Never Sweeter (Dark Obsession #1)

by Charlotte Stein

  “I see. I guess that makes sense.”

  “Let it build, nice and slow. Start by just stroking her with your fingertips. Work her, you know, until her lips part. And then when she’s all open to you, you just trace the shape of her with your tongue. Lick and lick in these ever decreasing circles until you’re right…fucking…there.”

  “Where? Where…where are you?”

  She shouldn’t have asked. She knew she shouldn’t as soon as it was out. Their faces were too close together now, and his body seemed to be looming over hers. That was his shoulder, almost nudging her chin. And his thigh, pressing deep and hard into hers. His answer was never going to make any of this better.

  Then it came, hotter than molten lava and twice as destructive.

  “Her clit. Her slick, swollen clit.”

  “I see. That makes sense,” she said, even though that wasn’t what she wanted to go with.

  No, what she wanted to go with was more like oh my fucking God this can’t be reality.

  “Then you just…stroke it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Until she’s mindless.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.”

  “Doesn’t even know what she’s saying anymore, or doing. She might tell you to bite, to fuck her with your tongue and fingers, harder or faster or some word that doesn’t even make sense. Hips coming up to meet you, greedy for it, horny for it, so horny she barely notices that her hand is in your hair and she’s squeezing tight enough for it to sting, so close to coming that her whole body is shuddering and shivering and flushed that deep, good pink. Soon as you see it you just know she’s burning. That her clit is aching and throbbing and her pussy is all open and slippery, and one more second of this will make her come. She’s already coming, before you even know where you’re at. Hard, hard, hard, like she never has before.”

  She was holding her breath by the time he was done. She practically had to—his face was so close now she could have blinked and brushed his cheek with her eyelashes. Every word he said seemed to stroke against her face, cool at first but then more heated. As though he was starting to boil alive inside, too. Certainly he looked that way. She has never seem him flushed like this, not even when he pushed himself during a match.

  Not even when he was embarrassed.

  Though she supposed that wasn’t a common occurrence. He didn’t seem to be embarrassed now, and he’d just said all those words. He said clit and pussy and slippery, as if that was just a normal way to talk to your friend. And he did it all without flinching, too. Without glancing away or putting some distance between them. In fact, those eyes of his—now heavy lidded and so soft focus—seemed intent on her more than they ever had been before. They skittered all over her face, searching for something she had no idea how to give.

  She didn’t even know what the something was.

  She only knew that it made her forget herself, just as he had described.

  It made her search his face back, marveling over every brutish line and gentle curve. Those lips of his, as plump as a girl’s yet so masculine at the same time. Like they’d been punched to swollen sweetness, without the stain of a bruise or the slash of some bloody split. Every inch of them gleaming, as if he’d slicked them with gloss in anticipation of a kiss.

  Though even in that moment she didn’t really believe she wanted that.

  Until he whispered, low and heavy against her own lips.

  “You can, you know.”

  “Can what?”

  “Touch yourself.”

  It jolted her, when he said it.

  But not as much as realizing why he said it.

  She followed his gaze down, and took in the unmistakable sight of her hand in her lap. Really, really high up in her lap. Almost between her legs, in fact—though that was fine, it was cool, it was okay. She stuttered no, no I didn’t really want to do that, but it didn’t matter.

  Because his hand was actually between his legs.

  “I do,” he said.

  As the whole world as she knew it dissolved right in front of her eyes.

  “You do?”

  “Fuck, yes. I’m dying to.”

  “Because of the film. Because of the movie.”

  “Sure. We can say that, if you want.”

  She closed her eyes. Swallowed thickly.

  Wished hard that he hadn’t added that last part.

  “If we could that would be awesome.”

  “No problem. I mean it was probably inevitable that this would happen to us.”

  “Probably, yeah. Almost definitely, in fact.”

  “Just a natural response to a sexy movie.”

  “Seems that way to me.”

  “So you just slip your hand under your waistband, and I’ll slip my hand under mine,” he said, which was fine all on its own. The problem was that he then went ahead and did it. She tried not to look, but saw anyway. She saw the way he fumbled in his haste, as though all his talk was only calm on the surface. Underneath, something was paddling frantically. It was making his cheeks pink and his body all trembly.

  And his dick hard. God, his dick was hard.

  She could see that without even trying at all. The curving shape beneath his sweatpants was enormous and unmistakable, and even if it hadn’t been, his hand made it pretty clear. As she watched, he eased it over that solid length, before finally clasping it in a way that shoved the swollen head right up against the tented material. Now she could make out ruder details, like the thick ridge around the head, and the slit at the tip. Both pronounced, explicit, rude.

  But that wasn’t what really got her.

  It was the way he stopped to lick his palm, before shoving it under his waistband.

  “Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god, are you serious?”

  “It’s cool. it’s fine. We don’t even have to look at each other.”

  “No I guess not. I guess…I guess that I can just watch the screen.”

  “We’re just two people getting off over a hot movie.”

  “Exactly. Exactly.”

