by Grace, K D
Things can get back to normal, now. They can return to reality. All I have to do is keep tuning and tuning and tuning things out, and in truth I’m almost there. I’m just a millimetre away from it, when he speaks again.
‘Seriously, though … All the girls, all of those clouds and marshmallows … None of it really matters to me anymore.’
‘So you’re turning a new leaf for the tenth time?’ Jason asks, as though we’re momentarily one person. We think the same thoughts and voice the same questions and roll the same eyes.
Steven Stark will never change, and we both know it.
‘Nah … I’m just finally admitting the truth, to myself,’ he says, and I can’t help it then. In spite of everything – the running away, the ignoring me, the butt talk – he has my attention again. I suspect he’ll always have my attention, no matter what I try to tell myself.
But for once, it’s OK.
It’s OK because Jason asks in this quiet voice what that might be, and Steven replies, ‘That there’s only ever been one girl for me.’
Before looking directly into my eyes, as though he’s never looked away.
Chapter Five
I can’t afford to read too much into his stare. But I’m unable to think of anything else either. My brain absolutely refuses, on pain of death. I threaten it with books by John Grisham and rusty forks inserted into the ear, and all to no avail. It carries on bothering me with Steven Stark’s heavy and pointed look well into the middle of the night, and beyond.
It’s four in the morning before I get any sleep, and even then it’s not the normal kind I’m used to. My head is full of weird, unsettling dreams about massive men with searchlight eyes, and really obvious metaphors. For example, in one of them I’m trying to run away from a monster that looks exactly like me, only bigger, but I can’t because the ground is made of jelly.
I don’t think I need Freud to decipher that one. But I’d be happy if he were around, because at least then I’d have someone to tell me to snap out of this – probably in a really angry German accent. No one can carry on making a mess of things when someone’s telling them not to in an angry German accent.
Unfortunately, all I’ve got is this suffocating boat and my blundering brother’s voice calling down from the deck, just as I’m nodding back off. God only knows what time it is now, though I’m guessing it’s far too early to either a) sound so cheery or b) be enthusiastic about sightseeing.
‘I’m going to buy a hat,’ he declares, as though hat buying is the most exciting enterprise in the entire world and I should really know about it, while I groan and try to bury myself under the pillows.
Of course, doing so only makes me hotter. But hotter is preferable to conscious, and I persevere. I burrow and swaddle and generally turn myself into a suffocating, half-sleeping mess, and eventually I doze. However, it’s a strange and fitful sort of thing – so I suppose it’s no surprise that I don’t know where I am or what’s going on, when I turn over and see Steven standing there. For one brief, dream-addled moment I’m sure he’s escaped from my unconsciousness, and is about to attack me with his searchlight eyes. And then some sense filters back in – though sense isn’t much better.
It suggests I must have sleepwalked into his bedroom, despite all evidence to the contrary. I’m laid down and he’s stood up; I’m still tangled in my own sheets; I can see the bar behind him. And yet I’m almost certain that’s what must have happened. Why else would he be standing so close to me while I’m half-unconscious? I can almost feel his thigh touching the back of my hand.
I must have done it. In fact, I’m so sure for a second that my face flushes. Or at least, it would have flushed if it were not already so full of heat and colour. It’s almost like a fever, I think – this fire-y feeling, pressing against the insides of my cheeks. Though I sort of know, even in this dazed state, that it isn’t just because of the sun. It isn’t even embarrassment.
It’s something else. Something about the way he’s looking at me, as I lie sprawled all over my bed. I’m only wearing a thin little vest – an item of clothing I found adequate, when there was no danger of him ever coming in for a closer look. But it now seems appallingly immodest, almost completely transparent and barely-there. The straps are like spider’s webs, and they don’t contain the swelling curves of my breasts. I know they’re spilling out the sides and over the neckline.
