Though when I say back together, I really mean falling apart.
He looks the way I feel: like he wants to sprawl on the floor and never get up again. But he does better at resisting this than I do. He keeps on his feet, manfully, while I sink to my knees. And it’s only when my motives become clear that he starts to lose it a little.
‘Oh, so you’re really gonna …’ he says, though he seems to struggle for the rest of the sentence. He ends up beginning a new one, without finishing the first. ‘And on your hands and knees, too? Yeah, you’re just crawling over to me on your hands and knees … Jesus. Jesus, look, Kit … you should probably know before you do this that usually I can go for hours and hours. Honestly, I swear to God I can. So you know, if I kind of do it all over your face before you’ve even … licked anything … it’s really not indicative of my overall abilities.’
I wonder if this is why he wanted to talk first. But, if so, he should really know: the idea only excites me. I think of him doing what he’s just suggested and I almost lose my balance. I sort of slide over to him at an angle, then find myself a little stuck.
I’m jammed up with excitement. I’m going all nuts inside, and can’t really trust myself to touch him. Just the feel of his heat on the side of my face is enough to make me close my eyes and reach out a steadying hand, but unfortunately my steadying hand winds up on his thigh.
It’s just like I’m groping him. And after I’ve thought of that word – groping – I’m even more excited than I was before. I’m getting great handfuls of him, squeezing and rubbing like I just … really, really need to.
But not as much as he needs to put that hand in my hair. That shaking hand, so close to being something other than a caress. I think he’s almost desperate to urge me on … to maybe guide my mouth to him … and yet he holds back. He keeps himself in check, as though I won’t like it if he’s forceful over something like this.
And unfortunately I don’t know how to tell him he’s wrong. I just have to kneel there, shivering with anticipation, as he almost touches the side of my head. As he nearly tilts his hips a little, so that this big thick thing strokes along the side of my face.
And then I turn just a touch, in order to make it happen.
I can’t help it. I want to feel him sliding over my cheek, and the heat of him … ohhhh, the heat of him. I suddenly understand why he ripped his hand away from himself, once he’s there against my skin. It’s like he’s branding me with that heavy flesh; it’s like he’s searing himself into me. And he smells so sweet, too, so rich with sex …
How can I resist? How can I resist the sounds he’s making – these soft, breathless sounds? Or the feel of him shaking as I lean back a little and look up at his flushed face? He’s completely lost now, completely gone in a way I never thought he could be, and I kiss his cock for that.
I kiss it, slow and soft and wet. And when he doesn’t object – when he goes briefly weak in the knees and utters a curse word that I’ve never actually heard before – I do it again. Only deeper this time. I take more of him into my mouth, craving the sudden salt-sweet taste of him on my tongue … or the heavy feel of him pushing in.
Because he does, a little. He can’t seem to help it, any more than I could help my recklessness in the library. He just groans, and rocks his hips, and suddenly my mouth is full – though I’m not complaining. I like this role reversal. I like this loss of control.
And I like it even better when he puts it into words.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, as he slowly pushes into my mouth. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just, God, you have no idea what that looks like. Oh, you have no idea what it does to me to see you taking it like that. You’ve no idea how often I’ve thought about you doing this to me.’
I wonder if it’s as often as I’ve thought about giving it to him? Probably not, if I’m honest. I’ve thought about it so many times I’m almost greedy for it, now that I’ve got it. My mouth is slowly getting sloppier and sloppier around that impossibly swollen head, and when I can’t take as much as I’d like – when I try to deep-throat him and end up with him telling me, ‘No, no, take it easy’ – I use my hand to devour the rest.
And then I use both of them, once I realise that one won’t do the job. I can’t circle him with a single thumb and forefinger. I have to clasp him like I’m in the middle of a prayer. I’m beseeching some deity, in a very pious way.
Aside from the giant penis, of course.
And all the slick sounds, and my frantic sucking, and the dirty words he chooses to say, about a second after I’ve taken him in my hands as well as in my mouth.
