by Jay McLean
I don’t know if it was my words or the moan that escaped me when his thumb brushed my nipple, but something in him switched. There was no longer a trace of vulnerability within him when he slid his hands up my sides, pushing my shirt up and over my head.
I stood there in nothing but a pair of his boxer shorts, my naked breasts only inches in front of him. I started to cover them, but he held on to my hands, not forceful but gentle because he knew. He knew I’d want to cover my body, this part of me that no other man had seen before him. And even though my pulse raced when his eyes lowered, taking me in for the first time, I knew I trusted him. Because he’d done nothing but make me feel safe from the moment he saw me. So when he leaned forward, his wet lips parting as he glanced up at me through his thick, dark lashes, I released all prior insecurities and let him do what he thought he needed to do.
What he was best at.
I let him take care of me.
The warmth of his mouth covered my nipple, and my back arched involuntarily, my fingers gripping his hair. He moaned against me, the vibrations pulsing through my skin, through my veins, directly to my core. My body was on fire, my muscles weak beneath his touch. He must have sensed it. Felt it somehow. Because he wrapped an arm around my waist, his mouth still around my breast as he lifted me slightly, his other hand grasping my thigh. He settled me back down on his lap, his mouth switching to my other breast while his hand flattened against the small of my back, fingers splayed as he pulled me closer to him.
I could feel his hardness pressed against his slacks, rubbing against my center while his tongue circled agonizingly slow. And I couldn’t tell you if I was breathing harshly, or not breathing at all because all other sensations fled, and the only thing I could feel was the pleasure building in my center. My hips circled, my head lolled back, my hair brushing against my lower back. It must have tickled his thighs because the next thing I knew, my hair was being tugged, over and over as if his hand had grasped the ends and wound and wound until it was wrapped in his fist.
It was almost too much, the lightness of his tongue against my flesh as he moved from my breasts, up my chest, and onto my neck, leaving a trail of wetness behind. The heat of his lips mixed with the cold of the thick air set off a burn somewhere deep in the pit of my stomach. It wasn’t the first time I’d felt it. In the past, when he’d kissed me, when he’d touched me in ways not meant to create the thoughts that would subsequently run through my mind—touches meant to comfort, not to tease—I still wanted more of him but was too ashamed to ask.
“Fuck, Bailey,” he said before his teeth clamped down on my shoulder and his hands did the same to my thighs. “You gotta stop with those noises.”
I didn’t realize I was making any.
“And you gotta stop moving. Just for a second.” It was a plea. One I didn’t really understand until his hand left me to undo the button and fly on his pants. His cock sprung free, still restrained in his black boxer shorts, but it was there, and it was hard and when he said, “You keep moving on me like that, and I won’t be able to hold off,” I knew it was for me.
He went to adjust himself, but I beat him to it—not to do what he wanted—but to do something I wanted. For once, I wanted to be the one to take care of him.
He seemed confused when I tried to slide off his lap, his hand reaching out as if to stop me from going anywhere.
As if I would.
I wasn’t naive to what I planned on doing next. I lived on the streets for years. Hookers, pimps, and Johns were all part of my nightly stroll through the alleyways while I looked for a safe place to sleep.
As I put my hands on Nate’s knees and got down on mine, I tried to push back the memory of my fifteen-year-old self and the fear mixed with interest while I watched a man in the front seat of his car, his eyes shut and his head tilted back. The sea of blonde hair moved up and down on his lap, slow at first and then faster when the man’s hand came down on it. A loud moan had left him just as his eyes snapped open and landed on me standing there, watching him get off. In my memory, I gasped, and in the present, I must’ve done the same because Nate’s hand curled around my shoulder, his face in my vision, eyes right on mine. He said my name, and without thinking, I reached for the band of his shorts so I could finish the task I set off to achieve. But he stopped me, his touch as gentle as always when his fingers circled my wrist only inches from his cock.
He must have the strength of a thousand men, I thought as I looked up at him.
