Passion

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  He offers the obligatory apologies of a single man for dirty dishes, an unclean bathroom and unmade bed.

  “I wasn’t exactly expecting you,” he laughs. I reassure him, tell him it doesn’t matter. The place we came here for is not tainted by such things.

  “Stand right here,” he orders, as he places me in front of the window like a favorite doll in a dollhouse. And he’s right. It’s breathtaking. The window is open, no screens obscure the view or the breeze. He stands behind me, hands on my shoulders.

  We have said enough words for tonight. After a long silence, he lifts my hair and blows on the back of my neck. He runs his hands down my arms and back up again. I am watching the clock on the tower of Notre Dame, thinking this will be fast. I have drawn all sorts of conclusions about the hunger of a man his age. The fumbling I expect next. The uncertainty. The pace.

  Drifting in and out of the distilled beauty of this moment, I can’t help but wonder how I will get a cab back to my hotel at this hour. Until I feel a slight tug. He is lifting the halter around my neck over my head and slowly, ever so slowly, revealing my breasts to the warm breeze outside, to the streetlamps below and ultimately, of course, to the spires of Notre Dame.

  “Beauty begets beauty,” he says quietly in my ear, as his hands follow the curve of my neck, circle round my shoulders, until finally, lighting a fire along every nerve on his path, they settle around the undersides of each breast.

  We sit like this for a long time. The street below is empty, but I wish it wasn’t. I want to been seen here, in this light, with this young man holding me up as an offering to his precious spires. I am his souvenir of Paris and he is mine. And this is the postcard moment we will each keep forever from this trip.

  Ever so gently, his thumbs curl around to rub my nipples. He presses his front into my back, and I feel the outline of his hard cock against my spine. I don’t realize I have stopped breathing until I hear my own sigh escape. Whatever part of me that was unwilling to surrender to the moment, to its perfection, finally lets go.

  As my head tips back and finds his shoulder, as my hands reach back to find his thighs, as I dissolve completely into the slow exploration of this stranger-turned-lover, there are no more thoughts of finding cabs or leaving anytime soon. In fact, there are no thoughts at all—and absolutely no rush to get to the next inevitable moment—for either one of us.

  By the time he finally turns me around to face him, there is nothing left of the boy I met earlier. There is only the man I am here with now. As he kisses me, his face is as gruff as any man’s at that hour. As his lips make their descent, from my lips to neck to shoulders to cleft of breast to nipple, he savors me in the manner of a man, rather than consuming me as a boy. And in his arms, under the exploration of his touch on every part of me, I realize I don’t need to hold anything back here.

  At the window, I surrender to him completely, letting him slowly peel off my Paris chic without objection. He speaks only in French now, and has requested that no more English pass between us until the light of dawn. That’s okay with me. I have nothing left to say.

  When we finally move the few feet across the small room to the bed, my consumption of him begins. With more hunger and urgency—the hunger that drove me here in the first place—I push him back onto the bed. I feel his cock under his shorts, and a groan of delight at its substantial size and shape escapes me before I can suppress it. He laughs. I imagine I’m not the first to notice.

  With great effort, I try to unwrap him with the same slow, deliberate speed of seduction he used with me. I lift his T-shirt and my eyes follow the strip of hair that begins somewhere under his shorts, stretches up the center of his torso and spreads perfectly across his chest. His body is beautiful. I would tell him if I could, but I fear what I might say in my feeble French, so I let my hands tell him instead.

  I lower my torso slowly over him, until just the tips of my nipples are brushing lightly against the whole of his exposed skin, grazing over him lightly, teasing him as I make my way to his shorts. Even as I am eye level with his cock, and I’m opening his button and zipper, he keeps his hands by his sides and lets me take him how I want. I think to myself that some woman has trained him well, and I silently thank her.

  It is a gorgeous cock, thick, long, hard—and all mine. I tuck myself between his legs, entwine my hair into itself so I have an unfettered view, and slowly lower myself to his groin. I rub the head of his cock along my cheeks, my lips, tracing my nose, and I breathe him into me. He says something in French that sounds like a mixture of surprise and gratitude, as his hand reaches up to gently stroke my hair.

  It goes on like this for hours. We are a tumble of giving and receiving until the lines blur between the two. Many times, I think he’ll come, but he doesn’t until I am completely exhausted and beg for a rest. An adolescent discomfort nags at me as I drift off, wondering why he never came, what I might have done wrong.

  When the first light of dawn reveals the spires once again, I am awoken sharply by his hard cock entering me suddenly from behind. I am still wet, despite napping for a couple of hours, and he slips back inside me easily. All of his slowness from the night before is gone. He has gone primal on me. Holding himself up on one hand, his other reaches around my waist and he pounds into me from behind. His coming seems to last as long as the entire night we spent building to this climax. And although he’s wearing a condom, just the thought of how much fluid he’s pouring into me, imagining how it would feel to have him dripping out of me, sends me into another set of spasms that mimic his, like we’re singing a round.

  When we finally catch our breath, dripping sweat, our sides sticking together on his cot-sized mattress, he speaks to me in English, punctuating the end of our time together.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “Sorry?” I ask. “What’s there to be sorry about?”

