He tucks my hair behind my ears, tips my head back again so I can look only at him. He curls his big body to meet me, crushing his lips to mine, his tongue fervent, insistent in my mouth, his lips sticky and sweet, his hands cradling my face like I am porcelain.
“Anything for you, Nora baby.” His words ghost across my lips, but I feel them on my collarbone, the inside of my elbow, between my legs.
I draw my finger from his belly button down the sparse, dark trail of hair. His stomach shudders beneath my hand.
“Nora,” he whispers. And I’d felt silly before, practically begging him to let me put my mouth on him. “Nora,please,” he whispers again, the words harsh and guttural. But now I know what real begging sounds like.
I can tell myself it’s for the data. That we are doing this because this is just what we do on New Year’s Eve. I can tell myself whatever I need to, later, when I’m trying to justify what I do with my frenemy— friend—whatever he is to me.
Right now, though, I’m doing it because I want to.
I close my eyes at the first salty taste of him. He’s so hard in my mouth, but smooth, and gentle, even while his thighs tremble beneath me, his hands shaking as he fists the comforter. I’ve never really loved doing this, certainly never craved it the way I have this past year. He is heavy in my mouth, against my tongue, against my hard, then soft palate.
He’s quiet at first, quiet and still, like he’s afraid to touch me. Like, maybe, my mouth is not as good as I imagined it would be. I peek up at him, grateful to be able to hide behind the fringe of my hair, and he’snot even looking at me.
He looks past me, like he’s focused on a spot on the wall, out the window. I flush, snap my eyes shut, swallow against the spiral of panic that threatens to choke me. Of course, he would be sogoodat this, at making me feel good, even when I struggled to come, andof courseI wouldn’t be. That is the essence of Finn and Nora. He’s silly and loud and naturallygoodand I’m wound up and serious and I always have to work for it, for everything. For his orgasms and mine.
“I wish you could see this, Nora.” He almost sounds proud. I blink up at him and away when he catches me. He tucks my hair behind my ear with a still-shaking hand. His other hand cups the side of my face, his thumb tracing the stretch of my lower lip around him.
“The mirror,” he explains. Even in the dark, at this odd angle, I can see his pupils are blasted, his eyes wide. “I can see…” He sucks in a breath as I squeeze his base with my fist, take him to the back of my throat. “Everything.”
And well, I’m jealous, so I have to look, too. I pull off him, a string of saliva connecting his tip and my lips, but before I can glance over my shoulder, he stops me with a gentle hand on my chin.
“Don’t look?” he asks, begs.
“I want to see.” I can’t keep the whine from my voice.
He shakes his head, his thumb dragging over my lips until I dart my tongue out to taste him. He presses his thumb into my mouth, presents it like a gift for me to suck. And I do. I close my eyes because somehow the taste of his thumb mixed with the lingering taste of his cock is exactly what I want.
“You have to wait your turn.” And then, “I’ll tell you. I’ll talk for you.”
I take him back in my mouth. Maybe, now that I know he has a one-eighty view, I push my ass out, spread my legs. Maybe I do it just to hear the hitch in his breath.
“I want to snap that thong so bad, Nor,” he says, and it’s so silly, so casual, the way he says it, leaning back on both hands, that I giggle around his cock, feel his answering shake against my mouth. “You wore those for me?” But he can’t actually be asking. He has to know.
I glance up at him, and he’s looking down at me so seriously, so intent on my answer. I nod, hum, and he closes his eyes, lolls his head on his shoulders. His hand lands heavy on my head.
“This okay?” he asks.
He scrunches my hair in a gentle fist when I hum again.
“You look so beautiful.” He croons the words so delicately. “Your skin is all silver in the light. You don’t look real.” He follows the slow bob of my head with his hand, catching my lips with his fingers. “Are you real? No, don’t answer that.” His voice is thick, indulgent.
Teasing.
Hot.
I’ve been wet, wanting, since before he even came upstairs. The anticipation almost as potent as the real thing. I slip my hand between my legs, trying to hide it from him with gentle pets over the fabric of my underwear.
“Don’t come, okay?” He sees me. “I want to do that, okay, Nora? Okay?”
And maybe he was right to question reality, because sex has never felt like this before. At least, I have never felt like this during sex: emboldened, electric, in control yet completely at his whim. The reality of this moment dissolves into the drag of my tongue against his skin, the scent of his body, sweat and expensive cologne, pressed up against my nose. The gentle pressure of his hand against the back of my head, the toy of his fingers at my ear. The heavy hum of his voice, the lilting tease when I drag my teeth. He asks me,Is it as good as you imagined, and,Did you touch yourself thinking about this.
I take him deep to the back of my throat, deeper, deep enough that I gag, and his hand clenches in my hair. I hum, becauseyes, this is exactly what I thought of sprawled on my bed, sheets thrown off, underwear stretched around my hand, pillow gripped between my teeth.Yes, it’sbetterthan I imagined. His tremor that belies the calm, quiet coaxing in his voice. I knew he’d be gentle with me, but I’m surprised by how sweet.
I experiment with how much I can take, relish the tears that leak from my eyes.
He shakes his head. “Oh god, Nora. Oh god.” And he leans forward, just enough to reach the hip of my thong and he snaps it once, the sting like a praise. He pulls it higher up my hips, just beyond comfortable, and snaps it again. I grunt around him because it hurts, but I spread my legs wider, slide my underwear to the side, because I want him to see how much I like it, how much I hope that sharp sting of fabric leaves a mark on my skin that I can wonder at later.
