Deep Desires (10 page)

It’s identical to the one I made when he urged me to do the same. Throaty and half stunned, so eager for more – or at least I think it’s eager for more, until he claps his hands over mine. He stops me again, forces my hands down, only this time he’s far quicker about it.

His movements have lost their easiness, their deliberation. He doesn’t urge me down on the bed, he moves away, and then all I can see and hear is the sudden space between us. There’s nothing there when I wave my hands in front of me, and no words of comfort from him, and when he finally does return it’s in a great rush of activity.

I can’t keep up with most of it. He pulls my jumper over my head and unzips my skirt, and before I know it I’m nearly bare in front of him. I can feel the air on my skin in all the places I don’t want to be – my too-rounded stomach and my big clumsy breasts and my thighs, oh God, my thighs.

So it’s a surprise, really, when he follows all of this with his mouth. I’m still stuck in self-conscious mode, wanting to cover myself but not quite daring to. But he’s busy not giving a single fuck, that perfect Cupid’s bow mouth of his finding all the places I’m most nervous about.

He goes for my waist, first – that curve he seemed to so appreciate, and now quite obviously does. I can’t deny it, even with my eyes covered and no real words spoken between us. He likes how I curve just there. He likes my stomach, and tells me so by rubbing his face against it, just as he did with my hand.

Though it’s more intense here. My body clenches all over to feel him doing it, and when my muscles let out they leave behind a thick ebb of pleasure. I’m awash in it, just knowing how soft he actually finds me.

Soft enough to bury his face in me. Soft enough to feel me all over, all at once. His hands slip inside my panties, over the curve of my ass, and then a second later they’re roaming my back, while his mouth finds my stiff nipples unerringly, through the flimsy material of my bra.

And once he’s got them he goes for more than the little tentative strokes I offered.

He sucks one tight point into his mouth, using the material there to make things so, so much worse. It rubs like velvet over that little bud, getting wetter and wetter as he goes, until finally he can’t take it anymore. There’s too much in the way, too much teasing, I think.

He wants to feel me properly, and he does. He yanks one cup of my bra down, and then it’s skin to skin. That’s his tongue I can feel, easing so slickly over my stiff nipple. Circling it quickly, before ending with one long, agonising suck.

Oh God, I swear I didn’t know something so slight and simple could feel so good. I’ve never had someone pay such dedicated attention to a part of my body I didn’t much care about, until right now. Why would I? Most men don’t, once they’ve gotten themselves as worked up as he clearly is.

Because he is. Even if he’s trying to deflect attention away from himself, I can hear it in his panting breath and feel it in the heat he’s giving off, not to mention that hard thing I can make out, ever so slightly pressing against my thigh.

But he doesn’t seem all that interested in it. His focus is so overwhelmingly on me I find myself flailing, unsure of even the simplest things – like, what do I do with my hands? Is it OK if I put them on his back? He didn’t appear to like me roaming free all over him before, but maybe it’s different now that he’s making out with my tits.

It certainly
feels
different. His greediness alone is turning everything on its head. He pulls my bra off without asking and kisses my mouth without any kind of deliberation, and when I spread my legs – involuntarily, I swear it’s involuntary – he hardly hesitates.

He slides his whole hand over my swollen mound, through the material of my panties.

Of course I moan. And maybe I jerk a little, too – though there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m still stuck in a space where the slightest touch is too much, where kissing feels like fucking, and licking my nipples burns a hole right through my body.

I don’t know how to process this. The move is just so open, so
lewd
, and, though he doesn’t actually touch any of the good stuff, everything feels him, anyway. My clit jumps at the barest hint of his fingers; my pussy clenches around nothing.

Even the shame of all of that
wetness
– all of the wetness he must be able to feel – doesn’t turn me off. I don’t care. I’m rubbing myself against that hand before he’s even progressed to anything more, all of my thoughts consumed by those few millimetres. Those tiny little millimetres between his fingertips and my slippery slit … how he could just ease my panties aside and work through my slick folds …

I almost tell him to do it I’m so far gone.

Just go on, I think, just press a little, rub a little.

