Varian Krylov

by Hurt

  The tough part was over, but she seemed more nervous than ever. She seemed to be avoiding his eyes, busying herself with winding up the gauze and putting away tubes and bottles and tweezers. Her breathing had gone fast and shallow, and he was pretty sure her hands were shaking. Maybe she'd noticed he was hard.

  Weird. He'd have thought the vicious poke of the tweezers and the sting of disinfectant on his raw flesh would remedy—not double—the effects of her fabulous . . .

  bedside manner. Maybe he'd overlooked an unexpected avenue of sexual gratification.

  Maybe he was a pain slut.

  He got to his feet, a little too close to her. Wondered, was she feeling him—his size, his heat, his near nakedness. Was she up for something? Was she afraid?

  "Just relax," he sighed down to her, amused at how threatening a bit of politeness could sound. He waited until she looked up and he could read her face.

  Apprehension. Or full-blown fear. "I'll be back in a minute."

  15

  * * * *

  Slowly the fist clenched around her heart opened, and she took a breath. For just a second she'd thought he'd. . . . The impulse to go, without a good-bye, tickled through her whole body. Something about him. She didn't feel safe. The way he looked at her, digging in. So taciturn. So big, so hard. And, fuck. The guy had actually gotten turned on by the little torture session with the tweezers.

  The memory of the bulge of his stiff cock pressed back against him by his snug briefs sent a little throb through her.

  Half ready to go, she ran her fingers over the shape of the key in her pocket. Her heart gave one big thud. Like the heavy echo of a phantom beat. She felt light. Empty.

  Frail.

  She swiped her drink from the counter, the condensation chilling her skin as her fingers and palm wrapped tight around the base of the tall, narrow glass, imparting a sudden, lucid calm. Strange that fear could be a comfort.

  She wished him back. Hurry. Hurry. Now that he was gone, anxiety was sweeping into the void left by his vaguely threatening presence.

  Air. She needed air. White knuckled, clutching her sloshing drink, she moved to the slider, clawed the latch open, and got onto the deck.

  Breathe. Breathe.

  An awning overhead kept the pouring rain off her, but the wind chafed her face and whipped her hair across her eyes, obscuring, revealing, and obscuring her view of the grid of orange city lights below. It seemed like her drink should be fresh, only a few 16

  sips gone, but she tipped the glass behind her bottom lip and just a trickle seeped between the depleted cubes. Was she drunk?

  Over the hoarse whisper of the wind and the thwapping of the rain, she heard the slider humming in its track behind her. The normal thing to do would have been to turn, to smile, to say something. About the view. The weather. Whatever. But she didn't feel normal. So she stood, silent, and waited. Probably he was about to say, “Aren't you cold out here with no jacket?” Or maybe his hand was about to punch through her vision's periphery, his arm stretching away until it receded into a pointing index finger as he explained what some distant feature of the landscape, wrought by man or nature, might be.

  But the seconds were slipping away and there was only the sound of the wind and the rain, and her view of sprawling L.A. was never interrupted except by the whipping strands of her hair. He remained silent. Behind her.

  She thought he might touch her. That's what people like him did: fucked random strangers. Had one-night stands. The idea of being touched by someone she didn't know scared her. Seemed ugly. It always had. But the drink was nowhere near doing the trick, and suddenly that ugliness, that fear had a strange, arousing appeal.

  So, when she felt his fingers combing into her hair, she stayed still and quiet and savored the little shudder that rippled down her body from the points where his fingertips brushed against her scalp. Silent and slow, with soft strokes he smoothed and gathered her wind-wild hair. Then she felt his body against hers—more heat than touch—and his warm breath pulsed against her bare neck. Taut, stretched thin as wire, she waited for the touch of his mouth on her skin. Only when she sucked in a desperate 17

  breath did she realize how anxiously she'd been waiting to be touched. That she'd forgotten to breathe. Now she was panting urgent shallow little breaths. Waiting.