‘Oh, yeah, that’s it. Jerk me off, baby. Jerk me off just like that – ohhhh, right there.’
By ‘right there’ he means the sensitive spot on the underside – the one I’m rubbing, with my thumb. The one I’m barely sure about until he tells me it’s right. Other men I’ve been with? I could have stroked them there all night, and never known I was hitting any kind of jackpot.
But Dillon’s just not that sort of guy.
No. He’s the sort of guy who will say, if something feels good.
And he’s also the sort of guy who will quite shockingly show you more, if there’s something else that feels even better. If there’s something else that makes him sort of crazy – because this undoubtedly does. He takes hold of one of my hands and groans, ‘Like this, like this’, and then suddenly I’m stroking him really, really far back between his legs.
Rudely far back. Arousingly far back. So far back I think he’s going to do something else, for one thrilling second, and then I get what he’s aiming for. I’ve read about it in books, during my more desperate moments – though I’ve never quite dared to put any of my seduction schemes into effect. I’ve never quite known how to go all out.
But it’s easy, when someone makes you.
He just presses my fingers into that soft strip of skin – hard, really hard, harder than I would ever have dared – and once I’ve done it, and got the hang of it, he’s ever so grateful. And by ever so grateful, I mean he grunts like an animal in heat and fists his free hand in his hair, which kind of feels better than a thank-you card, if I’m honest.
As do the things he says, once he’s regained his senses.
‘I’m gonna come. Ohhhh, man, I’m gonna come so hard. Fuck. Fuck. Oh, it’s gonna be way too much,’ he tells me, though he really doesn’t have to. I can tell it’s going to be too much by the way he sort of tries to curl right over my body. His foundations are collapsing, and he’s losing all coherence – not to mention control over his breathing. I think he might actually be hyperventilating, and then there are long stretches where he doesn’t breathe at all.
He forgets to, in such an alarming way that I have to glance up. I have to see if he really is about to faint on top of me, which sounds stupid in my head, but less so once I see him. His face is as red as mine feels, and his mouth seems to be open around words he can no longer get out.
He’s stuck, I think … until I stroke my tongue one final time, over and around the slippery head of his cock. And then he goes stiff all over, just like I did, for him. He goes rigid, about a second before his thick shaft jerks in my mouth.
This is it, I think, in a rush of pleasure and excitement, but I’m still not quite prepared for it when it happens. He doesn’t make a sound, you see. He doesn’t cry out, the way I expect him to, or maybe pepper me with filthy words. All of his words are still trapped in the back of his throat, as he spurts in thick, prolonged bursts over my tongue.
Then all over my lips, when I pull away – perhaps because I think he’s done. I’m certain of it, in fact, so it’s a shock to hear his sudden groan, and feel that hot liquid coating my face. He doesn’t even let me move back to let me get away from it, which should probably offend me terribly.
And yet all I can think is: I’m glad. I’m glad that he’s this way. I’m glad that he shows me and tells me and puts his hand in my hair. I’m glad that
he moans when he sees what he’s done – what a mess he’s made of me!
Chapter Ten
He sleeps like the dead. Which I suppose is appropriate, after an orgasm like that. For a while I’m sort of concerned that it’s actually killed him, and then I get close and can feel his breath ghosting against my face. I put my hand on his back, which is going up and down, the way some great heavy beast’s would – slow, and ultimately reassuring.
Everything about this is reassuring, even though it probably shouldn’t be. I’m used to being somewhat disappointed by the sudden unconsciousness of my sex partners, and can’t quite pinpoint why I’m not disappointed here.
Because I’ve had around eight thousand orgasms to his one, perhaps? The scoreboard is looking pretty top-heavy in my favour. And besides … it’s sort of nice to just be here with him, in calmness and quiet. It’s nice to look at his face without any self-consciousness – no thoughts about whether he’s noticed me staring, or what he thinks of my probable adoration.
Because I do, of course. Adore him, I mean.