  But that wasn’t strictly true. She wasn’t getting off over the movie at all. Nothing was even happening anymore—it was just rich people looking down their noses and arguments over a Dustbuster. If anything, it was vaguely depressing, rather than lust-inducing.

  Yet still she sat there, face burning, body tender and rigid all at the same time. Half of her stuffed so full of embarrassment and shock she sort of wanted to block everything out, the other half just shamelessly straining to hear every single tiny sound he made. Never daring to look, of course, but then…

  She really didn’t need to.

  He made so much noise that she could make out almost everything. Every little moan and gasp—and there were a lot of them, too. Lots of thick, guttural moans that started on an ah and ended with a kind of abrupt sigh, as though a knife had sliced through his throat before he could finish. So many soft mmms and gasps, like he honestly couldn’t get enough of whatever he was doing.

  Though it was the whispers that hit her hardest. They got her right in the gut, low down and deep enough to ache. Oh yeah, he murmured, as though the hottest sex in the world was happening onscreen. As though they were fucking like animals, up and down and left and right. His tone even sounded sort of tremulous, and it got more intense as time went on. Soon he was panting, and rocking, and every now and then uttering something he was clearly imagining himself doing.

  “Ah, yeah, suck my cock, just like that,” he said.

  Then just to make it extra agonizing, he spat into his hand.

  To make it extra slick, she thought, like someone’s mouth. Someone sucking him the way he’d described, slow and steady until he was actually shuddering, right here and now. The bed was moving, at least, and it wasn’t because he was working that cock hard. He wasn’t. He was going slow, so slow, squeezing and rolling rather than the short, fast kind of thing she’d always thought guys did. They almost never seemed to do anything else in porn…but then ag
ain they never did all this other stuff, too. She dared to turn her head a little more and saw to her astonishment that he had his hand pressed to his mouth. He was almost biting his fist, chest heaving, body shivering all over—but most important, eyes closed.

  He couldn’t even see her looking. She was free to do as she pleased.

  Yet something held her back. She couldn’t seem to do more than peek out of the corner of her eye, and even that made her feel strange. She kept getting this clenching sensation—sort of like embarrassment or humiliation—and it got worse when his back arched. When he actually said out loud that he was almost there, that he was so close, that he was gonna come all over her sheets. I need something to do it on, he said, and even that had a shameful frisson of its own. She had a brief flash of him kneeling up and suddenly coming all over her face, or maybe pulling down that ridiculously large neck hole to expose her breasts.

  Followed by an image of that thick white liquid coating her, striping her face, dripping off her tight little nipples. Him pushing his cock past her lips to finish off, groaning as he flooded her mouth.

  And he would have flooded it, too. She glanced at him just in time to see him shove his sweatpants down, that big dick swelling under the pressure of his too-tight grip. Thick ribbons of come already hitting his bared belly, over and over until she was sure he must be done. He had to be, yet more kept flowing over his still-working fist. She watched it run down over his fingers in slippery trails before pooling in his lap.

  Though none of it was what she kept seeing behind her eyes in the aftermath. Instead, she saw the way his face had looked as he shot his load. The open mouth, and the closed eyes, and most of all the strange, wrenching vulnerability that had covered him for a moment. No mischief, no macho bullshit—just a completely open and abandoned sort of ecstasy.

  And all of it for her.

  He knew she had watched him. He still knew now. She flicked her eyes back to the screen as he started to catch his breath, but the first thing he did was include her.

  “Guess I kind of made a mess here,” he said, everything about his tone suggesting two conspirators, finishing off their evil deed. She even got up after he’d said it, to get him a tissue.

  Though when she got back he’d pretty much taken care of most of it.

  She stopped in the doorway to the bathroom at the sight:

  Him, casually licking his messy fingers.

  It took her a good two minutes after that to go over to him, with her fistful of toilet paper. And when she did go, it was on very shaky legs. Her whole body felt shaky, in fact—though not in any way she’d experienced before. This was like being full to the brim with something burning hot, skin so close to ripping that it couldn’t keep still. Sometimes she thought she could see it shivering slightly under the strain, and every inch of it was tender, so tender. His leg brushed hers as she sat down, and it was agony.

  She even winced—then immediately regretted it.

  He had been concentrating on cleanup. Now he looked up at her sharply.

  And asked questions she was loath to answer.

  “Have you…not? I mean have you not—”

  “I couldn’t. I’m sorry, I couldn’t.”

  “God, you must be bursting.”

  “Honestly, I’m fine.”

  The problem was though, she didn’t seem fine.

  She couldn’t meet his gaze. Her hands were fists on her thighs.

  And of course he could see all of that.

  “You look like you’re bursting.”

  “Oh yeah? And what does bursting look like?”

  “Your voice is shaking.”

  “Is it?” she asked, voice so light it almost passed.

  Almost, almost, almost.

  “Your cheeks are flushed.”

  “Are they?”

  “And then there’s the fact that your nipples are like diamonds. Fuck, look how stiff they are. Isn’t that agonizing, having them like that? I bet your clit’s the same. Bet your pussy is sooooo wet. So wet you’re making a mess of my nice, clean clothes.”