  Suddenly, I’m nervous. Facts that my body ignored through the night pop to mind. Like the fact that he’s a stranger, that we didn’t have a “health talk” first or my concern that he was somehow unsatisfied and regretted the evening.

  “I came too soon.” Expecting to see a smile on his face, I look over at him, but he’s dead serious. By the light of day, he’s a boy again: earnest, eager to please. I begin to reassure him, but before I get a chance, a smile breaks out across his face.

  “Perhaps I can see you again before you go,” he says. “I promise, I will try to last longer.”

  CRAVE YOU CLOSE

  A. M. Hartnett

  The shouting had started shortly before midnight. Krista imagined that the rest of the family simply burrowed themselves beneath their pillows and pretended not to hear it. The Neal motto seemed to be “Don’t make waves,” but that’s what Nicky did without even trying.

  She slipped from the bed they shared and twisted her dark hair into a ponytail then wrapped his heavy robe around her. She crept down the stairs, past the den where the fight had originated and squeezed through a crack in the back door to settle on the Adirondack chair at the far end of the porch.

  The night was balmy, but there was a nipping breeze that crept low to the ground and whisked straight up the hem of the robe. Content to wait for him, Krista curled her legs beneath her bottom and cocooned into the toasty robe.

  When they couldn’t pay the rent any longer, they had traveled six hundred miles to Nicky’s hometown of St. Paul to take up residence in the Neals’s spacious old house. His father had helped him get a job, and what did Nicky do on the first weekend? He went out and got drunk with his childhood buddies. That morning when Kimball passed Nicky en route to the bathroom he had seen the fresh bruises on his son’s face.

  It was a bad start, but it would get better. Kimball would see that Nicky was serious about getting things straightened out. What was a bit of rowdy fun?

  Voices carried from the open living room window. She could hear Kimball letting into Nicky. “You’re supposed to start work Monday morning. What the hell is
Harold going to say when you show up at the job looking like that?”

  “He’s not hiring me for my good looks,” was Nicky’s tight reply. His tone cut into Krista. She could imagine that line between his eyebrows getting deeper and his cheeks turning red as he tried to keep his temper from spilling over. On and on it went until at last Kimball’s heavy footfall pounded up the old stairs.

  He’d get over it, just like he’d gotten over his son running off and getting married the day after graduation. He’d gotten over their decision to have a baby when neither one of them had a job and had even wired them money so they could pay their rent. He’d get over this, too.

  Moments after the fight ended the back door opened, and Nicky emerged. He sat on the top step, lit a cigarette and drew deep.

  She cleared her throat and Nicky jumped. When he saw her the lines on his face disappeared, and he ran a hand through his brown hair. “I should have known.”

  “I got tired of waiting for you, and it’s not like I could sleep with all the yelling. I didn’t really want to stay up there anyway.”

  Nicky stuck the cigarette between his teeth and leaned back on his hands. “Is Ethan asleep?”

  “Probably not. He’s in the attic with his cousins having a sleepover. I heard them making all kinds of noise earlier.”

  “How about a drive?” he asked, his eyes to the stars and then glanced back at her. “You don’t need to change.”

  Krista leapt barefoot on the adjacent grass while Nicky’s sneakers crunched on the gravel strip leading to the little car. He rolled the car down the driveway to the main road and then they were off. It only took a moment for her to realize their destination: the lake where they had swum as children.

  “Need a lift? There’s probably broken glass on the ground.” he asked once he cut the engine.

  She rode on his back to a picnic table at the lakeside. Her head was heavy with recollection. It was here that they had first come together and dozens of times afterward.

  Nicky deposited her on the edge of the table and swung around. His big hands cupped her face and held her a moment, then moved lower to grasp the lapels of the robe as he leaned in and nuzzled her. He muttered something against her skin that she didn’t catch and then gasped.

  “Jesus, Kris, what the hell are you wearing under here?” he said, followed by a whistle. He split open the front of his bath-robe and gawked. “Goddamn.”

  She had bought the nightgown with the last of her mad money and had been hiding it since they arrived. It was a dainty mix of lace and mesh that ended just above her thighs. She had left the matching panties in the shopping bag.

  Krista shimmied out of the robe and leaned back on both hands. Her whole body was already lit up and heavy with need. Nicky traced the neckline of the nightie with two fingers, from one shoulder to the other and then back again.

  “You look like you were hit in the face with a pair of knuckles,” she said.

  His grin widened. “I was.”

  “You just walk around all day looking for trouble, don’t you?”

  “You want to give me some trouble?”

  “Always.” She laughed and brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. As he kissed her she reached lower and began working the buttons until his flat chest was exposed to her. She splayed her hand on his warm skin and felt his heart beating.

  “We’re all right, aren’t we?” he asked quietly.

  Gooseflesh rose on her arms and legs as his breath streamed over her while he mouthed a trail along the slope of her neck. Her heart picked up the pace with every inch his moist lips explored.

  “We’re always all right,” she said and turned her mouth to his, sucking in a quick breath before his tongue touched hers.

