by Megyn Ward
“Since the night I met you,” I whisper, watching her as she stands over me, shedding the robe completely, her breasts tight and swollen with desire, nipples pink and glistening from my mouth. “I’ve wanted you since the night I met you—do you remember?” I want to grab her, throw her on the bed, jerk my boxer briefs down so I can free my cock and pound myself into her wet, willing pussy until she screams. I want to, but I don’t because this isn’t about me. It’s about her. What she needs. Wants. For reasons I can’t understand, that’s me. It’s me she needs. Me she wants. Knowing that is enough to help me keep myself in check. “When you kissed me in the front seat of my car—touched me—I felt like I was drowning. Like I was dying.”
Something flashes in her eyes. Doubt. Disbelief. Like she didn’t know. Doesn’t believe me. How long I’ve been dying without her. “Show me,” she murmurs, watching me, challenging me, her gaze hooded and heavy on my cock. “Touch yourself. Tell me.”
She’s commanding me, ordering me around the way I did her—trying to gain some traction on the slippery slope the two of us are tumbling down
Touch yourself. Tell me.
I can do that for her. Give her control. Make her feel powerful. I can do that.
For her.
I pull my boxers briefs down around my hips and my dick all but jumps into my hand so I can give it a slow stroke. “I wanted to get you naked and drag you into the backseat...” I groan, my hand stroking upward to gather some of the pre-cum welling up from the head of my shaft. “I wanted to fuck you.” I slide my grip down the length of my engorged shaft, from tip to base, my chest tightening, shouldering digging into the bed, fighting off the urge to come all over myself, right then and there. “I wanted you to ride me until you came all over my cock, right there in your driveway.”
I wonder if that’s what she wants. To make me come alone while she watches me unravel. If it is, it’s okay. I deserve it. I’ve done it to her enough over the past week. Made her come while I watch. Made her lose control without giving her the chance to make me do the same. I deserve it—I know I do. But I can’t help the streaks of bitterness that coat the back of my throat. I don’t want to play games anymore. I just want to be with her.
“It’s okay...” I murmur, my fist pumping up and down the length of my cock, watching her watch me. “It’s okay, Cari. Whatever you want. It’s okay...”
Like I gave her permission, she finally moves, her nipples grazing the tops of my thighs as she reaches out to pull my boxer briefs all the way down. And then she’s crawling up the length of me, her knees pushing into the mattress, straddling my hips. Hands planted on my chest, she teases me, shifting her hips so she can run the seam of her pussy along the head of my shaft. Back and forth, back and forth until I’m fighting the urge to grab her by her waist and slam her down on my cock. Instead, I give her what she needs. Total control.
She reaches between us, her fingers wrapping around the girth of my rigid dick, thumb, brushing across its head before she lets them slide down the length of it. Gripping it at its base, she stands my cock up, the tip of it pushes between her wet, plump pussy lips. She gasps my name, her eyes locked on mine while my hands coast up the outside of her thighs to grip her firm, round ass cheeks, opening her slit from behind. “Whatever you want, Cari... do whatever you want to me.” The heat of her core is like a blast furnace against my cock, searing the head of it as it slips a little further inside her.
Her eyelids flutter closed as she sinks down on my shaft and I lift my head so I can look between us and watch the length of it disappear as it slides into her wet, eager pussy.
Thank. Fuck.
I let out a soft groan and fall back as she leans forward, her fragrant hair falling around us like a curtain, her mouth hovering above mine. “Patrick...” she sighs my name, the taste of it on my lips as she lifts herself along the length of me, to the very tip before lowering herself, again and again, riding me slowly.
My hands are still gripped around her ass, and it takes everything I have not to take over, to use my hold on her to fuck her the way I want. “Take what you want.” I say it again, encouraging her to take control, purposely softening the weight of my hands on her hips. “Whatever you want, Cari.”
