by A. J. Downey
They went to parties. They shared the apartment. They rode on his bike, everywhere it seemed like. He wanted her with him all the time, and she had thought that meant something, too. Until she learned it didn’t. But, he still wanted her with him, had showed her how to ride, borrowing a bike from one of the other Rebels to teach her. They had even ridden together like that, traveling to Indianapolis more than once to meet with men he called brother there. Meetings where he introduced her as his. Claimed, but not.
“Francine.” She felt her shoulders curve down, suddenly embarrassed at being caught watching him masturbate, knowing how mortified she would be if he walked in on her using the please-God silent vibrator that lived in her underwear drawer, his name in her mouth. Eyes on the carpet, she turned to flee to her room across the hall when he called her name again. “Fran, honey.” Her gaze cut back to him because he had never called her anything other than her name, ever, and it pissed her off that he would use this moment to introduce a throwaway endearment to their…non-relationship.
He was still sitting, but had released his grip and was now holding out his hand, reaching for her as he had done so often over the past weeks. Every time she was around, he reached for her, fingers wrapping around her hand, her shoulder, her hip. His hand, or hands, or arms, draped around her.
“Come here, Francine.” His firm use of her full name did it, jarring her from stillness. Without letting herself question, she stooped, squatting with knees together in the skirt she wore to work today and she set the items in her hands on the floor. She pushed up from the floor and stood, wiping her suddenly sweaty palms on her skirt, pressing shaking fingers into quaking thighs before she leaned forward and took the first step.
“That’s it, come to me, Francine.” His voice was low and commanding, with sweet mixed in, but it was as far from soft as she had ever heard it, this tone drawing a delicious shiver from her.
Placing her hand in his, the heat from his palm surrounded her and swept away the nervousness threatening to swamp her senses. He tugged and she bent over as he straightened, bringing his other hand up to cup the back of her neck, guiding her down. Wordlessly he looked at her for a moment and she dropped her gaze to his mouth, then to his neck, which seemed suddenly so much safer to look at.
“Honey,” he murmured, then she felt his hand tighten. “Look at me.”
Her eyes flicked back to meet his gaze, then transferred to his mouth again. She saw his lips curl up at the corners, watched, spellbound as his tongue slipped out, tapping on his top lip. “Honey,” he called again, and she knew this wasn’t a throwaway word for him. It meant something when he called her that, which meant she might mean something to him. Encouraged, she lifted her gaze to find his had heated. His focus on her so intense that she thought the world could end around them and he would not only not notice, but wouldn’t care even if he did.
A tug on her hand had her bending over farther, then the heat intensified and she realized he had wrapped their joined fingers around his erection. Sleek and silken, the skin underneath her touch slipped over the hardness underneath, then she felt the rigid rim of the crown bumping her circled finger and thumb. Without thought she swept her thumb across the head, firmly pressing and dragging against the slit weeping pre-come. She watched as the look on his face darkened, his mouth hardened, but his eyes were so warm, oh so warm as they looked at her and she knew he saw her, was seeing everything she wanted, everything she had to give. He saw it all, and she watched him nod slowly before her eyes closed because he had pulled on her neck, bringing her closer, confidently pressing his lips to hers.
He held that connection, her mouth open slightly, their panted breaths mingling as they drew in the next, and the next. Their hands still joined on his cock, moving faster, up and down, stroking. The heel of her hand feeling the coarse texture of the hair at the root on each downstroke, then up and across the crown with her thumb again, before their fingers bumped over the rim on their way back down. “Touch me, Francine.” He spoke these words softly, lips moving against her mouth, tipping his neck to press his forehead against hers. “Touch me, honey.”
Reaching out with her other hand, she trailed fingertips across his jaw, feeling the rough stubble along that angled surface. Then, back to his ear, sweeping her fingers around the shell, gently pressing the earlobe between finger and thumb. Palm to his neck, the pounding pulse transferring to her, bringing her already racing heart to a faster beat, knowing deep in her bones that he liked this, that he wanted this. Maybe wanted her.