  His fingers brushed faintly against her, making her shiver as he pulled her collar toward her shoulder. His lips faintly grazed the sensitive skin just below her ear, and every cell in her body seemed to constrict. Every inch of skin felt suddenly tight and faintly itchy. She waited.

  His breath, his lips brushed against her again, a touch that bolted through her taut nerves like electric current, making her nipples and every hair follicle constrict.

  Then his tongue, hot and wet and teasing. Then his teeth. Two little nips that almost made her cry out, afraid he'd hurt her, before an unsettling rush of pleasure washed over her.

  "Set your glass down."

  She stretched her arm to the side and set the glass on the railing. Almost the moment it was out of her hand his body drove hers forward, until her hip bones pressed against the wooden barrier, his chest against her back forcing her upper body to lean over, just slightly, but enough to make her grab at the railing instinctively. In the dark she couldn't discern how high the balcony had her suspended. He mouthed her ear, and the sensation mingled with her fear and her flesh—from the surface of her skin to her organs to deep in her bones—tingled so intensely she started to feel delirious.

  "Answer something," he whispered before stroking a particularly sensitive spot on her ear with the very tip of his tongue. "Be honest."

  He descended on her neck again, making it hard for her to breathe, hard to answer.

  18

  "Why did you come in with me?"

  He moved over to the untouched territory on the left of her neck. The sound of his breathing, the feeling of his mouth on her skin, of his body pressing her to the railing, had her more urgently aroused than she'd been in years—probably since high school, when everything was new. Fuck, she wanted him to touch her.

  "You . . . I came in because . . . I didn't want to go home."

  "And?"

  "And I was afraid to."

  "Afraid to what?"

  "Afraid to come in with you."

  "You wanted that?"

  It wasn't smart. Telling some strange man that you'd come in with him because you liked feeling afraid. She knew that.

  "Yes."

  "You felt . . . afraid of me?"

  "Yes. A little."

  "What about now?"

  His grip on her hair tightened; she realized that she was unable to move her head. His other hand slid down her side to her hip, crossed her abdomen until his forearm belted her tight against him. Gradually, she became aware of him moving his hips behind her, suddenly sure she felt his erection pressing against her ass, sliding slowly up and down against her with the motion of his hips.

  "What about now? Are you still afraid of me?"

  19

  "Yes," she breathed, still dying to be touched. Really touched. His hand between her legs. Inside her panties.

  "Do you want to go?"

  His grip on her hair didn't loosen; the insistent probing of his stiff cock hadn't relented.

  "No."

  Fuck. What was she doing?

  Her hair still caught tight in his fist, he backed off her just enough to allow a little gap between her and the railing, and his hand slid from her hip, over, down, and teased over her crotch. Under his delicate touch, minute by minute, a flood of sensation pooled and began pulsing insistently. He hadn't even slipped his hand inside her pants and she already felt her climax building.

  But his fingers, working so subtly, so expertly between her thighs, abandoned her just as she'd sighed a desperate little whimper. Now his fingers were trilling up the back of her thigh, slowly, definitely working their way between.

  "Don't," she said, softly.

&
nbsp; He went still, but his hand was still there, her hair still caught tight in his grip. In that moment an awful feeling of vulnerability made her core soft. There was a dropping feeling. But as she twisted, ready to panic, he let go of her hair and let her turn to face him. He was looking down at her with an air of patient amusement. His gaze was so intense, so direct, she felt suddenly as though he could look right through her skin.

  Read her thoughts.

  20

  She wasn't used to this. Feeling . . . dominated. Instinctively she set out to even the scales. Reclaim her power. Feeling it already, she grinned up at him and pressed her palm eagerly to the blatant bulge in his pants. She loved this part—getting a sense of the size and shape of a man, for his responses to her touch.

  She drew the curve of her hand along his erection, aroused to find him so hard.

  Riding the wave of her power, she felt a sudden urge to have him in her mouth, to hear him groan as she used her lips and tongue on him. Giving him her best wicked grin, she sank to her knees and got to work on his fly.

