Goose bumps erupt along my arms at his crude, growled words. “Only if I knew we were hidden from view and it was just about being quiet.”
“That bleeding song plays the whole time anyway.” He doesn’t look my way, but smiles at this. “I’d want to make just enough noise so that you could hear me,” he says, turning onto his street. As soon as he says it, I remember the sound of his rhythmic grunts, his hoarse, guttural exhales as he fucks me hard.
He pulls to the curb and shuts off the engine, turning to look at me. The engine ticks through the silent car, and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest and all the way up my throat as he slowly leans in, his focus entirely on my lips.
The house is right there, twenty steps to inside, but we’re here, kissing like we haven’t been alone in a year. Oliver kisses me for minutes, for days, until my mouth is sore from the beard I don’t want him to shave; he’s tongue and teeth and growl while he presses me into the door. I can feel his hunger in the way he stretches across the center console and cups my head in his hand. I can feel it in the noises that escape every time he gets me at a different angle, every time I pull him in deeper, bite him, suck on his lips.
“Take me inside.”
“I will take you. Inside,” he says, laughing and opening the door behind me so we half-tumble out together and he has to crawl awkwardly out of my side of the car, practically laying me down on the sidewalk. Anyone walking by would think we were drunk.
Is that what this is?
It’s chemistry, I know that for sure, something numbing and piercing at once, something that makes me feel like I’m alive for the first time and dead in other ways—murdered memories of what anyone else felt like before this man. Murdered memories of what it felt like to be over a hundred miles away.
I know the weight of his hands and body, how he tastes just like me after only two deep kisses, the way his laughs turn into moans, and how he watches my hands when I touch him.
Oliver pulls me up so I’m standing and throws me over his shoulder, charging down the walkway and bursting into the house. He lowers me so that I slide down his front, all along him, and feel his chest and stomach and his cock pressing at me from beneath his jeans. His fingers tickle my waist, he gives me a tiny smile and my shirt is up and off, followed by my bra.
The breeze picks up and the open door squeaks on its hinges, Oliver’s R2-D2 knocker rattling against the wood. The cool air rolls along my skin, over goose bumps that pebble my arms and stomach. I kick the door closed, blocking out the intrusion of this one additional string left loose and untended. Quiet seals up around us, and then all I can hear is the soft sound of Oliver kissing up my neck.
His hands curve over my breasts, my waist, my hips. My pants are unbuttoned and sweetly coaxed down my legs.
I never want to run out of clothes because every time he peels something away, he kisses me lower, hums against the skin, and bites just the smallest bit. It’s like having lust uncorked and poured in bubbly streams across my skin.
“You’re soft in all the best places.” His voice turns to smoke against my skin as he kneels, pulling my underwear down my legs one tiny inch at a time. “Even sweeter than you are soft.”
His mouth finds my breast, nibbling and blowing across the tips while his hands are busy helping me step out of my underwear. The entryway light is on and he looks up at me, whispering, “You like having your tits sucked?”
I nod, bracing my hands on his shoulders, right there, mere feet from his front door. I push into his mouth and wonder how I’m standing naked and he’s fully clothed, and I feel like I can’t move because I don’t ever want him to stop what he’s doing . . . but I want more. I grow heavy, desire filling the space beneath my skin until I can’t help but beg out loud. He smiles as he kisses me and moves to the other, neglected breast, licking in long draws of his tongue until he gives me what I really want: the closing of his lips around me, the delicious relief of suction.
I stare down at him, at his mess of brown hair brushing against my skin and kiss-swollen lips playing with my breast.
“Is this really happening?
Oliver nods, drawing his tongue across my nipple—like he’s licking an ice-cream cone—and then sucks it so deep into his mouth I wonder if he might consume me. My breasts spill from his hands and he licks and bites whatever he can’t hold. It’s a frenzy; my body has been waiting days for this and has no patience now.
