by Cara McKenna
“Sit.” I set up a camera and lights and an umbrella until he’s bathed in the drama his bone structure demands.
“Sit the way you do in my den,” I say. “Like you’re judging me.”
Sean reclines a bit, casual, and I begin snapping overexposed pictures. Tonight is the last time I plan to see him, but I want to possess his body long after he’s banished from my house. He follows my directions through dozens of shots, maybe hundreds. I capture his face in every emotion, his eyes boring into the lens, cast down, glancing to the side, closed. He touches himself when I ask, his hand over his shrouded erection at first, then dipping beneath the cotton. He holds the waistband down to show the camera then sheds them completely. The photos will document all of his details—the tendons that stand out along his throat when he moans, the crease in his brow when he’s so hard and close it must hurt. I record his beautiful back muscles and the shadows of his shoulder blades, the still-glowing mark on his ass from his penitence earlier.
“Why do you think you’re here?” I ask him as I near the end of my project. His eyes burn into mine through the viewfinder.
“Because I’m special,” he tells me then he laughs a little and smiles, and I photograph it.
“You think you’re special?”
“More than the others,” he says. “None of them have tasted you or kissed you. None of them will ever fuck you the way I’m going to. And you won’t be able to forget about me like you can with them.”
“What makes you so sure?” I ask, and I click the camera off.
“I don’t know, but I think you feel it too.”
I collapse the tripod and lights and shoo Sean from the chair so I can fold the drop cloth. I carry the chair back to the parlor and he follows.
“Where?” he asks when we reach the second-floor landing.
“My bedroom.” We climb another flight.
“How?” he asks as I close the door behind us.
“Rough. Be mean and rough.”
He nods once and then it’s on.
He grabs my wrist and pulls me with him to the bed. I’m tugged hard onto his lap, face-to-face, and my skirt rides up as he wraps my legs around his waist. He’s still naked, still hard as iron, and his strong hands make me ride the thick length of him. I wish my panties would just catch fire and disintegrate already, so we could be fucking right this instant.
“Keep that up,” he tells me, and his hands take my face. His kiss is deep and explicit, as are the noises that escape him. I ride him and fantasize that he’s inside me.
“Good,” he moans against my lips, and for a brief moment I’m in charge.
“You better fuck me right,” I tell him.
“You won’t be able to walk,” he promises.
He pushes my sweater up and yanks it over my head. His lips find my nipple through the lace, sucking until it’s a hard peak then doing the same to the other. His warm hands squeeze my breasts together and he buries his face between them, taking in the perfume and the sweat and whatever else he’s after. I reach back and unhook my bra, dying for the sensation of his wet tongue on my bare skin. He laps and suckles, greedy, and the pleasure mounts between my thighs, breaching the dam. My panties are so wet that I’m bathing his bare cock with them. It’s too much. Too hot. Too right. I start to come, moaning low and harsh. His hands grasp my ass and keep me riding, keep me coming until he decides I’m done. Until I’m limp and reeling.
“How do you want me?” he says, nearly sneering.
“I don’t care. Just hard.”
He helps me to standing, such a selectively courteous gentleman. “I need to get something.”
“No, you don’t. I have a note from your doctor.”
“You’re on something?” he asks, stepping close.
“Since the dawn of time.”
“All right, then.” His face looms above mine, chest pushing into me. He’s staring me down, forcing me to walk backward. “Get on your knees.”
I obey.
“Give me what you gave the others.”
“I don’t give them anything,” I say haughtily. “I take—”
“Just suck my bloody cock,” he says, apparently disinterested in my semantics.
He’s hot and thick and throbbing when I wrap my fingers around him. His smell makes the glands in my mouth pucker and sting, anticipating.
“Suck me.”
I lick him first. I bathe the smooth, taut skin of his head with my tongue and I taste him. Heaven. I look up to find his hooded eyes staring down at me.
“More.”
I do as he says. The first inch then another. I take half of his long dick in my mouth and stroke the other half, hard, from the base. He’s big—bigger than the others—and I revel in the intimidation that tingles its way down my spine. I listen to his moans and swears, let him pump his hips gently, and I take what he gives me. He seems so close to the edge, but then he stops. I’m drunk from him and it feels wrong when he pulls away.