Stroking down the center of his chest, fingertips venturing sideways across his defined muscles to find the flat disk of his nipple. Dragging a gentle fingernail across the nub, rolling and stroking, feeling the rush of air across her lips when he gasped. Tightening her fingers with his on his cock, taking them faster as she played with his chest. He gasped again, then groaned and slowed them back to the original pace of up, down, up, swirl, down, grind. “Honey, you do that, I won’t last to be inside you.”
She clenched again, knowing the rush of air this time was from her sucking in a breath at the brutal disappointment of that empty. His words underscored it in such a way she was weak at the knees with wanting him to fill it, fill her, take away the empty and fill her up. Right up to the top, calling her honey, always remembering her name.
She knew of a way he could fill her right now, seated as he was with her between his thighs and without another thought she folded her legs, dropping to her knees, liking that she never lost his hand at the back of her neck. He pressed under her jaw with his thumb, tipping her head up. His eyes, so warm, still seeing her, always seeing her. Seeing what she wanted, wanted for him, from him, for her. He nodded, fingers stroking her cheek, tucking her hair behind her ear. His hand shifted, sliding down, curling around, and the pad of his thumb pressed into her neck. Not hurting, just holding, and she realized he had settled over her pulse, thudding hard. Taking stock, assessing, ensuring this was what she wanted.
Eyes locked on his, she used their hands on his cock to tip him, levering his length down to point to her mouth, making it clear what the target was. The tip brushed her lips and she opened immediately, wrapping her tongue around the head of his cock eagerly, teasing the slit as she had with her thumb and dragging a hard, harsh groan from him.
She felt his cock jerk and the first spurt of pre-come hit her tongue. With a smile, she wrapped her lips around him, locking them into place just past the rigid edge of the head and she sucked, hollowing her cheeks so he could feel her all around him, flesh pressing to flesh. Pushing forward an inch, then pulling backwards, she set a fast pace, stroking him in and out of her mouth quickly, her tongue continuing to work the head, feeling it swell inside her mouth. Filling her.
“Fuck, Francine.” Even with this, he didn’t forget who she was. “God, honey, just like that. So good. You are so beautiful, looking up at me, my cock in your mouth.” He let her play, and she knew he was letting her because his hold on her neck gentled, then his other hand fell away from their joint grip on his cock.
So she played, sucking him like a lollipop one moment, then taking as much of him as she could, licking and wetting him all over so he was slick and slippery, sliding past her lips and tongue into her throat. His gaze never left hers. His eyes locked on her, heating, darkening, and she watched the flare of his nostrils as he sucked in desperate, uneven breaths, his hand still curled loosely around her neck. Not controlling her, just keeping that connection, keeping his thumb on her pulse as she kept the connection in another way.
Fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, she bobbed her head quickly, up and down, tonguing and swirling on the downstroke, firming her lips on the upstroke, hand working in counterpoint. She placed her other hand on his knee, curling her fingers over the top of his thigh, digging her thumb into the hard muscle along the inside. His voice sounded again, “Yes, touch me, Francine.”
Sliding it slowly, she eased her way up his leg until she could fra
me the root of his cock with her thumb and forefinger, digging the tips into his skin firmly, dragging another groan out of him. Moving her hand again, slowly, so slowly, until she cupped his balls in her palm, feeling the pebbled and coarse skin moving loosely over the hard knots of flesh inside. With her fingertips, gently, so gently, she rolled them in her hand, feeling the skin of his sac tighten and draw up, feeling his cock jerk in her other hand, the rim of the crown dragging across the roof of her mouth when his hips surged forward. “Fuck, Francine.”