He stood quickly, forcing me to lean back, and kicked off his shoes, and then removed his pants. He kept his boxers on as he moved away from the bed. I spent the time taking him in, and even though I’d seen him like this before—many times before—there was something different in his stance. Something almost powerful about the way he stood over me, his shoulders square, muscles tight, jaw set… but it was the intensity in his eyes that had me sucking in a breath and holding it there.
“Lay on the bed,” he said, his voice low and smooth, making his words seem like a command. But then he added, “please,” as he took a step forward, offering me his hand to help me to my feet. Once I was standing, he held me to him, his erection pressed against my stomach, just like his lips were pressed against my neck. “We stop when you want,” he murmured against me. “You say the word, baby.” And with that, he guided me to the bed, one arm cradling me and the other outstretched, palm flat on the mattress as he settled me on it. He hovered over me, his weight on his arm while he kissed my jaw, my neck, and down to my breasts. It didn’t take long for the flames to ignite, for the fire to engulf, wrapping us both in an inferno of lust and need and desperation so strong, the tiny cement box we called my room could barely contain it.
Where our mouths weren’t, our hands were, and we got lost in the moment, in each other, and when he pulled back, his eyes on mine, still intense, still needy, a calm washed over me… the kind I suspected junkies got after taking a hit.
Was Nate my drug?
My addiction?
The thought flipped itself over in my mind, but I didn’t have time to think because his palm was flat on my stomach now, moving lower and lower beneath the band of my underwear. He moved slowly, propping himself on his forearm as his lips met my cheek and then his hand was there, between my legs, invading the place I’d fought so hard to keep to myself.
His finger slid between my folds, effortless because I was so damn wet. And I don’t know why, but it must’ve been a surprise to him because he cursed under his breath as the tip of his finger paused at my entrance.
I didn’t know whether to tell him to stop or to keep going, so I kept my mouth shut and my eyes on his and I trusted my body to tell us what my words couldn’t. My hips jerked up, pushing his finger just slightly inside of me and that movement alone forced a moan to emit from deep in his throat. He dropped his head on my shoulder, his breath re-igniting the fire that was my body, like alcohol poured on an open flame. And then he said, “Tell me you want it, baby. I need to hear you say it.”
And so I gave him what he wanted. “Touch me, Nate,” I added a “please” because I wanted him to know I wasn’t just saying it because he’d asked me.
I wanted him to touch me.
I needed him to touch me.
He kept his head low as his hand moved, corded muscles flexing in his arms showing strength and willpower that was all Nate DeLuca. I expected his finger inside me, anticipated the pain of him stretching me, filling me, pleasuring me… but what he did was so unexpected, so much worse, that it took a moment for to me realize what was happening. He traced his finger, wet and covered with my need, around my pussy, never once going inside, and never once touching me where I’ve touched myself during the times I’d thought about him, about this.
He tapped and teased and tortured me with pleasure, another flick of a lit match right into a burning inferno, and I knew, without a doubt, that I’d be nothing but ash by the time he finished. And it was that thought that had me opening my
eyes, unaware that I’d closed them, and looking down at him. His mouth was an inch below my belly button, shoulders between my legs and my underwear… Where the hell was my underwear?
I tried to shut my legs when the realization hit, and he looked up, his finger still teasing. “I need you to trust me, Bailey,” he said, and I dropped my head back to the pillow and tried to push away the embarrassment of him seeing my most private parts in the most private ways.
The tip of his nose was the first thing to touch me there, in that spot that craved his attention. “Fuck, you smell so good,” he murmured, and I’d love to describe what happened next with words as eloquent as his tongue, but I have nothing. Nothing but the image of his head between my legs, the pink of his tongue and the red of his lips a blur against my needy flesh. Sparks of light, bright and overpowering, took over my vision and my fingers curled in the sheets beneath me. My hips rose as I bit down on my lip, hoping, praying that I wouldn’t scream and when he held me there… an inch from falling over the edge, he paused and looked up at me, thick, dark lashes doing nothing to hide the lust in his eyes. “So fuckin’ perfect, baby.” And I came undone. With me under his touch and him under my trust, I came. I came, and I came, and I came until all the muscles in my body uncoiled, and all the realities settled in.
