I lovehim.
My pulse falters. Wait, what? Can that be true?
And then he’s pounding me forcefully enough to lift me off my feet with each thrust. I’ve got nothing to hold onto, so I splay my palms against the blue walls, scrabbling for balance. I’m not worried, though, because the hand not working my clit clamps possessively onto my thigh, securing me.
I really want him to come first this time. Fair is fair.
More than that, I need to hear him cry out. Scream my name.
Does he understand how much pleasuring him like this thrills me?
Does he know how badly I crave watching him unravel at my hands? To experience what he’s like when he lets go and unleashes his inner beast?
I push my ass back into him and relax, spreading my legs farther apart to provide him with better access. So he can plant himself all the way inside me, burying the whole length of his shaft to the root.
He moans against my neck. “Fuck, Maeve, you feel so good. Yeah, keep doing that, darlin’. Take all of me, just like that.”
I’m not sure I trust my mouth to speak, but I roll my hips against him, slow and deep, drowning in ecstasy as yearning coils inside me.
His teeth scrape the spot where my neck meets my shoulder. “You’re killing me here. I’m going to come.”
I reach back to grab his head, holding him against me as I pant. “Yes, baby. Please. I want to…feel you.”
With a vicious curse, he pumps, once, twice, and then a third, final time before crying out and calling my name.
It’s the best thing I’ve ever heard in my entire existence, and I’ve seen German tenor Jonas Kaufman perform at the LA Opera.
“Fuck, Maeve. You’re perfect.” He catches his breath, just barely, while shifting his weight behind me. “Now it’s your turn to come for me.” He moves his hand away from my clit. One hand grabs my hips, angling me just right as he yanks me down onto him and holds me there. The other hand flicks my clit. He only needs to do this twice to draw out my orgasm. I come all over his dick with a scream.
When the shaking stops, I go limp, all my weight supported by the stiff cock inside me.
Whatever thoughts I had before are long gone, chased away by the endorphins buzzing in my brain.
Later, in the early hours, after a few more rounds and a messy shared shower, I lie awake and take him in.
Kellin claims he’s a light sleeper, one eye open and that whole thing. But his rhythmic breathing reveals otherwise.
As his chest goes up and down, I study the scar on his shoulder, as well as the one on his right hand. Definitely a knife wound.
That could be from anything. An accident in shop class. The slip of a paring knife. I’ve seen that in our kitchen plenty.
But his shoulder. A scar clearly from a bullet?
Maybe just a case of wrong place, wrong time. Bad luck.
Still, I can’t help but wonder about the story behind the wound.
In sleep, he seems so peaceful. He’s gorgeous all the time, but awake, his face always appears just a little bit worried.
Perhaps that’s not the correct word.
He appears to be thinking. Concentrating. This restful version of Kellin could pass for someone five years younger than that other guy.
I want to tell him everything. Confess who I am and admit how much I’m falling for him. Ask him, again, if he’d consider long distance. I bet the guy that’s sleeping so contentedly next to me would reciprocate my feelings and agree in a heartbeat.
But the “awake” Kellin, the Zenith bigwig that lives in a high-rise in SoHo and probably has the perfect life waiting for him back home…
What would he agree to?