She never lost his eyes, he kept that connection, which now felt as physical and necessary as his hand on her neck, as his other hand on her head, moving her hair from her face where it had fallen with her movements. Hot eyes, hungry eyes, ready to devour her and she was willing to be eaten up with him.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, fingers stroking across her cheek again. “Honey, I’m going to finish in you.”
Yes, she thought, clenching down on that anguished empty again. Knowing she was wet, panties soaked through, the insides of her thighs slick under the stockings. Seeing him like this, taking him into her in this way had made the heat in her stomach flame into a fire, raging through her veins alongside the blood that gave her life. Each pulse felt by him, under his thumb, carrying her desire along with it, bleeding from her skin into his, then back into her with the other connection they had.
His hand tightened in her hair, tugging her away from him and she shook her head minutely, silently fighting the movement, dragging her lips and tongue across him again and again. He pulled out and the suction her mouth held broke with a popping sound. Frantic to keep the connection, she lunged forward, kissing and licking along the length of his cock, hands working the root and his balls, gentle but firm.
“Francine.” His voice came, low and heated, ragged along the edges and she knew that was his control fraying, becoming threadbare with her mouth on him. She tipped her chin, dipping her head down on her neck, mouth on his balls now, sucking them into her mouth one at a time, eyes still locked on his, watching as his pupils flared, then contracted and he groaned.
“Francine, stop.” Low and commanding again, he had tightened the hold on his control and she couldn’t disobey him, could not bear to make him angry. Never wanted to hear the tone directed at her that she had heard him use with others. So she pulled back slowly, letting him fall from her mouth back into her palm, gently rolling with her fingers one last time before she sat back on her heels.
He moved a hand, cupping her chin in his palm, using his thumb to wipe her face. Between them, his cock jerked, the steady flow of liquid from the tip mixing with the wet she had left behind from her mouth. She couldn’t help herself, reaching out to cup her hand around the rigid shaft, stroking up and down one time before his voice came again.
“Francine, I said stop.” Low and amused, not angry, so she took in a breath and then dropped her hand to her lap. Waiting.
“Jesus, honey.” This murmur happened while he was on the move, bending forward and lifting her with his hands on her elbows, bringing her upright still between his knees. With a tug on one hand, he brought her to the edge of the mattress and bent her over his leg, then gave her ass a sharp smack, telling her, “Climb in, Fran. Let me get a condom.”
Turning her head as she crawled up the mattress she immediately offered, “I’m on the pill.” Still moving, she didn’t know why an expression of sadness rolled across his face, swiftly replaced with a return of his desire, but the sorrow had been there.
She knew why a moment later when he asked her, “You go bare with Pete?” Pete, the man-whore, the man he had blocked from trying to win her back into his bed. Pleased to surprise him, she shook her head. His gaze darkened again and he asked, “You sure, honey?”
She nodded, then said, “Use a condom. Better safe than sorry. I wouldn’t trust it either. I just never thought about it.”
He stared at her, then, voice low and soft, said, “I’ll do a blood draw in the morning, we’ll make sure for your sake, honey.” She nodded immediately, turning on the bed to face him before rocking back on her heels once more, kneeling in front of him.
Waiting.
Wanting that tone from him again, low and commanding.
“On your back, Fran.” She gasped as she breathed deep, getting exactly what she wanted. “Skirt around your waist, honey.”
Positioned as he demanded, she lay there, thighs pressed tightly together. Waiting.
“Unbutton your shirt.” She hurried to comply, her eyes fixed on him, having lost sight of him only once, when he smacked her behind, startling her into closing them momentarily. He was standing beside the bed now, stroking himself slowly. Pleased, she saw the hand working his cock was still moving slickly through the wet she left behind. “Are you ready for me, Francine?”
Fingers fumbling her buttons through their holes, she nodded, whispering, “Yes.” The last button released and she let her hands drift to her sides, the shirt lying on her skin. He reached to the nightstand, pulling out a packet which he opened, his gaze now sweeping up and down her body. She watched avidly as he rolled the condom down his cock, covering himself. So ready, she thought.