  "Don't do that."

  He said it softly. Tenderly, even. He took her hand from his zipper and coaxed her back up. She was a little stunned. If a guy had ever turned her down for a blowjob, she couldn't remember it. He stared into her for a few seconds, smiled, then opened the slider and led her inside.

  Slowly, his eyes locked on hers the whole time, he guided her back until her shoulder blades and her ass bumped against a smooth, vertical plane of wall. Holding her there, he moved in close, until his thighs touched hers, until she could feel his breath on her lips. Still looking, still staring into her. Something like regret started to erode her arousal, but then he sank down, onto his knees.

  The bass in her chest thrummed hard, quickened. She watched as he slid the tongue of her belt back, through the loop of her slacks, through the silver buckle, off the prong, and it flopped open to hang heavily from her hips. So quick. His hands. Her slacks unhooked, unzipped. His fingertips touched her hot, bare skin, slid down, 21

  catching the waistband of her slacks, then her panties in a single smooth gesture, and pulled them down midthigh. Thrumming bass, staccato, hard, fast.

  He was looking at her. At her sex. David never did that. Just gaze at it from inches away.

  Hot. Her face was hot. She wanted him to get back up. She moved, maybe she was going to step aside, walk away. But he caught her thighs in his hands and silently coaxed her to be still. She couldn't stand this. It was too intimate. She'd never let a man use his mouth on her until they'd been together a while.

  His breath was hot and damp on her bare skin. Did he like her smell? Did he like that she was waxed bare?

  Anxiety and anticipation mingled. His warm hands slid over her skin until her thighs were wrapped in his embrace, one hand curving against her ass. Please. Fuck.

  She needed him to touch her.

  His lips brushed faintly over her smooth mound, the caress of his breath teasing her. He looked up at her, took in her look of frustrated want, and touched her with his tongue.

  A tiny, soft, wet touch against the soft, wet, pink flesh. All the heat in her body rushed in to that tiny point where the tip of his tongue had touched her. When he did it again, she whimpered as all that heat pulsed and surged and seemed to roll inside of her.

  Each little touch was a taunt. To prod her need. Vex her arousal. But he kept his caresses so small, let so many seconds tick away between, she was almost in tears of frustration. She tried to widen her stance, to spread her legs, hoping desperately to feel 22

  his tongue slide back, lave over her wet sex. Fuck, she needed him to really eat her. But his embrace tightened, cinched her legs tight together, making all of her, except the very front of her slit and just the tiny bit of her not hidden between her smooth, waxed lips, inaccessible to his mouth.

  Each tiny little touch of his tongue made her wiggle in her torment, made her whine and whimper. Every time the tip of his wet, pink tongue made contact with her, her body tried to meet it with her climax. As if it knew it would get nothing more from him, as if it sensed that these taunting kisses, so faint, so infrequent, would have to be enough.

  But then, fuck, god, yes, he pressed his open mouth to her, his lips sealed themselves against her soft, smooth flesh, and his slippery tongue pressed forward, between her lips, into her slit, laving at last all her wet inner folds. She shuddered and whimpered and flexed against his embrace, dying to spread for him, dying for him to fuck her with his mouth. When he withdrew his tongue and its textured surface slid back over her, rubbing all along her wet, needful sex, ending with a devastating little flick over her clit, she shuddered, groaned, and thought her knees might give.

  Hardly conscious of what her body was doing, her legs flexed, trying to open, her hips tried to press forward, to drive her sex against his mouth, but his arms circled tighter around her, immobilizing her, keeping her shut tight.

  More, tiny, darting touches of his tongue to her, her trying to stifle the little sobs and moans threatening to squeak out. It was torture, keeping her climax so close for so long, threatening to keep her in this anxious suspense forever. But slowly, slowly, with each little brush of the tip of his tongue, that aching, throbbing pleasure built, gathering, 23

  gathering, and he'd lick, and the feeling would swell, and that little touch would land again, and the thrill would rise up, until finally another stroke of his tongue fluttered over her and a great well of pleasure flooded up and spilled over. He lightly lapped, prolonging her delicious agony, gripping her in his imprisoning embrace as he squeezed every drop of pleasure from her body. He held her as she shuddered and panted and finally calmed. At last he opened the constricting circle of his arms.