How could I not? Even in sleep, he’s utterly lovely. Those eyelashes of his fan out across his cheeks, soot-black and so soft looking. His mouth has made an inadvertent pout, that lower lip all plump and just ever so slightly glossy. I kind of want to run my finger over it, before other things catch my attention.
Silly things, like the T-shirt he’s still got on. He didn’t take it off during the whole of whatever that was, and it’s the goofiest thing to see him half-dressed like this. His ass is completely bare down below, and the material is far too tight up above. Plus, it’s sort of rucked up a bit – in a way that reminds me of little kids who’ve spent too long playing, and just collapsed without any attention to where they are.
Or what their clothes might reveal. Because that ruffled-up T-shirt – it’s revealed something I’ve not really noticed before. Of course I’ve taken in his tattoos. I know they’re there. Sometimes I know they’re there so hard I have dreams about them peeling off his arms, to swell and settle all over my body. I occasionally imagine his tattoos having sex with me, so it’s not that I haven’t been observant, or appreciative. It’s just that this one is so small, compared to the others. And it lines the base of his spine, so you could almost mistake it for something else – the shadow of his bones, maybe. His backbone has made a dark trail through his skin.
A dark trail of words. They’re words, I think, and then I can’t resist lifting his shirt a little more to see the rest. The only one visible is OK, which seems like a mysterious thing for a man to have written on him.
But the other words don’t make it any clearer.
You will be OK, it says, without explanation or elaboration. There’s no hint about who should be OK, or why they need to be. And as I’m in the middle of figuring it out he makes a sound – so I can hardly continue. Just the thought of him waking up and catching me doing this is enough to jolt me. As though I’m spying, instead of innocently looking.
I even brush his T-shirt back down in this hurried, guilty sort of way – but I’ve no real idea why. He doesn’t have the combination to his security deposit box under there. It’s just a tattoo, like all of the rest of the tattoos on his body. I didn’t just steal his soul.
So why does he look kind of unsettled, when I glance up at him? He actually turns over, too, and straightens his T-shirt, in a manner that reminds me too much of myself. It’s a furtive, uncertain sort of gesture, of the kind I would make if I wanted to hide a part of my body. And it’s only after he’s on his back and looking at me full in the face – so easily confident – that I start to doubt this impression.
Maybe he was just sleepy. He looks like he was just sleepy. He even yawns, lazily, and says a bunch of stuff that confirms it.
‘Oh, Jeeze. Did I pass out? I committed the ultimate cardinal sin of passing out after sex, didn’t I?’ He covers his face with his hands, and I swear it’s so adorable I almost stick him in a gif and post him to Tumblr. At the very least, I forget my silly angsty feelings, in time for him to add: ‘Did you even get a hug?’
The muffled voice only makes it funnier.
‘I did not get a hug,’ I say, in a mock-grave voice – one that he seems to find so amusing he almost cracks. His hands come down and that spark of laughter flashes across his deep-blue gaze, before he gets it back under control.
‘Seriously, how can you ever forgive me? I should be punished. Deeply, deeply punished.’ He pauses just long enough to catch something, as it flickers its way across my face. Though I’d perjure myself rather than admit what it was. No matter what he thinks, I won’t admit what it was. ‘You kind of like that idea, huh? What was that – chapter seventeen?’
‘There’s no chapter where she punishes him,’ I say, laughing. Inside, however, I’m thinking of how electric it was, having him at my mercy. Seeing him lose it like that, seeing him give up control …
Yeah, I liked that.
It’s almost disappointing, in fact, that he so abruptly changes the subject back to the thing we were talking about before. Disappointing, and a little … something else. A look drifts across his face that I can’t read, but it’s gone so quickly I could almost imagine it wasn’t there at all.
He makes me believe it wasn’t there at all.