My words seem to break something inside her, and she rears up, her pussy sliding down the length of my cock until she’s fully seated, my balls flush against the crease of her ass. “That’s it,” I tell her, my eyes rolling back in my head when she begins to lift and lower herself, her hips grinding against mine with increasing speed. “Fuck me. Take my cock, as hard and deep as you want.”
My words send a shudder through her, and she falls back, bracing herself on her arms while her hips crash and bang against mine. “Patrick, I...” she whimpers, the sound of her, needy and breathless, goes straight to my balls. I lift my head again so I can watch her ride me, her beautiful pussy working up and down my shaft, her perfect tits bouncing with each hard fuck she’s giving me. She’s perfect. Every inch of her and I have to fight off the orgasm tightening in the small of my back.
“Tell me,” I tell her through gritted teeth, wrapping my hands around her hips, careful to keep them loose, helping her take what she wants. Anything she wants. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want to come,” she moans breathlessly, panting softly as her fingers tightening around my knees, her hips pumping against me. “Make me come, Patrick.”
Fuck. Yes.
Sitting up, I wrap an arm around her hips, supporting her while her arms come up to wind themselves around my neck. She keeps fucking me, riding my cock while she lifts one of her breasts to my lips, teasing my mouth with its tip. “Suck me,” she says, demanding and begging all at once. Hungry for the taste of her, I do what she says, taking her nipple into my mouth, nipping and sucking until it’s throbbing and swollen against my tongue. “More,” she whimpers, her fingers in my hair, gripping and pulling, the rhythm of her hips turning erratic, desperate for release. “Touch me. Rub my clit...”
Using my hold on her, I angle her hips so I can slip my hand along the crease of where her thigh meets her hip. “You feel so fucking good,” I say, flicking her wet, hard nipple with my tongue. I slip my thumb between her pussy lips, pressing against the throbbing bundle of nerves at the top of her slit. “I want you to come all over me.”
“Fuck, yes,” she groans, her hips pumping against my thumb and cock, her fingers so tight in my hair I can feel it coming loose at the roots. “I’m so close. Make me come, Patrick. Make me come...”
I catch her neglected nipple and suck it into my mouth, roll it over my tongue even as I let my free hand run its fingers between her ass cheeks. I feel a growl rip up my throat, my balls so tight and constricted that I’m close to passing out. I need to come so fucking bad, I need to come in her tight, hot pussy but not yet. Cari is going to come first.
“Oh, my god,” she moans, her whole body starting to shudder when she feels the tip of my middle finger brush against her asshole. “Yes.”
I push the tip of my finger into her tight, pink hole, just as I catch her nipple between my teeth and bite down hard enough to make her gasp. “Oh—” Her pussy ripples around me and she goes stiff in my arms, her husky scream bouncing off my bare walls and cracked ceiling while she comes, wave after wave of orgasm, crashing all over my throbbing cock. “Come in me,” she moans, her entire body, quivering and releasing around me, her breath harsh and warm in my ear. “Come in my pussy, Patrick.”
Letting go, I bury my face in her neck, wrapping my arms around her. Holding her against my chest, I pound myself into her, hard and deep, once, twice, three times before I come with a gruff shout, my balls contracting and releasing in tandem with the grip and pull of her core around my cock.
We ride the wave together, fused together by the heat of our shared release, panting and shaking in each other’s arms. Finally, her hands go soft in my hair. My arms loosening around her so we can both take a breath. But we keep holding each
other. I lift my head from the crook of her neck, and she smiles at me, the shadow of the bruises James left on her face enough to shame me. Make me feel bad for what I just did to her.
She must see it on my face because she settles in, shifting her legs so she can wrap them around me, holding me inside her. “Best. Roommate. Ever,” she says, brushing my sweat dampened hair off my forehead, grinning down at me. “All my last roommate did was steal my yogurt and borrow my shit without asking.”
I can’t help but laugh, even though there’s a lump in my throat and a weight on my chest. I want to tell her that I want to be more than her roommate. More than her friend or her fuck buddy or whatever the hell kind of weird territory we seem to have moved into all of a sudden. I want to tell her that I love her, but I don’t. Now isn’t the time. Not with the shit with James and Lisa hanging over our heads. I’ll tell her, but not right now.
