Taking a deep, shivering breath, I obey, and he moves into a steady rhythm, his central two fingers slightly curled, the heel of his hand hitting just right with every thrust.
I can’t believe this is happening. Can’t believe I’m sitting on a beach with my pants open, staring with pleasure-glazed eyes at the wild beauty of the sea and the tree graveyard, while Dorian Gray finger-fucks me, kisses my cheek, and fondles my breasts like he can’t get enough of me.
My pelvis tilts instinctively, helping him achieve the right angle. My belly is tensing, my arms rigid as I clutch his thighs. He compresses my breast, speeds his fingers into a frenzied rhythm—and I crash into violent bliss, bucking into the friction while he holds me, crushes his arm across my chest, clamps his hand against my sex. I’m writhing, helpless to that hand hooked between my legs, gasping, whimpering.
He gives me all the pressure I need to finish it, to be fully satisfied. Finally I relax, still captive to the band of sinewy forearm across my breasts.
Dorian takes his fingers out of me. And licks them.
“Goddamn you,” I whisper. “You’re a magician.”
“I’ve spent years teasing pleasure out of many different bodies,” he says. “Like anything else, doing it well is a blend of natural talent and learned skill. Once you know what to do, it becomes habit.”
He says it so casually, with a cocky smile I can hear in his voice even though I’ve still got my back to him. I freeze, chilled by the way he so easily reduced me to just another human body, another instrument he has learned to play.
I clench my teeth, trying not to be angry, because he did bring me here, bought the supplies, arranged the picnic…but still…
I pull away from him, climbing to my feet and refastening mypants. Then I walk away, straight toward the sea, until the powdery dry sand turns to squishy and wet under my feet, until the thin veils of the water deepen to knee-high surf.
Dorian calls my name, but I keep walking until I’m waist deep, my shorts and underwear thoroughly drenched, salt and sand swirling around my legs, bathing the parts of me that are still quivering from his touch.
Deeper I walk, until the sea covers my chest, rinsing the heat of his hands from my skin.
“Baz!” His voice is closer now, intense, stricken. He grabs my shoulder, turns me around. “Baz, I was an idiot. I didn’t mean… You know I’ve had—”
“Lovers? Orgies? Yeah, I know. You’ve done everyone and everything.”
“It’s not the same with you. You’re—”
“Different? Is that what you were going to say?” I stare up at him, furious. “How exactly am I different, Dorian?”
“I…” His handsome face wrenches with pained emotion. “I can’t describe it…”
“Because I’mnotdifferent. If it wasn’t for this stupid ability of mine, passed down by my fucking ancestors, I’d be just another girl to you. Nobody special, nobody interesting.”
“That’s not true.” His voice cracks, and he seizes my shoulders. “Damn it, Baz.”
In the glow of the setting sun, he’s flushed, bright-eyed, beautiful. He’s not like the florid, puffy-faced men wholookas if they’ve experienced every debauchery known to man. He looks absolutely innocent, almost virginal. As fresh and young as the day my ancestor painted him.
But I know the truth.
I know it, and if I want him, I’ve got to be able to deal with it. I have to find a way to be okay with all the mouths that have traveled his skin before mine, all the fingers that have swept over his perfect body, all the climaxes that have happened for him and because of him.
If it was a few dozen or so, it would be easier. But he has a hundred-plus years of lechery behind him, so much that he tends to dehumanize people, treat them as merely bodies or objects. I can’t imagine being enough for him, after all the things he’s done. And though I don’t judge him for it, I need him to know that I’m not “open relationship girl.” If he’s going to let me have him, even for a little while, it has to be only us. I won’t share.
And I can’t demand that of him, not with our situation the way it is. All he did was have fun with me today, and I’m being overly sensitive about it.
“I’m sorry.” I force the words out. “I just… I’m tired, and I overreacted. This day has been so amazing, and I don’t want to ruin it with drama. Can we pretend I didn’t storm off into the ocean?”
“Done. If you’ll pretend I didn’t say what I said.”
“Deal.”
We head back to the beach together, our hands swinging close but never quite touching. We pack up the painting supplies, unclip the half-finished paintings from the branches where we hung them, and stack them up. Thanks to the wind, they’re pretty much dry.
Several gulls have strutted onto our blankets to steal food. Since they’ve already had their beaks in the leftovers, I scatter the biodegradables on the beach while Dorian puts all our plastic and paper trash back in the bag. I’ve always loathed the particular kind of asshole who litters while at the beach, and I’m pleased that whatever his faults may be, he’s not that type.
Surprisingly, we’re able to stack my paintings and fit everything back in the bag except for the two blankets. I shake them as hard as I can, but they’re still full of sand.