‘OK, so … hugging. How does that go? You sort of … stretch your arms out …’ He does so too robotically, too broadly. It looks kind of like he’s trying to find a boulder to slot into the space he’s made between his chest and his hands. He looks like Donkey Kong, I think, and then I giggle. ‘What? I’m getting this soooo right. I just have to clamp these things around you, now …’
He gets me in a headlock, one big bicep smothering my face, while his free arm flaps ineffectively somewhere around my stomach. Like he’s searching for the correct hugging position, and completely failing to find it.
This time I squirm as I giggle – and not just because he’s holding me weirdly. There are all of these odd feelings bubbling around inside me, and they turn me into this wriggling mess.
‘Dillon, stop, stop – come on!’
‘What? Am I doing it wrong?’
‘I –’
‘You need more bicep, right? More bicep smushed into your face. I knew it! I’m a hugging genius!’
He’s a genius at making me wet myself – I’ll give him that much.
‘I can’t breathe!’
‘Isn’t that supposed to happen when you hug?’
‘Not unless you’re into necrophilia. I’m turning blue, Dillon!’
‘You are not. You looked beautiful, wedged against my armpit. Aside from the flailing. And the look of distress. And the amount of clothes you have on … my God, woman, are you wearing your shoes while in bed with me? You do not have your shoes on.’
‘I can’t confirm that fact. I’m being smothered by muscles.’
It’s true. I am. In order to talk, I have to nudge the heavy weight of his right bicep away with my nose, and do my best impression of a ventriloquist: mouth barely moving, sound hardly coming out of me. I’m surprised he hears me well enough to make the following offer:
‘Here then. Here. Rest in this convenient nook I seem to have, right where my shoulder meets my chest.’
Which I accept with far too much gusto. Other people are probably really cool and nonchalant about it, drifting into his arms like a frost-covered flower. They don’t scramble like a maniac for this tiny scrap of human contact.
But I don’t care.
Because he doesn’t, either. In fact, I’d venture to say that he seems quite pleased for a moment. A hint of a smile drifts across his face, before he’s right back to the issue of the day.
‘There. Now you can look down and observe that while I am completely naked from the waist down in a rather alarming fashion, you have on every item of clothing you possess.’
‘I’m definitely not wearing seventeen pairs of shoes.’
‘No, just these little cute ones.
Lemme see those,’ he says, all bluster and grabby hands. Funny, then, that he seems surprised when I actually do as he asked. I lift my legs and point my toes at the ceiling, in a way that shows my heeled Mary-Janes to their best advantage. They look almost cute, I think, with my smooth bare legs beneath.
And apparently he agrees.
‘Oh, I like that,’ he says, in a voice that shades just a touch too husky. It makes me glance down his body, checking for something I’m sort of sure won’t be there, until my eyes reach their destination and it actually is.
‘I can see that. Good God, man! Does it ever go down?’
‘Not after head like that it doesn’t. Not after waiting for it for that long. I mean, you understand that one orgasm was just, like, the appetiser.’
‘I understand that you’re crazy. Not yet, OK – we can’t do sex things again yet,’ I say, and I guess I expect him to argue here. So it’s kind of weird that he doesn’t.
‘No,’ he says. ‘You’re right. Post-coital holding, first. And talking! Let’s do some talking.’
Which sounds a little like a joke, I think … but a little like he’s not joking at all, at the same time. I think of the pizza and the conversation he wanted to have, and how eager he’d seemed for both … and then of course that just leads me to the one thing I’ve wanted to ask for a thousand years. Because if he wants to talk so badly, why did he suddenly stop?
I have to know. I have to.
‘Are you sure?’ I ask, in as light a voice as I can manage. ‘You sort of seemed to lose your train of thought last time.’
‘I did?’ he asks, and I know he’s being as falsely casual as I am. I suspect it may be catching – get inoculated now against fake flippancy, before you too fall victim.
‘Yeah. I’ve been meaning to ask you about it, actually.’ Boy, have I ever. ‘You just seemed to go a little blank when I asked you about yourself, and I wondered if –’
Addicted (Mischief Books) Page 14