He’d been so gentle, so careful. Even as he wiped his mouth on my thigh before climbing over me, he made sure not to put his weight down on me, aware that it might set off memories I so desperately wanted him to erase. He gazed down at me, raised up on his outstretched arms, his smile a force that shot straight to my heart. “You okay?” he asked.
I shook my head, and his brow bunched but I couldn’t speak to assure him that I wasn’t just okay, I was so much better than okay. Full bellies and warm shelters never felt as good as I felt in that moment.
I met his lips with my own, tasting my pleasure as I ran my hands down his sides and into his boxers. Nate tensed beneath my touch as he broke the kiss. “I’m so fuckin’ wound up, Bailey, I won’t last long.” He said it with humor, but the blush on his cheeks and the avoidance of his stare gave way to his embarrassment.
With one hand, I reached up, fingers gliding through his hair, and watched in fascination as his eyes drifted shut when my other hand circled his cock. He was so hard, but his skin was so soft, and I don’t think I’d ever felt more powerful than I did just then. He moaned loudly—a primal roar—as I started to stroke him, his lips blindly searching for mine. I kissed him with reverence, with passion, with pure wanton lust and when his hips started moving, matching my strokes, and his tongue delved deeper into our kiss, I knew he was close. After pushing his boxer shorts further down his legs, I wrapped both hands around his length as he kneeled between my legs, his arms still supporting him. With his eyes still closed, he said, “Fuck, baby. I’m so close,” and so I worked harder, faster. He bit down on my shoulder the same time I felt him pulse in my hands and the next thing I knew my hands and my stomach were coated with warmth, droplets of it seeping between my fingers and down my wrist. The room filled with the sounds of our heavy breaths and we tried to calm them, but besides that we lay perfectly still, my mind, my heart, my body wrapped around him.
He kissed my cheek, so soft and light and a complete contrast to the reason why my lips felt so raw. “I’ll go run us a shower,” he whispered in my ear.
And then he was up and walking toward the bathroom, his pleasure on my hands and mine on his tongue, and I watched, a smile twitching on my lips as his perfect bare ass moved away from me. And once he was in the bathroom, our views of each other obstructed by a wall, I kicked my legs and pumped my fists and screamed a silent ecstatic scream. Then I got up, careful not to make a mess, and joined him in the shower, pretending that I was just another eighteen-year-old girl, and he was just another guy—a guy who’d given me my first and most earth shattering orgasm in (I’m positive) all of existence.
26
Bailey
There was something intimate, something romantic about showering together that brought us that tiny step closer to each other. We ignored his erection, standing upright and pressed against my stomach as he held me around the waist, his arms loose behind my back while the water cascaded around us, the sounds of it hitting the walls and the floors creating a barrier from the outside world.
It wasn’t until we were in bed, my leg draped over him, my cheek against his chest and his fingers toying with my hair that we actually spoke. “How was the party tonight?” I asked, peering up at him.
He was already watching me, his features void of any emotion. “It was fine,” he said, his tone flat.
I sat up, making sure to take the blankets with me and covered my breasts as I half turned to him. “Can I ask you something?”
I’m not sure if it was my question or the fact that we were no longer a tangle of limbs that made him sigh softly, almost inaudibly. He linked his hands behind his head, the muscles in his chest flexing with the movement and nodded once. “I don’t have to answer, though, right?”
I returned his nod. “Do you like what you do?”
His brow knitted in response, almost as if he hadn’t heard me, but I’m sure he did because I made sure my voice was loud, clear, and confident. And so instead of repeating my question like he probably hoped I’d do, I waited—which earned another sigh from him before he looked up at the ceiling. “If you’re asking if I carry a smile while I work every day, then the answer is no. If you’re asking if I grew up wanting to be what I am, then the answer is no. But if you’re asking if I’d rather be doing anything else… then the answer is also no.”