“Fuck.” My fingers curl into his hair and he pulls back, looking up at my face as his fingers stroke the inside of my thigh. I make fists in his shirt, pull it over his head, and relish the slide of my palms over his wide shoulders as he kisses my navel, my hip.
I don’t want to do this here.
I take a step backward, and then one more, and he’s up, following me down the hall with his hands on my hips and his mouth on mine and he’s telling me I’m so fucking sweet, he wants me so much.
The world tilts and his bed is soft beneath my back.
The panel shows him looking down at her. She’s wide open: the first day with these new eyes. He would take a bite out of her if he could.
Oliver takes his glasses off and sets them on the table near the bed. He braces his hand at my hip, gazing down, letting his gaze move over every part of me. In my peripheral vision, I can see my chest rising and falling but I can’t tear my attention from his face.
I remember the time he made me laugh so hard I spit-sprayed Diet Coke all over his Hellraiser T-shirt.
I remember the time he ran up to the loft to show me the Detective Comics 31 someone sold him.
I remember when he said “I do,” even though he didn’t.
I remember leaning on the kitchen counter, sipping coffee, watching him sleep on the couch.
“What’s going on in that mind of yours?”
I’m trying not to panic, obsess, fall too fast, too deep.
“I’m feeling things,” I whisper.
He bends, speaking against my stomach as he kisses it. “What kind of things?”
“Panicky things.”
I can feel his smile. “Let them go.”
I close my eyes, threading my hand into his hair. How can such happiness push a sharp spike through my lungs?
“It’s good,” he promises, kissing down to my hip. “I’ve wanted this for months. And I know you feel the same. I love you. I feel you thinking it every time I say it, in the way your hands find some part of me to hold on to.”
His fingers move between my legs, slide down over my clit, barely dipping into me. It’s a luxury, doing this, feeling this, being here. It’s a luxury to have all night, to have nothing but this thing between us to tend to. He strokes me, soft at first, so slowly, and then he speeds up as my breath catches and my legs open wider, him kissing his way to my mouth, asking quietly if I like it, if his fingers feel good. I nod, arching from the bed, working my body closer, wishing his pants were off so I could feel the thick weight of him in my hand and pushing inside me.
I don’t know what he’s doing with his fingers but it’s fast and slippery and I’m so close, almost there, everything is turning transparent and—
His hand leaves me for a split second and then I feel the stinging bite of his fingers spanking me there.
The panel shows the earth, split in two.
He swallows my shocked gasp with a deep kiss, covering my mouth and groaning when heat melts into a fevered need for more and he feels me arch under him, shuddering.
“Oh, God.”
He exhales something between a sigh and a “Yeah?” against my lips and strokes me gently again for several soft, slow kisses before he spanks me again three times, fast and sharp.
The next time his fingers circle gently across my clit, I’m crying out, filled with something warm and silver and it bursts out of me, sliding over my skin and filling my blood with smoke. He strokes me satisfyingly hard, eyes wide as he watches me come. When I close my eyes and melt into the mattress below me, he ducks, kissi
ng my neck, hand trailing over to my thigh to spread me even wider.
“You liked that,” he says, lips finding my jaw. “I spanked your pussy and you liked it.”
I moan, wanting his mouth on mine, the odd reassurance of it.
“You’re filthy,” he praises, licking my lower lip. “You’re glorious.”
I sit up, pulling him between my legs and going to work on his belt, his button fly, shoving his pants down his hips with impatient hands. My mouth is watering and his hands brace on my shoulders, ready. His cock juts in front of me, thick to the point of excessive, and I feel the way his torso clenches when I pull his foreskin back, bend and lick around the crown, sucking.
I’ve only given a few blow jobs in my life and each time it was such a conscious effort filled with so much thought—
is it good,
oh, God, my jaw is sore,
will I have to swallow?