And worse – in the night the whole thing has twisted and ruffled up. He can see my stomach – a pale curve in the gloom – and probably a bit too much of my right hip. I’m sort of half on my side and half on my back, so the winding shape of my body is pretty easy to make out. It’s made even easier by how far my little sleep-shorts have slid down.
I must be a horrifying sight.
It’s just that he doesn’t look as though I’m a horrifying sight. He looks like he’s just seen a ghost, if ghosts were known for being really arousing. And I know that arousing is the right word too, because while I’m still in this stupor I grope him with my own eyes in return, and I see a lot of things I don’t know how to process.
He’s breathing very hard, for a start. And his face is like mine – his cheeks are bright with a kind of fever. They almost make me want to jump up and get us both a cold compress and some Calpol, followed by some vigorous lying down, maybe.
Though I suspect childhood cures for mild illness won’t cure a massive erection.
Because he has that too. He’s just kind of stood there, over my bed, with a massive erection. He doesn’t even try to hide it, the way I probably would if I were in his position. I feel like I should hide something now, even though it’s impossible to see what I’ve got. Ladyboners aren’t a real thing, I tell myself frantically.
And then I’m calm.
Or at least as calm as I can be, with a gigantic ladyboner.
‘Steven,’ I start to say, but then it’s like before. It’s like before when he did – that. I’m almost afraid to form complete sentences, in case it breaks this strange spell. This is what it must be like to be attracted to someone, and feel they’re attracted back, I think, but that seems so crazy I don’t want to disturb it.
He’s not attracted to me, I know it.
He’s just touching my bare hip with the tips of his fingers because I had a smudge there. He wanted to rub it off, and in all honesty he’s doing a great job of it. After a while, he puts his whole hand into the effort.
While I forget to breathe, briefly.
I have to forget to breathe, briefly. Firstly because I’m kind of terrified, but also because I’m sort of afraid that if I do take in oxygen, I’ll somehow disturb the insane trance he appears to have fallen into. And though I am many things: nervous nelly, complete weirdo, owner of a self-esteem so low it could pass for a potted plant, I’m not so foolish that I can tell myself I don’t want this.
In fact, I’m currently telling myself the opposite. I really want this to go further, and apparently I want it so much that I’m willing to reach up and grab his T-shirt – you know, just in case he decides to run away again, before I get what I’m after. Basically, if this is going to be my only chance at fucking Steven Stark, if tomorrow he’s going to be ashamed and embarrassed, then quite frankly I’m going to make the most of it.
Thankfully, he seems to like this idea.
He seems to like this idea a lot.
The second I get a fistful of that T-shirt, he does something I’ve only previously never imagined happening in any of my daydreams about him – mainly because it seemed so unbelievable it wasn’t actually worth picturing in my head.
So it’s a thrill to have it actually occur. It makes my insides leap 50 feet in the air, just to feel those soft, soft lips pressing gently against mine. Then pressing harder against mine. And then oh God then he parts them, a little bit, and everything is so slippery and warm and full of this desperate kind of fever.
He kisses me like this is the last time he’s ever going to kiss me. He kisses me like he�
��s been starving in the desert, and I’m a drink of ice cold water – complete with these breathless sort of groans that make all my hair stand on end. I must look like Billy Idol by the time he’s done, but if I do he doesn’t make a note of it.
He just keeps on kissing me in other places. Like in that sensitive spot just below my ear, and that even more sensitive spot where my throat slides into the curve of my shoulder. It’s almost unbearable to feel something so soft and wet just easing over the skin there, but obviously he knows how to make things worse.
Because then he bites that said same skin, and I think I kind of go nuts. At the very least, my two hands turn into reflexive claws. I dig my nails into places I do not mean to dig my nails into, like the meat of his upper arm, and some other innocent parts of him, and … OK, OK, maybe my other hand is somewhere around his arse. I do not know how it got there and after I’ve punctured it with my talons I’m somewhat regretful.