  She felt strange. She couldn't remember that last time she'd been held for so long in such delicious suspense, or when she'd cum so hard. But she didn't feel at all sated. She was absolutely dying to be fucked.

  To be fucked. Taken. Held down. Ridden.

  Judging by the way he was grinning up at her, his eyes bright with hunger, she was going to get just what she needed. He rose, his body, his hands, traveling over her like they were taking possession of new terrain. Standing, looking down at her, he smiled like he was amused by something, evoking a spontaneous smile from her in the midst of her trembling need. Then he kissed her. She hadn't wanted that before, but now, after, she wanted it.

  His tongue slid into her mouth, tasting of her sex. It was like a drug working on her body, doubling her arousal, her need. Panting, he ended his hungry kiss, and with another odd little grin, started unbuttoning her blouse. Panic seized her, and she caught his wrist in her hand. His eyebrows rose and his mouth curved in an expression of amused surprise.

  "I want . . . this. You," she stammered, flustered. "But I . . .please, leave the blouse on."

  24

  His hands slipped obediently away from her button, but then he took hold of the hem, gathering upward. She snapped. Her vision blurring with tears of panic she caught his hands again, suddenly afraid again that he was going to make her fight him. That she'd lose. That he'd . . .

  "I'm afraid," he said quietly, his eyes guiding hers toward something near his hands, "that I got some blood on your shirt. From earlier. You should take it off. Let me wash it."

  A small bright stripe of blood stretched along the fabric between his thumbs.

  "I can give you a shirt to wear, if you're shy," he added with surprising, sweet gentleness.

  * * * *

  He really didn't know why, but she was losing it. Her eyes had that glittery reddening look of someone about to cry. What the fuck. He'd played with her. A little.

  But there was no way, he'd done nothing to make her think he'd hurt her. Force her.

  "I'm sorry," she breathed from some parallel dimension. "I need to go."

  "All right."

  He used a soft voice. He wouldn't argue. Trying to keep her there seemed like a very bad idea, if she was feeling like he
was some kind of threat. He'd let her go. Live with the mystery.

  She'd already frantically zipped and buckled up and was half way to the front door. He walked slowly after her. Not too fast. Not too close. She opened the door, called back with a broken “sorry,” and was gone.

  25

  That was a first—a woman running off crying after he'd licked her to orgasm. He made himself a fresh vodka tonic as he wondered over her possible pasts. Molested as a child? Date rape? A violent assault? Or just fucked up—so repressed that a good climax sent her over the edge? Who fucking knew? Poor thing.

  Something about it wasn't right, though. Everything about her had struck him as strong. Not the shy delicate type. Not the wounded type.

  The image of the stain kept coming to him, like it was burned onto his retina, the final living image.

  His vodka tonic in hand, he wandered back to his room, thinking he'd change, go to bed. But he was too wired. The accident, her. All that buildup, and no fuck to undo the anticipation. He could still taste her. The recognition, the acknowledgment of it got his dick a little hard.

  He roamed aimlessly back and forth through the house, a little too disturbed by her to jerk off and go to sleep.

  The stain.

  From outside, a bright light blared on the living room curtains, trying to get in.

  Headlights. Brushing the curtain back, he peered into the dark and rain. She was still there, in his driveway. In her little convertible, engine running, rain slanting through two violent beams of halogen light. Another minute or more slid by.

  He skidded his feet into a pair of shoes, crushing the stiff backs under his heels, and started soaking up the rain. Robbing the flagstones in the courtyard and the concrete drive. For all the tinted windows revealed, there might have been no one inside her car. It might have been a humming empty shell. He tapped at the glass, rain-beaded 26