None of that is happening now: all I can think is how much more I want to take, how the skin is stretched so tight around him, how I can practically feel how it must be for him when I lick him wetly, suck at where he leaks, pull the entire head of his cock into my mouth and as far down as I can take it. My hands find his balls, feeling, knowing. This body is mine to know, mine to touch, and he helps me move, helps me find a rhythm and his hips shift with me, his voice encourages me with the broken sounds and tiny grunts and I love how hard he gets, harder, harder as I suck and he’s close, oh fuck, he’s so close already and I ache for it. I want him to come in me, on me, over me, and he’s there, thrusts wild, hands making fists in my hair, voice growing louder in warning, accent thick and garbled but I don’t want to stop, I want him like this: hips flexed as he’s coming in my throat, growling as I suck all the way through it. He presses his lips to my hair, groaning as the final spasms of his orgasm shake through him, and the feel of it is like a million tiny lightning bolts dancing across my scalp.
He stares down at me, catching his breath as I kiss up and down his cock.
I have never loved doing that before, but holy fuck, now I’m obsessed. I collapse back on the mattress, biting my lip through an enormous grin.
Oliver shifts forward, bending over me with two fists planted beside my hips. “You just sucked my soul out of me.”
I roll to the side, giggling and feeling pretty fucking proud of the head I just gave because just looking at him I can tell it was stellar. He kicks off his pants, rolls me back so he’s above me, and kisses my breasts, down my stomach . . . and in a haze I realize where he’s headed, what he’s going to do.
“No,” I whisper, quickly adding, “It’s okay.” I slide my fingers under his jaw, guide his face back up to mine.
He’s gone quiet. Oliver kisses me once but no more. He stares down at me, studying my face.
Something is wrapped around my heart, growing tighter the longer I look at him—the floppy brown hair and blue eyes still full of satisfaction, but now also mixed with something else, something knowing—and I have to close my eyes to ease the ache of it because it was all so perfect until I stopped him.
“Look at me.” He waits and then urges, “Lola.”
I open my eyes, focus on his mouth. The soft bottom lip, dark stubble shadowing his jaw.
“You don’t want me to kiss you here.” His fingers drift between my legs.
“I do. . . .”
“Then why did you stop me?”
“It’s . . .”
“It’s what?”
“It’s a thing.”
“ ‘A thing’?” He pulls back a little, a jerky movement that tells me he’s not sure he likes what I’m saying. “I don’t know what you mean.”
God, I am so bad at articulating this. “The whole backstory.”
“The what?”
Sighing, I throw an arm over my face and am grateful he doesn’t immediately pull it away. “You know. About learning from your roommates and her friends. How you became this oral sex legend. It just means you’ve done it with a lot of women.”
When I move my arm, I see that he looks briefly amused. “You just gave me the blow job of my life.”
“I’m as surprised as you are,” I tell him honestly. “You inspired me. I haven’t been taught.”
He sighs. “I was wondering if it bothered you, or if you were teasing me.”
I reach up, trace his mouth with my fingertip. “It doesn’t bother me or make me jealous. It makes me feel like I have to get it, if that makes sense. I don’t like oral sex. But with you, if I don’t come it’s because of me.” He starts to say something but I press my fingers to his mouth so I can finish my thought first: “I’m not very good at relaxing when guys are doing that to me. I never have been; my mind wanders and I start thinking of other things and . . . I realize that makes me weird, but there you go.”
He closes his eyes. “Do you feel the same with me as you have with these other men?”
The hilarity of this. “No. Of course not.”
“Have you considered that you didn’t enjoy it because they weren’t very good at it?”
“Yes, but I’ve also considered that I didn’t enjoy it because they didn’t, either.”
He stares at me, head tilted, expression unreadable, until he whispers, “Or maybe you need to be comfortable with the person in order to be comfortable with the act?”
“No . . . I mean,” I whisper, feeling truly naked for the first time tonight, “what if you don’t like it with me?”
His gaze softens. “How could that possibly happen?”
When I don’t answer he whispers, “Lola. I’ve already felt you. I’ve tasted you.”
“I know.”