I have time.
Nine
Cari
Stay.
That’s what Patrick said to me when I started to move off his lap.
Stay.
I made some sort of lame excuse about being thirsty. Needing water. I didn’t need water. I started to feel the same trapped, panicked feeling I experienced the day of the storm when we were folding laundry downstairs. I didn’t need water. I needed to get away from him before I did or said something that fucked everything up again.
Instead of letting go, he simply stood up, arms hooked under my ass to hold me in place, and carried me into the kitchen. There, he set me down on the counter so he could pull two bottles of water from the fridge. Handing me one, he leaned against the fridge and cracked the cap on his water, draining the bottle before tossing it in the trash. I think I was two gulps in before he was inside me again—his mouth closing over my throat. His hands pulling me close. His dick, pumping and thrusting inside me, pushing me so perfectly toward orgasm that it took me by surprise, my pussy locking around him, pulling him in deeper with each and every thrust until he’s following me over the edge, coming inside me, his face buried in my neck. His arms wrapped around me. Holding me close like I’m important. Something precious. This time, I don’t feel the urge to run away. I want to stay here, locked in his arms. Feeling his heart, thumping against my chest. His breath on my neck.
And that scares me more than anything.
He carries me to the bathroom and climbs into the shower, turning it on so he can clean me up. He’s tender. Gentle. Washes my hair and my body. Between my legs. Behind my ears. The crooks of my elbows. The backs of my knees. There isn’t an inch of me he didn’t touch. And while he washed, we talked. Not about James or Lisa or anything that might break the spell. We talked about movies we wanted to see. Groceries we need from the store. He told me how Conner earned his Bachelor’s degree from Boston College when he was fifteen, without telling anyone but his mother. He’d been taking classes online over the summer since he was thirteen. While most of us struggled through four years of college because it’s expected or our only chance at a better life, Conner went to college because he was bored.
By the time his friends were either dropping out and getting their GEDs or graduating and joining the military, Conner graduated from Harvard Law. Instead of getting pictures taken in his cap and gown, he took the BAR exam. And ranked first in his class.
Instead of taking one of the dozens of offers to join just about every law firm in Boston, Conner went to MIT and earned two doctorates in fields of study I can’t even pronounce, let alone comprehend. By the time he was twenty-three, Con was both a doctor and a lawyer.
“...And he works as a mechanic?” I say, still not quite able to wrap my head around all of it.
“Tess’s dad owned the garage before Con.” Patrick pulls my towel off its hook and drapes it over my shoulders. “When Mr. Castinetti got sick, he needed money for treatment, so Con offered to buy it. I think because he knew how hard it would be on Tess to watch it go to a stranger. She always assumed it would belong to her someday...” he shrugs. “And now you know,” Patrick says, toweling me off, the corner of his mouth kicked up in a lop-sided grin.
“Now I know what?” I say, rendered breathless for a moment when he reaches down and picks me up again.
“Everything... ish.” He leans in and gives me a kiss before stepping into the hallway. “Your place or mine?” he says, still grinning at me.
Ours. Wherever that is, that’s where I want to go.
Our room. Our bed.
I want to say it. I almost do, but I don’t. I can’t. Because what’s happening between us is like before. It’s an interlude. A reprieve. Sooner or later, no matter what I want, the real world is going to seep through the cracks in our relationship and push us apart, farther and farther, until we can’t ignore them anymore.
Until neither of us can pretend we belong together anymore.
“Yours,” I whisper against his mouth. “It’s closer.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, crossing the hall in a handful of strides before he’s stretching me out across his bed, hips pressed into the cradle of my thighs, the blunt, engorged head of his cock rubbing against my belly while he licks his way down the length of me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my toes curling when he traces his tongue along the place where my thigh and hip meet, his fingers hooking behind my knee, bending my leg.