But what does he expect? He just bit me in a place I apparently really like to be bitten. Of course I’m going to squeeze him all over with angry, angry hands, when that happens. The fact that he seems to like it is just a bonus, really, on the end of my lustful need to explore him all over.
This is my only chance, I think, and then I squeeze that glorious arse all the harder. I actually slide my hand inside his shorts, just so I can feel how smooth his skin is – oh so very smooth – and how exciting it is to experience him all bare like this. Newsflash: it’s very exciting. It’s so exciting that I don’t even register his response, until it comes to me that he’s been very silent, for a good long while.
Maybe I crossed a line? Erections in the face are fine, as is random biting. But bare arse squeezing is right out? It’s possible, I suppose.
Though his expression doesn’t exactly read that way. It reads more like a really filthy book that’s missing pages four to 50. Suddenly, everything jumps from “oh hello, how are you?” to threeway anal – and he just wasn’t prepared, I don’t think. I’m pretty sure he thought things would be like they were last time, with me passively accepting his gracious bounty.
And now that they’re not, well …
‘Ohhhh yeah, baby, do what you want with me.’
Now that they’re not, everything is really awesome.
He lets me pull his T-shirt over his head. And it’s not like when we were in the water, and I had to be all careful in case I accidentally gave away a sexual feeling or a sense of delight at the feel of his bumpy parts. He seems to be actively encouraging my delight, in this instance. I squeeze his left pec and he makes a noise like a wounded animal, even though I don’t do it in any sort of normal, sensuous way.
I just fucking go for it, because he feels amazing.
And then, quite shockingly, he goes for me in the same manner. As though I feel amazing too. Of course, I know it can’t be true. I know I’m a massive flesh avalanche, according to him. But I can’t shake the feeling that him getting a handful of my right boob is a positive sign.
Especially when he follows it with, ‘Oh my God, your breasts are insane.’
I mean, call me crazy. But I don’t think that’s an insult. The word “insane” almost tilts things in that direction, but the throaty, groaning way he says it pulls it back. As do his absolutely frantic efforts to see more of them. He actually tears the material of my vest when it decides it doesn’t want to bend to his will, and suddenly I’m trapped with half of it around my right arm and the rest of it around my neck.
While he buries his face in my bosom.
And just when I’m wondering if he simply likes giant breasts, he does the same thing to the curve of my hip and the soft swell of my belly. He swamps himself in me until I’m afraid for his life. Any more of this and he could suffocate, but he doesn’t seem to care.
Neither do I. It feels so much more exciting than it probably sounds. I get the glancing edge of his teeth on every inch of my flesh, followed by long licks that turn me boneless. By the time he’s worked away around to the dimples just above my arse, I’m near beside myself. I’m not even ashamed of the sound I’m making.
Or of the things I’m doing to him, in return.
He’s completely naked, now. He’s not even wearing half his T-shirt or most of his shorts. I got the latter off around the time he made those long, slow circles around and around the dip of my belly button with his tongue, and his underpants went the same way. I just ruffled them down with my feet, until I could feel what I wanted to most:
His stiff cock, against the inside of my thigh. And then against the palm of my hand. And then in my mouth, before my brain or his vocal chords can summon a single protest. He jerks a little, like he’s stunned that I’m doing it, and he kind of makes a grunting noise that could be a word, if you squint hard enough.
But mostly he just does what my brain is currently doing:
He gives in to it, utterly. He revels in it, in a way I never thought he’d revel in anything I ever did. His back actually arches off the bed, and when I manage to glance up in between long, greedy licks, I can only make out the curve of his throat. He’s pushing the rest of his general head-area into the pillow, as though it’s all just a little too much.
And he’s right. It is. He tastes like heat, if heat can actually have a flavour, and he’s so thick it’s hard to take him all at once. I have to sort of work up to it, licking and kissing around the swollen head until I think I can do it, and then, just as I’m ready for him, his hips jerk up. His cock fucks into my mouth, too rough and too much, briefly.