“On my fingers. On yours. Do you remember how I responded?”
I close my eyes and nod. I remember the sounds he made, the way he seemed to want more.
He lifts my hand, kisses my palm. “I’d be so careful with you.”
“I trust—”
“I’d start slow,” he interrupts, kissing me again. “Just kissing you there first.”
I bite back a smile but it dissolves when his tongue slips across my palm, tracing in a soft, wide circle. His lips come together and he sucks gently on each of my fingers.
“I wouldn’t suck too hard. Wouldn’t lick too fast.”
Swirling around my palm, his tongue forms smaller and smaller circles until my hand feels wet and warm under his kiss and I ache so intensely for him that I feel a little breathless. “And it’s me. It’s Oliver. Not some other guy.”
I smile, pulling my hand back enough to run my finger across his stubbly chin.
“Circles, I think,” he muses. “Just around and around and around so steady and gentle until you’re soaking wet with legs spread wide and you’re clawing at the sheets, begging to come on my lips. I’d want you begging for my mouth every time we’re alone.”
He looks up at me.
“And I’d give it to you, Lola,” he says quietly, earnestly. “I would suck the pleasure straight out of you; I wouldn’t toy with you. If I could get you there I would, whenever you want it.” He slides his tongue along my index finger to the tip. “I want to be so good you never let me go.”
I exhale a hoarse, begging noise. I already can’t imagine my life without him.
“But after I’d do that, I’d need to feel you.”
“You would?”
He brings my hand between us, circling his cock. “See, even the idea has me hard again and I just came. Already I’m so bloody hard for you.”
After studying his face for three deep breaths, I nod, and he shifts back again, this time kneeling between my legs at the side of the bed.
He watches where he touches me and I fight the urge to cover myself, closing my eyes instead. I feel his hair brush my thighs as he bends forward, feel his breath when he exhales against me, and then feel the soft kiss, one more, and then his lips part and cover me, and his tongue is there, touching, stroking so carefully.
“Holy fuck,” he gr
owls, and his hands shake as he spreads my legs, urges me to rest my feet on the mattress. “Holy fuck, Lola.”
I no longer want careful.
I no longer want gentle.
I want him to pull out every fucking trick he ever learned because if he can make me feel this much with one single kiss, I’m dying to know what I feel when he pulls out all the stops.
Once I’m situated he quickly returns to me, trying to be slow. He’s watching me—eyes glued to my face—and my chest twists when I see how anxious he is to please me. Pushing my head into the mattress, I arch into him, whispering, “It’s good, it’s good, it’s good,” and it unleashes something in him. I don’t know what he’s doing; I don’t know if I even have the muscles he’s using but it’s fast and perfect and better than any sex toy I’ve ever found.
Holy shit . . .
I want to watch but there is too much to feel. The wet slide of his tongue, the vibrations of his sounds, how my thighs shake, my stomach grows tight, pleasure crawls up my torso.
But oh . . . how his head looks between my legs. How his arms wrap tightly around my thighs, a band of muscle keeping me open for him. The long line of his back, his ass in the mirror across the room, the definition of his thighs as he rocks absently, loving me with his full body but touching me only with his—
Sensation snags me mid-thought; it’s felt consuming, nearly surreal, but then it’s more than good, it’s everything. It’s his sounds and his breath against me, and the pleasure growing on the surface of my skin and plunging deep until I can’t process anything but the way pleasure rockets through my body.
I get it.
I get it now.
“I’m coming,” I cry through a choking exhale.
And—holy shit—I’m coming so hard.
He grunts encouragement, looking up at me as I say it again, and again, with wonder in my voice and it’s still true after so many gasping, preparatory breaths. It seems to build forever, growing and never cresting and I’m saying it so many times I can feel him laugh proudly against me, holding his rhythm and giving me more, and better, and holy fuck I have time to wonder if this is a completely new thing my body does, whether every other orgasm was some sad bastard cousin of this orgasm, the one that seems to never end.