  Her cheeks grew hotter and hotter as he whispered each word. By the time he was done they felt like they were going to melt right off her face. That tense, cringing feeling in her stomach was ten times worse, and that was before he got to the last point. The one about the clothes, and the mess, and oh god what if he was right? It felt as if he might be. She wasn’t wearing any underwear, and everything was really slippery between her legs. She could feel it, every time she moved.

  “Oh fuck, sorry, sorry I don’t…I hope…it’s just that—”

  “Honey, you don’t need an explanation.”

  His tone was like sinking into a warm bath—and the thumb she could feel stroking over her forearm only pulled her deeper down. He just did it so idly. So like he wasn’t touching her at all.

  Before she knew it she was up to her ears in liquid heat.

  “Are you sure? Because it kind of feels like I do.”

  “I’m sure. I mean, the movie was pretty intense.”

  “Right, exactly. Super intense.”

  “So why deny yourself?”

  “I’m not…denying…anything.”

  “I could leave, if you want.”

  “No, god no,” she said, too fast and too fierce.

  Though it was only afterward that she realized how it sounded:

  Not like someone trying to say she didn’t want to masturbate.

  Like someone saying that she wanted him to stay.

  And he took it that way, too.

  “Or, you know. I could just…do it for you,” he said.

  Then she just had to do her best not to go out of her mind.

  She stopped herself from jumping up. Kept her hands from flailing.

  Didn’t look at him, in case looking made her do something crazy.

  “Oh my god. You can’t be serious. You can’t be serious.”

  “Probably wouldn’t take a lot.”

  “I always take a lot.”

  “Even when you’re alone?”

  “Especially when I’m alone.”

  “Well, maybe we should see about that.”

  Again, she had the urge to get up. Maybe she even would have, if it hadn’t been for the other things he was doing. The thumb stroking her arm was now the back of his hand, running the length of her arm over and over. And that was his breath against the curve of her throat, so close and warm he could have been kissing her there. It felt like kissing.

  Only without the scariness of the real thing.

  All of this was without the scariness of the real thing.

  It was just a game, that was all—and one that she could win if she really put her mind to it. He thought he could get her so easily, but he was utterly and completely wrong. She was a rock, in the face of whatever he was going to do. She was impervious to the pleasure he seemed to think he was going to dole out, to the point where she almost laughed when he slipped his hand beneath the waistband of those too-big sweatpants.

  It was weird. Slightly uncomfortable.

  Not sexy in the least.

  And then his fingertips just oh-so-lightly grazed the pouting lips of her swollen pussy, and things pretty much started to go downhill from there. The sensation it sent through her was just so intense, and over something so small. He hadn’t even slipped between them to her clit, or eased a finger into her slick little hole. In truth, she wasn’t entirely sure he’d touched her at all.

  Yet she still had to clench her jaw.

  She had to tell herself that it was just the stuff that had happened before—the film and him coming and then licking his fingers like a satisfied cat. It wasn’t anything to do with this right now, with him touching her, with his skill. He wasn’t skillful at all. He was terrible. Awful.

  The worst lover she had ever had.

  She had no idea why her thighs were trembling. Or what made her moan when he finally, finally, finally eased his fingers into that slick slit, and then t
opped it off by telling her just what he found there.

  “Ohhhh fuuuuck you are wet. You’re so wet. Jesus Christ, Letty, how can you stand it? How can you sit still and quiet with those eyes closed when your pussy is like this? So slippery I can just glide all the way down and ease on in and oh man, oh man,” he said, and all she could do in response was shiver and make a number of embarrassing noises. First for his words, and then oh god then for the feel of him doing it.

  He used two fingers—two of those long, thick fingers—yet somehow it didn’t hurt when he pushed into her. There was no fumbling or searching. Her body just seemed to open for him, as though they’d dated for years and he’d worked on her for hours. He knew exactly how to touch her there, and when he did she simply had to respond. Her gasp rung out in the small room.

  Though she vowed it would be the last one. That was it now—she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of anything else. Not even when he started working his fingers in and out, slow and steady and so unbelievably good she kind of wanted to cry over the unfairness of it. Why was he the one who had to be so good at this? How did he know how to do it in this deliberate, teasing, tantalizing way?

  Even watching him do it was exciting. She made the mistake of glancing down and all she could see was his hand rolling beneath the material, the waistband occasionally stretching to give her a glimpse of her glossy cunt, his gleaming fingers, the way she was spread around that thick intrusion…

  Fuck.

  She had to look at the screen just to stop herself coming right then and there—though even those measures had an exciting quality of their own. James Spader was just doing something incredibly dull now, while she sat here watching through slitted eyelids, cheeks flushed and legs spread, as a man slowly fingered her slick, flushed pussy. Back and forth, back and forth, until she was so beside herself she wasn’t sure she even wanted to hold back her moans.

  She only knew that she was still trying, for reasons that seemed vague and far away now. It just doesn’t matter, her mind hissed, but she kept it up anyway. She held herself more tightly and bit deep into her lip—deep enough that she tasted blood. And when he started to ease those fingers up, she shut her eyes tight. She thought of other things, more boring things: dry books and bird-watching.