“Turn around.”
I shuffle in place until I’m facing the cheval mirror. He angles it just so, and I watch his reflection fall to its knees. He pushes my skirt up over my hips, yanks the crotch of my panties to one side. Two fingers plunge deep, finding me still dripping and swollen from my climax. So ready. I watch his face in the mirror, the tremble in his lips and the narrowing of his eyes, as though he’s in disbelief.
“Please,” I say.
“Please what?”
“Fuck me,” I beg him. “Now. Hard.”
His fingers thrust deep. “Say my name.”
“Please, Sean.”
“Again.”
“Fuck me, Sean. Please.”
He finds the tiny zipper and jerks my skirt and panties down my thighs and off my calves. I watch us in the mirror, just two naked strangers, both dying for the same thing. Alone together in this empty house on a rainy night.
He guides his cock between my legs and runs it cruelly up and down my wet lips. I study the muscle and bone flexing in his hips as he moves, the tight ridges of his abdomen, the hard shapes of his arms as his hands clamp around my waist. Strong. Young, but not like the others. More real. Far more dangerous.
I catch his eyes in the mirror. “I want you.”
“I know.”
“Enjoy yourself,” I say. “You’re never getting this again.”
I feel his head at my entrance, teasing.
“You’re so wet,” he murmurs, and it sounds suddenly like worship.
“Take me.”
“I only get this once, you said. I’ll do it how I want.” I feel him easing in, slow as an hour hand.
“Come on.”
He groans, giving me a little more. There’s pressure. He’s thick, and I’m tight with the craving. I want him to split me clean open.
“Don’t be gentle.”
“Fuck gentle,” he says, laughing. “This is torture, sweetheart.”
I push my hips back and force him deeper.
He gasps, against his better judgment, I suspect. “You bloody cheater.”
“So punish me.”
I think this battle of wills is still raging, but I’m wrong. Sean’s hands grasp me hard at the hips, and he slams his cock all the way in, until he fills me like I never knew a man could. One or both of us grunts, but I couldn’t tell you who.
“Yeah,” he manages to say. He holds me tight against him for several long breaths. I can feel his pelvis pressed against my ass, feel every inch of him pulsing inside me. “Remember me,” he says, and the words rend the air between us like a razor.
It’s time. He slides out, slow, then back in. Over and over. And over. It’s a lesson, one I’m meant never to forget.
“Mine,” he says, and his hips pump faster. His long, tight body in the mirror is the single hottest sight I have ever seen. Now that I know how old he is, I can’t find the younger men attractive anymore. The boys. He’s going to ruin me.
“Harder,” I say. I want him to be ro
ugh and distract me from the pressure mounting in my tear ducts.
Sean fucks me like an animal—like he’s in heat—and I watch his face turn flushed and strained and ferocious. His hands knead my backside, and I gasp when he slaps me.
“Say my name,” he orders.
I do.
“Tell me how I feel.”
“Power-ful.” My voice jerks from the impact. “Hard—and thick—and long.”
“And you’re deep,” he tells me. “I can give it all to you.” He hammers me hard and I wish I could see his ass working.
“You want to come?” he asks.
“If you’ll let me.”
“I’ll make you,” he promises. He pulls out and flips me over and turns us in profile to the mirror. His knees spread wide and he pulls my thighs over his, sliding his wet cock all the way home.
“Sean—”
“I love when you say it.” He pounds into me, ruthless, hands braced on my legs, torso long and proud and undulating with his gifted hips. He slips a thumb into his mouth and puts it to my clit. He traces a tight, cruel circle. I do the same to my nipples, wanting to feel this heat across every square inch of my skin. I turn my head, and in the mirror I watch the beautiful little knitted muscles below his ribs, the dent at his hip, the rounded swell of his pumping ass. I watch him fucking me, and it hurts as much as it thrills.
“Tell me you’ll miss me,” he says, reading my troubling thoughts.