But he simply carries on with whatever this is: his mouth on mine, hot and delicious. That big hand cupping me between my legs in a way that’s both maddening, and somehow so lovely. I’m safe like this, being held like this. I’m safe in his arms. There’s no need to be anxious over all the things he may or may not do, or all the things I don’t know how to do.

I bask, for a moment, in bliss.

And then it’s right back to crazy, stuttering pleasure and blind panic – in this case, literally. I can’t see what he’s doing but I can feel it, and I know what it’s likely to be. Men don’t kiss their way down your body because they’re aiming for your feet.

Or so I’ve heard. From other people. Other people who’ve actually experienced oral sex, and are not mortally afraid of it. In all fairness to me, I have good reason for this completely irrational fear. I might accidentally kill him if he does this to me.

I can’t even take nipple licking, for God’s sake. My thighs want to clamp around his head before he’s even worked his way down there and, once they do, I fear they’ll decapitate him. I fear I’ll claw at his back like a rabid animal, or maybe make noises that disturb all of the wonderful quiet of his perfect apartment.

So it’s not a surprise that I put a hand over his when he hooks one finger under the elastic of my panties. It’s just a surprise that he says something when I do. I didn’t say anything to him when he made me stop. I didn’t think that was allowed, but apparently it is.

‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ he says. ‘I just want to make you feel good. Don’t you want me to make you feel good?’

‘There’s no real answer to that.’

‘Sure there is:
yes
.’

‘Would you have said yes if I told you I wanted to keep touching you?’ I ask, and I’m certain I’ve got him there. He falls silent for a few seconds, as though he’s stumped.

Which only makes it more shocking when I suddenly feel his tongue running over the seam of my sex, through my panties. I even feel the curl he gives to it as he gets to my clit – just enough to send a jolt of pleasure through me.

‘Probably not.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I prefer touching you. There’s nothing quite like seeing your back arch when I find your swollen clit. Ohhhh, it’s so swollen. I can feel it without really doing anything to you at all. Just a brush of my tongue and it’s right there, right through the material of your underwear.’

He’s not wrong. I think his breath might put me over the edge every time I feel it ghost hotly over that sensitive place.

‘And your voice … I love hearing your voice. It’s better than it was over the phone – so breathless, so full of lust.’ He says the word ‘lust’ the way other people might say ‘holy high heaven of everything I want’. Like it’s something magical, almost unattainable, forbidden. ‘And your skin when you flush so prettily … you like it when I do this to you, Abbie?’

‘What if I say no?’ I ask, though really I’m wondering what he would answer if I asked him the same thing.

‘If you say no, I’ll stop,’ he says, but I can still feel that hot breath ghosting over my pussy. I’m still squirming because of it. ‘We can talk about sandwiches again if you like. Or poets. What was that one you mentioned again?’

I’m so far gone I have to wait until he fills the blank in for me.

‘“I like my body when it’s with your body”,’ he says, while I writhe in agony. He’s teasing me, and he so knows it. He has to know it, right?

‘E.E. Cummings,’ I manage, but it’s not without a price. In order to get words out, I have to let my hips lift towards him, just a little. I have to take my hand away from his so he can just go ahead if he wants.

Who cares about things like resistance when he can tease like this and talk like this and make me so crazy? Who cares about anything then? I just want him to lick my pussy, even if the thought is as terrifying as it is delicious.

‘He has a point, Cummings,’ he says, the contrast between his patient, almost diffident words and his heated actions like a knife in my gut. That’s where the tease lies: between talk about poetry and his fingers easing under the elastic of my panties. He’s going to slide them down now, I think, while he gives me his opinion on a line of verse. ‘My body is easier to like, when it’s with your body.’

I turn blindly towards the sound of his voice, seeking the expression I can’t see. Without it, it’s impossible to tell how serious he is. How much he believes what he’s saying. I mean, no one could hate the shapes his body makes. It’s flawless, it’s golden and glorious. I have dreams about it, and I don’t mind telling him so.

‘Are you seriously saying you don’t like what you’ve got? You know that I’m wet, now, thinking about what you’ve got.’