He looks up at me, giving me a wicked grin. “Working on my novel,” he says, and I laugh, while he uses his grip on my leg to push on my bent knee, opening me wider. “What time is it?” he asks me, right before pressing his tongue past my throbbing pussy lips to drag it up the length of me before flicking it against my clit.
“Si—” My answer shudders away on a low moan, my hands reaching down to thread their fingers through his hair, so I have something to hold on to while he fucks me with his mouth. “Six o’clock,” I finally manage, my hips rolling against the pressure of his tongue.
“Just enough time,” he says, looking up at me as he replaces his tongue with two of his fingers, slipping them inside me to stroke me, slow and deep.
“En... enou—oh,” I gasp, breath stuttering in my chest when his fingers hit the center of me, curling and rubbing against the place inside me that makes me feel like I’m flying while his tongue draws slow circles over my swollen clit. Fisting my fingers in his hair, I pull his face away from me long enough to think straight. Looking down at him, the way his broad, muscular shoulders look, pushed against the soft, quivering flesh of my thighs. My fingers gripped in his dark, damp hair. His green eyes, glittering with lust and something else, something I’ve never seen before. I like it. The way he looks at me. Like he can’t seem to get enough of me. “Enough time for what?”
He gives me another grin, his gaze fused to mine, giving me a slow, deep stroke with his fingers that have my heels digging into the mattress and my back arching off the bed. “To get you dirty all over again.”
When I wake up again, I’m alone. For a moment, I think it was all a dream. Me working up the courage to force myself down the hallway to Patrick’s room. Three years ago, I’d put my tongue in his mouth and my hand on his cock, and he’d shut me down. Last night, was my version of a do-over and I’d finally got it right. I finally took what I wanted. I’m in Patrick’s room. In his bed and I never want to leave.
Smiling, I roll over, giving a little start when I see Patrick sitting in the chair next to his drafting table. It’s cramped and dark in here, the table shoved into a corner, as close as he can get it to the room’s only window. I’m suddenly struck by how unfair it is. How much he’s given up for me. How much he’s given to me. Maybe he could move his drafting table into my room. That would be okay. Just his table. There’s plenty of space. Light. I imagine the two of us working side-by-side. He’d draft his blueprints while I painted him. And this time I’d let him see. I’d let him see himself the way I see him. This time, I’d let him see me. The real me.
“Cari.”
The way he
said my name sounded strange. Heavy. Like he had a hard time pushing my name out of his mouth. Like he didn’t want to say it. That’s when I notice that he’s holding his phone.
And I know.
The video is out there. James released it somehow. It’s out there, and Patrick had seen it. Watched it even though he knew I didn’t want him to. He’d seen me.
The real me.
I turn away from him to lay on my back, my lungs so tight it feels like my ribcage is shrinking. Curling in on itself from the heat erupting across my chest. “When?” I say, gaze focused on a crack that runs up the middle of the ceiling. I’d asked when but what I really wanted to know is why. Why would he do that? Why would he watch a video of me getting fucked by some other guy? Why would he do that?
“Sometime during the night,” he says. “He must’ve left the hospital AMA or—”
Something about the way he was talking—detached. Distant—pushed me out of bed. I fling the covers back and scramble across the mattress. I have to get out of here. Away from him and the rote, impersonal sound of his voice.
Finding my robe, the only thing I was wearing when I came in here and threw myself at him last night, I pull it on, jamming my arms through the sleeves, fast and hard enough to pop their stitches. “Miranda’s coming over,” I mumble, catching sight of him from the corner of my eye. He’s got his head in his hands, phone gripped in his fingers like it’s some sort of weapon that can hurt us both.
“Cari...” he says my name again, but it sounds even heavier than before. Like the weight of it—the weight of us—is crushing him.
“I have to—” I don’t even finish what I’m saying, I just bolt out the door, the hallway stretched between his room and mine, looks like it goes on forever. Like it will take me years to find a safe place to hide.
I don’t even know he’s following me until I feel his hand on my arm and I’m spinning in the doorway to my room, my back suddenly pinned against the jam.