My voice doesn’t tell him this, but my body’s no good at keeping secrets. His thumb teases me faster.
“I hope you’ll think about me,” he says.
I moan from the pressure mounting between my quaking thighs.
“I hope when you pass me on the street sometime, you remember this moment.”
“Sean—”
“I hope you come to the symphony some evening with your fancy Beacon Hill friends. And when you watch me play, I hope all you can think about is the way I fucked you tonight.”
He stops lecturing me and lets himself come undone. His lids grow heavy, his mouth slackens and I can feel him chasing me in my race toward release. Sensations rush down my belly, pooling in my cunt. I watch wide-eyed where his cock surges in and out, fast and steady, obscured only by his skillful hand. His balls slap me each time he thrusts deep and his voice is reduced to harsh grunts. His shoulders hunch forward, and the first droplets of sweat drip from his chest to mine. His teeth are bared, eyes clenched shut.
When I come, I watch his face. His blue eyes open as my pussy grips him, and it’s like falling into a warm, chaotic sea. The pleasure tugs at me, pulls me, draws me into him even as he’s sunk deep inside my body. It’s slow motion, each twitch of his muscles, each bead of perspiration that slips down his skin. Heat breaches my core and radiates out through my veins and nerves, humming, until reality intrudes and I find myself shaking beneath him on the carpet. I hear my voice, small and quavering.
“Beautiful,” he says. His ribs tell me how hard his lungs are working, how fast his heart must be pounding.
“Now you,” I say.
He nods. My nerves are sensitized almost to the point of pain, but I need to see this—surely it’s the only thing I was put on the Earth for. He begins pumping me again, slow and deep. His body lowers and he braces himself on his forearms. His belly grazes mine as he thrusts. I let him kiss me for as long as his composure allows then his mouth finds a home against my neck as his hands slide beneath me, cupping my shoulders.
“Caroline.”
I suck in my breath.
“Caroline.” He says it again, and again. His body turns greedy and demanding, losing control. I grab his ass and urge him on.
“Come for me,” I say in his ear.
“Where?” he asks.
I think about it a moment. “My mouth.”
“Yeah,” he grunts. “You want to taste me.”
He thrusts a few more beats then pulls back. He crawls, legs flanking my ribs, until he’s straddling my chest. He’s stroking himself rough and fast but my eyes are on his face.
“Give it to me,” I say.
He leans down and slides his palm beneath my neck. He cradles my head gently, lovingly, as if I were ill and he were about to spoon-feed me. His cock is at my lips, and I run my tongue over his slit, tasting the little droplet of pre-come, tasting myself. His fist pumps harder, and I memorize it for when I fantasize about what he’ll look like, fucking himself, missing me.
“Caroline—”
“Come, Sean.”
He groans so deep in his chest, I know he’s done. I open my mouth wide, and he pushes past my parted lips, shooting his hot cream across my tongue. Five long, full spurts, five marrow-deep moans that shake me to the core. He tastes exactly how I knew he would, how I imagined. Savory. Familiar.
* * * * *
I don’t know who managed to disentangle us from our limp, sweaty heap on the rug and made it to standing first. I only vaguely remember stumbling to the bed, pulling back the covers and feeling a man envelop me for the first time in a long, long while.
When I woke, he was gone. Now I’m lying here, alone, staring up at the ceiling.
It’s dawn, and the sparrows are chorusing outside, and the sun is breaching the half-open blinds.
Sean is gone with the night and the rain. There is no note. There is no sign of him. Only the mirror out of place and my clothes piled in an imitation of tidiness on my vanity tell me he was real. And the sore ache between my legs. When it fades, I’ll miss it.
When the clouds roll in, my hopes will rise.
The next time it rains, I’ll tell the other boys, “Not tonight.”
About the Author
Cara McKenna writes smart erotica: a little dark, a little funny, definitely sexy and always emotional. She lives north of Boston with her extremely good-natured and permissive husband. When she’s not trapped inside her own head, Cara can usually be found in the kitchen, the coffee shop or the nearest duck-filled pond.
Cara welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
About the Author