A closure meant you could open them.
For nursing. For nursing. He needed to focus here.
“Black or white?” she’d asked.
“Oh, black. And get two of that, uh, Brazilian thing. Or more. In fact, you can just buy anything off this website. That little black nightgown with the tiny polka dots, for example. Buy that.”
“You’ve got a thing about black,” she’d said.
No, he’d wanted to say. I have a thing about you in black. Especially under one of those sweet little dresses, the kind you wear because you’re professional and conservative and a little bit shy. Until I take them off you and find the black lingerie with those kinky straps.
And that piercing that tells me the kind of dirty girl you want to be.
He hadn’t said it, though, because they were friends. Or dating. Or something.
Now, he didn’t say anything about honesty or truth or friends. He just kissed her. His hand in her damp curls, his arm around her back, her curvy body pulled up against his.
He didn’t wait, because her hand was behind his head, pulling him closer, and one of her legs was wound around his. He got a hand on her ass and pulled her up tighter with a hard yank, then grabbed her thigh to keep her there. She gasped into his mouth and started making some noise, and that was it.
He was trying to think, even as he was kissing her neck, bending her back a little while she moaned and he started seriously losing his mind. Trying to tell himself, Be romantic. All you’ve ever done is throw her down and boss her around and fuck her hard. Tonight, you’re not giving orders. Time to be sweet. Slow down and show her … show her …
He lost that train of thought, because she had both hands around his head now and her tongue in her mouth. Her robe had come open, but his hands were under it anyway, touching that little strap at the top of those panties, finding the edge of the high-cut legs, then splaying both hands over her ass.
She filled his hands everywhere he touched her. And he had big hands.
Also, she was dropping to her knees.
Oh, shit.
He said, “Ah … We should …”
“Shhh,” she said. After that, she shoved him up against the door, grabbed the plush rug and dragged it over, and walked to him on her knees.
Robe open. All those curves in black lingerie. His baby in her belly. On her knees. She got her hands on his belt buckle, and his eyes were already trying to roll back in his head. Except that he had to see.
She unsnapped the top button.
She pulled his zipper down. With her teeth.
Holy shit.
She took him out like he was her prize. Ran her hands all over him. Stroked down his thighs and back up again. Then looked up at him from down there with no smile at all and told him, “I’m going to make you beg. Do you want to beg me, Harlan?” And his knees went weak.
“Uh …” His hands were already in her hair. He thought, Wait. This wasn’t … this wasn’t …
She hadn’t been kidding. This was her skill, and she wasn’t shy. His feet were planted, and his back was against the door. That was the only reason he stayed upright, because her hands, her mouth, were everywhere. Fast, then slow. So deep, he was buried down her throat, and then sliding slowly up, letting him go again. Flicking her tongue over that most sensitive spot, and using the tips of her fingers to massage that landing strip of skin just north of the no-go zone. And when his hands tightened in her hair and all he was thinking was, Yes, going back to sucking him again.
He was probably having thoughts. He couldn’t have said what they were. His eyes were closed, and he was gasping. Shaking.
She still had her hands on him, was kissing the tip now, then taking it into her mouth and playing, and he wanted to tell her, Come on. Come on. Which was when she said, “You want this?”
“Uh …” It was a groan. “Yeah.”
“How much do you want it?” Some more finger play, finding that P-spot where his prostate lived and massaging it hard, and he was all but squirming.
“Harlan,” she said. It was a sigh. “You’re going to have to be more specific here.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes. Please.” He wrapped his hands in her hair, and then he turned them and wrapped them harder. He tried to tell himself, Don’t push it. Wait.
“You want to come in my mouth?” she asked, and he just about came right there.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”
“Then hold my head,” she said. “And make me take it.”
Oh, god. He couldn’t hold back. He couldn’t. And she tipped her head back and offered herself up to him.
Darkness. Hunger. Need.
It was savage. It was feral. He shoved himself right down her throat, and then he did it again. Over and over, faster and harder. Trying to hold back, trying to tell himself all those things. About gentleness. About taking care. About tenderness. And losing the battle, because she was taking it, and her hands were around his thighs, pulling him in deeper.
The orgasm came slowly, and then it came hard. And he lost control. He was groaning something, but he had no words. His head was banging against the door. His knees were shaking. The darkness was on him, and he was in her.
She took it, and then she took more. And he was all the way gone. Swallowed whole.
Into the darkness.
52
Not Your Turn
She said, when she had her breath back and had her cheek pressed against his thigh, where she could feel him still shaking, “I told you that was my … sexual skill.”
It was a little hard to talk, to be honest. She was good at this. She was. But he was big. He’d pushed her.
He said, “Uh …” Which he’d said a bunch of times tonight.
She was rising on the words, taking his T-shirt with her. This time, she was the one who was pulling it slowly up his body, kissing her way along everything she uncovered. Ridges of abs. Hard-muscled chest. The swell of triceps. His skin was quivering, his body trembling as she drew the shirt up his arms and over his head. He stopped out of his jeans, and … Well, yeah. There he was.
He needed to be on a calendar. Except that she needed her hands all over him more. Tonight, he was hers.
She said, “Want to come get on my couch?”
Why not the bed? Because she didn’t want a bed. She wanted the lights on, and she didn’t necessarily want to be that comfortable, either. She wanted to know he saw her for who she was, all the dirtiest parts of her, and that he wanted her exactly like that.
She wanted a freaking orgasm. She’d been as sexually stimulated, this past month, as she’d ever been in her life. Or more. So much more. Blame the hormones. Blame Harlan. She was nothing but swollen, aching need by now, and she’d crawl all the way over him to have that need satisfied. He was going to give her those orgasms tonight. As many as she wanted.
He said, “You need a glass of water. Hang on.” And headed out the door and out to the kitchen to get it. Back in control again. Back to let-me-take-care-of-you Harlan. Also, she’d just note, he was the most beautiful man to watch, coming and going. He had some scars. He had some muscle. He had just absolutely everything she wanted.
When he came back, he had two glasses of water. And a gleam in his eye. He said, standing naked in the middle of her living room, while she was still wearing her spun-sugar robe and her not-sweet-at-all black lingerie, “You’re a pretty bad girl, aren’t you?”