‘I thought you were wet because that kiss was so intense I wanted to fall right into it and never come back up. Or maybe because I took those sweet little nipples in my mouth, and sucked on them. Feels good, right? Having a mouth on you there.’

Him saying all of this probably wouldn’t be so tormenting if he wasn’t peeling my panties off as he speaks. He eases them down an inch at a time, making sure I can feel the silk sides of them rubbing against my thighs, the insides of my knees, my shins.

And then once they’re off, he parts my legs in this casual, easy sort of way. Like it’s no big deal really. It’s no big deal that I’m blindfolded, and that I can’t even make out how terrible I must look. He’s just going to stare at my pussy, while he talks up a fucking storm.

‘Ohhhh, look at you. Look how wet you are, Abbie. If you could only see what I can see: all of your soft, soft curves, and how flushed you are … and then your legs so sweetly spread for me. Your slippery sex, so wet and ready for me. I can see it glistening all over your clit and down to your hot little pussy …’

He finishes his sentence with one trailing finger, passing over the things he’s just mentioned. My breasts, my hips, every turn and hill of my body … and finally my slick folds, parting them as he goes. Not quite putting any real pressure on, but, ohhhh, the sensation is so good all the same. It’s better in fact. My hips buck up to get more of it, and when they do …

Oh, when they do …

He uses the angle of my body to just slide inside me, all the way in to the webbing between his fingers. Slow and easy, like everything else he’s doing, but so electric because of that patience. I feel every little part of him going in. I feel the rough hump of his knuckle and how slick I am around him, how easily I part for the intrusion, where usually I’m tight and tense and it’s always painful.

It’s always like something shoving into me, rather than what this is: a slippery glide that ends on me moaning.

‘You like that, huh? Want more?’ he asks, but he doesn’t wait for me to answer. He just interprets the jerk of my hips, which say yes for me. I’m almost fucking myself on him before he even adds a second finger, or tells me how amazing it looks. Like this, like this: ‘Oh you take that so good, baby. That’s it, that’s it – work yourself on me.’

God. God. Does he know how crazy his talk makes me? The dirtier he gets, the thicker his accent is, and the thicker his accent is, the more I moan. The more I rut against him. It’s a vicious circle, which ends with me saying something very bad indeed.

‘Let me suck your cock while you do that,’ I tell him, and I don’t even stop there. ‘Let me touch you, let me stroke you … please. Please, I just want to feel your body, God, your body. You have to know how incredible it is. Let me show you.’

His hand gets a little rougher, between my legs, those maddening fingers becoming more like a fuck than anything else. It’s good though. It’s so good, and not just because of the rough bursts of sensation it produces. There’s also the motivation behind it:

To stop me begging for things he kind of wants to give, now, but can’t.

He’s breaking, it seems. Just a little more might do it …

‘Don’t you want to feel my mouth on you, while you make me come? Because, ohhh, you’re gonna make me come so hard. Please, Ivan. Please,’ I try, but he still doesn’t make a move. He just keeps up that relentless pressure, and soon I know it will be too late. I’m close to the edge, and, once I’ve gone over, I’ll be too embarrassed to ask him for things like this.

And I think he knows it.

‘Let me,’ I say, only this time he answers with a little lick.

Right between my legs. Right over my swollen, sensitive clit, and then, just when I want to cry foul and call him a cheat, he does it again. He pins my hips when I try to jerk away, and holds me fast when I protest, and after that he’s free to work on me in any way he wants. He can rub that killer tongue over my little bud, and pump into my clenching pussy as he does it.

And I can’t make a single demand once he’s there. All I can manage is a kind of rough blurt of air and a lot of gasping, followed by my hands that seem to want to clench in his hair. I get hold of it tightly and squeeze, but it doesn’t really help.

I’m going to come, and after a second I tell him so. It’s the only words I can get out, as rude and wrong as they are.

‘Ohhhh, yeah, right there, right there, lick my pussy,’ I tell him, as though I never thought there’d be a problem with him doing this at all. I wasn’t nervous before. I just didn’t know how fucking amazing this would feel – oh, amazing enough to make me lose my mind and spill out things like this: ‘God, I’m going to do it, I’m going to do it.’