Waiting.
He stretched out his hand, trailing one finger along her breast and lifted up to traverse the skirt bunched around her waist, then returned to connect with her skin. Tracing across her belly, shifting and pressing his palm against her core when he reached there, she shivered at the heat of his hand sinking deep even through the two layers of fabric separating them. Then his fingers moved again and she heard a ripping sound, feeling coolness between her legs. Soft touches, shifting her panties to the side, she realized he had torn her pantyhose to get at her, and felt another flood of wet at that impatient, unvoiced demand.
He pushed a finger in deep, twisting, plunging and grinding hard, knuckles to the lips of her sex. “Very wet, honey. So ready.” Low and soft, his voice ringing with something she didn’t recognize, she watched his pupils flare again, then contract as he slipped his finger out, then said, “Two,” as he pushed in again, filling her more. He stroked in and out several times and she heard the unmistakeable sound of her arousal, wet and easing the way for this penetration. The expression on his face proud and satisfied, that look making her clench down on what was no longer empty, but wasn’t what she wanted.
Needed.
Not empty, but not full, either.
“Three,” he said softly, and she felt more, but this burned, painfully stretching her. He must have seen her wince because he shifted and nodded, the burn went away, and the not empty but not full feeling came back. “Two,” he repeated from before and nodded again.
His gaze traveled down her body, then back up, stilling on her face again. “Kris,” she said softly, hearing the need in her voice and not caring. She knew he could see it on her face, it didn’t bother her if he heard, too. His head tipped to one side in a silent question and he waited, fingers moving inside her, his thumb lifting occasionally to graze across her clit.
Patient.
Giving her time to say what she needed.
Need.
“Make love to me?” Raw and real, her voice was stronger than she expected, no quaver or hitch, just her need out there for him to act on if he would.
He didn’t leave her waiting, the smile curving his lips filled with pride. “My pleasure, honey,” he said, low and sweet and soft all at once, and she believed his words because the edge of need was there, too. That was him letting her know this went both ways. He put a knee to the mattress, then slipped between her legs as she opened them. His hips rocking down to meet the cradle she made for him as if he had been here a thousand times before, as if he were coming home. As his cock had arrowed to her mouth before, unerringly he found her opening and pushed in, stroking in slowly, inches at a time, the stretch and burn welcome this time, something she wanted to never stop. Something she needed.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him do
wn, urging him without words to cover her, holding him close with her hands pressed flat against his back, face buried in his chest. “Francine,” he murmured in her ear. “Honey. God, so good.”
She moved with him, her hips rising to meet his downward thrusts, the reward of her initiative was his cock buried to the root and his hips circling, circling, grinding deep before pulling back. Each time he did this he ground across her clit and she groaned, whining and calling out, trembling under him.
Slow.
Steady.
Plunging in, grinding deep, bringing her closer each time.
Relentless.
Steady.
His words were steady, too, calling her name, calling her honey, telling her how it felt for him, telling her what he wanted for her, urging her to take what she needed from him. Low and sweet, or low and commanding by turns, each word stroking across her skin, urging her onwards with his need to know, his need to please, his need to take her with him. Each word bringing her, each plunge tipping the scale farther as did each call of her name, Fran or Francine, each time he called her honey, and she knew it meant something.
Everything brought her deeper even as it lifted her up, then sucked her deep again before finally pushing her up and to the surface where she exploded, sensations pummeling her from all sides. Clenching down on everything.
Filled. He had filled her right up, just like she knew he would.
Filled her, gave her that.
Made her whole.
His pace quickened, becoming frenzied, his tone fractured somewhere between low and hard and she knew his teeth were clenched, trying to hold that control at the same time he forged forward in an effort to lose it entirely. Deep and grinding, he planted himself in her and groaned out her name. Her name. Groaned in a tone by turns low and rumbling, rumbling and sweet, sweet and hard, hard and soft. Her name.