Or at least, my head says it should be too much. My body is busy going nuts over the idea that Steven Stark is so excited he just accidentally shoved his big, swollen dick past my lips. And even better – he apologises, once he realises he’s done it. He says sorry!
I don’t know what turns me on more. The fact that he did it, or the fact that he strokes a hand through my hair and expresses regret, afterwards. Plus, his regret is really awesome.
It ends on this:
‘You just feel so fucking good, baby. Seriously, that hot little mouth of yours is getting me real close, embarrassingly fast.’
Which is perhaps the dirtiest, most excellent thing anyone has ever said to me during sex. I’ve never heard a man talk so frankly about getting close, or what might cause him to be close – though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that Steven does it. He has a big mouth about everything else.
Why not this?
At least in the bedroom, it’s an utter and unmitigated delight. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Just take me, nice and easy.’ And I think I momentarily lose consciousness. A great swell of arousal destroys most of my lower body, and a good deal of the rest of me. The way he goes about urging me into sucking him simply finishes the job.
He keeps that hand in my hair, and just sort of rubs me into doing it. Then when I let him have a little lick, quick and sharp, he angles his cock with his free hand, to make it easier. He eases himself into my mouth, and, even better, he strokes himself while I do it.
Though I’m not sure if that’s out of necessity, or because it feels so good and looks so sexy I could die of it. I’m not even sure why, really – but it’s there just the same. This heated pulse of pleasure, every time he works his hand over his swollen shaft.
And another one, when I see how he’s looking at me as this goes on. Or more: how he’s looking at himself, as he masturbates and I suck him. After all, that’s kind of what he’s doing. He’s watching my mouth on him through slitted lids, and when he’s not watching that he’s watching his hand and his tensing thighs, and yes, I know I should find this vain or weird.
But somehow it’s not either of those things. It’s utterly hot and kind of like he can’t believe this is going on – which is probably why it’s hot. Apparently, I really like men who get so into sex they can’t stop looking at everything and touching everything, like it’s the first time they’ve done this.
Even though it can’t possibly be the first ti
me he’s done this. I’ve actually seen him doing it with other people – but I’ll admit, it didn’t really look as intense as this does. For a start, he’s not eating a sandwich while it happens. And then there are also his words, his glorious, magical words.
‘Jesus, you’re sexy,’ he says.
And then he adds, ‘You make me fucking crazy.’
Which I might frame after this is over. I don’t have time right now, though, because apparently he’s tired of blowjobs, and wants to fling me around like a football. Or, more accurately, he pulls me up for a kiss that makes me think of a thousand things, like how sweet he might taste in his own mouth, and how satisfying it is to be so wanted that someone actually does impatient things that say they want you.
And then he pushes me back on the bed, and drags me tight to him with one big hand.
I wonder if I can frame that too. I particularly enjoy the way his palm slaps into the meat of my thigh – like he fucking loves the sound it makes, the feel of it, the way I gasp in a far too excited sort of way. And I love the way he yanks me.
So much so that I blurt out, rather embarrassingly, ‘Yes please.’
And of course he takes full advantage.
‘Please? What are you saying please for, huh?’ he asks, which is pretty much standard Steven practice. Once, I accidentally said hello when I meant goodbye, and he made fun of me for hours. He’s definitely going to make fun of me for this.
Thankfully, however, it comes in a much more exciting form.
‘Please, Steven, could you run your hands all over my body?’ he guesses, but he doesn’t wait for me to confirm or deny. He just tries it out, in one long, slow slide all the way from my collarbone, down to the underwear I’m still somehow wearing.
My favourite bit is the slalom around my breasts, which lingers long enough to cup both of them in a rough, can’t-help-himself sort of manner.
‘Or maybe it’s please, Steven, fondle my pussy. How about that?’
‘That’s … I like that.’
‘Uh-huh. Take those little shorts off for me, then.’