  Holding in a moan at the back of her throat, Krista parted her legs. She took his hand and guided it along her inner thigh. His fingertips grazed the wet heat at the apex, tentative at first as he flicked his tongue in and out of her mouth. She ran her hand along his forearm and felt the hairs rising beneath her palm.

  “Put your fingers inside me,” she said. “Let me warm you up.”

  Her breath caught at the back of her throat as he filled her slowly. At the same time he planted his knee on the edge of the table and pushed himself up to hover over her. The slats beneath them creaked with the extra weight. As she went on her back, Krista draped her arms over his shoulders and sucked his hot tongue deeper into her mouth. For a moment she simply cradled the back of his head, fingers twisting in his soft, overgrown hair as he gently fucked her with two fingers. She was getting wetter and a little tingle blossomed with each pass over her G-spot.

  He glanced down her body with a twisted smile. “I love it when you dress up for me. Nail polish, makeup, pretty underwear: I’ve never seen you look less than perfect in all the years I’ve known you.”

  She moaned as his fingers left her, but the separation was only so he could pull the hem of her nightie past her belly button and tug the bodice low.

  Her need mounting, she curled her tongue around his and reached lower to where his cock tented the front of his track pants. She could feel the heat beneath the thin layer of fabric as she closed her hand around his shaft.

  He thrust his fingers into her again and then slowly withdrew. Krista tipped her head back and bit down on her bottom lip.

  “You don’t have to be quiet,” he said.

  She tugged the drawstring at his waist. “I’m so used to having to hold my breath.”

  He slid his fingers between her pussy lips and rubbed the puffy flesh around her clit. His low chuckle skittered through her and sang in her blood. “Don’t hold your breath. It’s just you and me out here. I can make you.”

  Krista couldn’t give in just yet. Her throat ached where she held her cry of pleasure. The tip of his finger brushed her clit and she fought to keep it all inside. Bending her legs at the knee, she pressed her bare feet to the flat surface of the table. Each time he circled the hard bead of flesh she pushed up. His touch was so light but so potent. Her pussy contracted and she felt her juices trickling.

  Krista grasped the front of his pants and pulled them down. She closed her hand around his dick and ran her thumb along the tip. He groaned and his whole body vibrated.

  “God, I remember the first time we came out here. No girl had ever given me a hand job before.”

  “That wasn’t all I did.” She pumped the hot length until her hand was slick with precome. “I still can’t believe it.”

  “Believe what?”

  “How far I let you go.” He pinched her clit, stealing her words for a moment as the ripple of pleasure skirled through her abdomen. “I couldn’t sleep that night thinking about how you’d tell all your friends and never talk to me again.”

  “I did tell all my friends,” he said with a laugh and withdrew, “and I did call you the next morning.”

  He shoved his pants to his knees and splayed his hands on her thighs to spread her apart. Krista grasped him around the waist as the hard column of flesh stretched her and dug her fingernails into his hips as the fat head bumped against her G-spot. It was like a flare went off inside of her, filling her with liquid heat.

  “Go slow, baby. We never get to go slow anymore,” she whispered.

  The light of the moon was bright enough that she could see his face. His lips were parted and his teeth were clenched together. She imagined that he mirrored the same restraint that she did. His breath coming in hard bursts, he sank down until he was balls deep. Krista slung her legs around his waist and tucked her feet into the groove at the small of his back.

  He bent low until his forehead was pressed against hers. “I don’t think I can go slow.”

  “Fuck me hard, then. I just want to scream tonight,” she said in a puff of air as she clenched her inner muscles around him.

  Nicky jerked, muscle going taut as her nails cut into him. He spread his legs, arched his back and started pumping.

  She could see the strain on
his face just before he expelled the breath he held. It was impossible to drag her gaze from his face. After so long she thought she would have gotten over him. There were mornings when she’d watch him rolling out of bed and with the sight of the muscles in his shoulders flexing, his back crisscrossed with marks from the mattress, she would be heavy and swollen in an instant.

  It never went away. It just seemed to get stronger.

  Each time he pulled out until only the thick head remained, Krista arched her back, ready for his next deep thrust and the slap of his balls against her ass. His features blurred and mingled with the black sky and white stars overhead. The walls of her cunt squeezed and sucked his cock. She moaned long and loud throughout the endurance of a climax that hit her so hard it seemed like it would split her in two.

  Nicky pumped her twice more and then buried his cock to the hilt. The piece of the world that had shattered with her orgasm came back together, and she watched the glorious transformation come over his face. He squeezed his eyes shut, and for a moment his face twisted into a grimace while he shot his load deep inside. In an instant the same euphoria that pumped through her flooded his face. Krista couldn’t take her eyes off of him as he emptied into her. He looked so vulnerable and beautiful.

  She closed her arms around him as he sagged on top of her and expelled a low moan into the crook of her neck. Every one of her senses was alive, and she keenly felt everything around her, none more so than his heart bumping against his chest.

  He lifted his head and just looked at her, gaze darting over every inch of her face. She smiled and slipped her hands into his hair to give the wayward tufts a tug. Nicky blinked and drew a quick breath, and then he leaned down and kissed her.

  They parted and stood facing each other as he tucked himself back into his pants and Krista burrowed into the robe.