My mouth opened. Closed. Opened. Closed. I scratched my head, a million questions on the tip of my tongue, but before I could speak his phone rang, the ringtone and vibrations echoing off the walls.
He sighed again, only, this time, it was loud, overly exaggerated. He didn’t bother to hide his annoyance when he tapped the screen and grunted. I watched, intrigued, as his face changed from irritation to concentration and from that to—“How long?” he said into the phone, but his eyes were on me. “All right.” He hung up and rubbed a hand across his face. Then he sat up, his feet hitting the floor with a thud. “I gotta go,” he mumbled over his shoulder.
“What? Why?” I scooted on my knees until I was next to him, sheets twisted around my body trying to hide my nakedness, my vulnerability. “What time is it anyway?”
He pressed a button on his phone, and I looked down at it. It was just past seven in the morning. Seven. He’d been out all night working, and then up all night with me, and now he was being called away, and I didn’t want him to go, and so I told him that as I held on to his arm.
“Bailey,” he said, turning to me. “You don’t think I’d rather be here with you?” he said, the frustration in his tone clear.
“So stay,” I pleaded.
He stood up and walked to the pile of clean laundry sitting on a chair in the corner of the room. He shrugged on a pair of black boxer shorts and a plain gray shirt before saying, “I can’t, baby.”
And there was something about the way he said it, like the pure disappointment eased out of each word, and I knew that whatever it was that was taking him away from me, it was bad. Really bad. “What happened, Nate?”
He walked to the side of the bed, where his jeans were left discarded and after pulling them on and sitting next to me to slip on his shoes, he said, “The less you know, the better.”
“Bullshit!” I snapped. I was angry that whatever it was, was taking him away on a night (or morning) that should have been ours, and I was scared that the danger of what it could be would take him away not just for now, but for forever. “Just don’t go,” I begged, holding his arm to my bare chest.
His phone chimed, and I knew it was Tiny, and I knew it was time for Nate to leave. He kissed my forehead quickly before standing up, gathering his wallet and keys and everything else he needed and pocketing them. Without looking at me, he said, “I don�
��t know how long this is going to take so don’t wait up, okay?” and then he was off, long strides toward the stairs, taking two, maybe three at a time. The basement door slammed shut and just like that, the ecstasy and elation I’d felt only minutes before were replaced with the same things I’d felt every time he left me. Pain and fear. I shuffled through the pile of clean clothes, picked out a pair of boxer shorts and then grabbed his dress shirt from the floor and slipped it on, subconsciously running my nose along the collar, taking in his scent. I was just about to make my way to the bathroom to count the tiles when the basement door opened, and the sudden thud of sneakers on wood sounded from the stairs.
“Did you forget something?” I asked as soon as Nate came into view.
“Yeah.” He rushed toward me. “This.” And the second he was able to reach me, he grasped my arms and pulled me to him, his lips consuming my lips, his touch possessing my touch, and his heart… his heart completely owning my heart.
*
I’d never been tempted to break Nate’s trust. Break the rules that had never truly been set. But I wanted to then. I wanted to leave the prison of the basement, and I wanted to go upstairs and look outside, not that it had much to offer, but I’d at least be able to tell if it was getting dark or not.
I don’t know how long it’d been since Nate left but it felt like a lifetime. Way longer than it should’ve taken for him to deal with whatever he needed to take care of.
I’d spent the time pacing, counting tiles, pacing, counting more tiles. I also took my meds and had breakfast and lunch, and it occurred to me then that Nate had never been late for dinner, and so I assumed (or hoped) that it wasn’t yet that time, and I was just being dramatic. The thought created a batch of new air in my lungs, and I was able to breathe easier, just for a while, and count to 2168 before I lost count and had to start again. There were no pens in the basement (Tiny’s advice—something about Anne Frank) so the only things I could mark the tiles with were toothpaste and soap and neither of those things would really help me. Besides, like I said, it kept me sane.