece into her lap, and my hand dives under the table cloth. Our eyes meet, and instead of moving back to the table, my hand curves around her knee.
She looks at me with wide eyes and an “o” mouth and those pink cheeks, and I can’t help smiling.
“It’s the shy Siren.” I stroke her denim-covered thigh.
Her hand covers mine, and she smiles shyly. She looks giddy. Like a kid. We lace our hands together, and that’s how we sit while we both finish eating.
We end up fucking again after. I don’t want to push her, but in the end, it’s Finley who pushes me. We’re on the couch, and I’m about to push in when I realize I don’t have a condom. I have to run go grab one. Finley laughs her ass off as I try to get it on.
“It’s far too tight!” She chortles.
I shake my head, tugging and pulling at the damn thing.
“Are you too oversize for ordinary condoms?”
“Oversize. Now that sounds like a bad thing.”
“Oh, it’s not a bad thing.”
My gaze catches on her bare breasts and her legs, spread slightly, giving me a peek at that plump pussy. I can’t formulate a reply. My dick is desperate to be in that tight cunt. I dirty talk her some and tease her, rolling my head around her dripping slit while she squirms, looking gorgeous with her hair everywhere and a little smile on her lips.
I make sure she’s nice and wet before I push in. Then I hold her hips, gritting my teeth as I restrain from the hard fuck I want to give her. It’s her second time; I’ve gotta take it slow. That’s okay, because it feels so goddamn good…the way she squeezes me. I try to remember anything before her—the last time I fucked a woman and felt good after.
Shit, when was it? Last summer? I don’t like to think of that, so I focus on my breathing and her little murmurs and her sharp cries. I bring Finley pleasure, and I have myself one hell of a hard come. Afterward, she crawls into my lap and teases my cock in its condom. She runs her warm palm down my happy trail, and I get hard again. Then she cradles my balls and gets me panting like a teenager.