“Can’t you tell?”
She’s halfway down the plane of my stomach, working across the ridges of my abs with clear appreciation. My cock flexes as if anticipating where she’ll go next.
Down, down, down.
“You can’t—” I’m panting now, almost incoherent. “You don’t have to—”
Her smile is devilish, almost enough to make me come from the inherent feminine power within. “What did you tell me? It’s rather embarrassing how much I want to.”
My breath hitches. “Bea.”
“But only with your permission.”
This will be more than a blowjob. That much I know, because I want her more than air. I’m already moved by her belief in me. Humbled that she would give me her virginity, in every way. There won’t be any recovering from her after this. “Please.”
Before I’ve finished speaking the word her lips touch me. She tastes me with an innocence that makes me harder, the peach blush of her lips impossibly pale against the dark red arousal at my crown. First there is only a kiss, far too quick, the way you would buss someone on the cheek. Friendly but impersonal. She comes in again for a longer press, this one testing, unsure.
Only then does her tongue dart out, a small swipe that makes my hips jerk.
“Like that?” she asks, but she already knows. Her eyes sparkle with mischief.
“Devil woman,” I say, cursing her in every language until her mouth returns. Her lips circle the head, and I lose all sense of words. There’s only sensation—hot, wet, deep. An ocean so wide and dark that I would drown here. I never want to leave.
She is clumsy, at first, which only serves to emphasize the gift she gives me. The way her tongue explores me, darting and quick. The way she takes too much inside, her eyes going wide. I push her back gently, stroking her hair. “Go slow, mon amie. Be careful.”
Someone must be careful with her, because I cannot. I’m reckless with her, this fragile flower, made of sunshine in a bottle. I’m spilling her everywhere.
It does not matter that she has no practiced moves to make me come. I’m close, from seeing her taste me, from feeling her mouth and her passion.
Except… there.
She touches her tongue against a certain spot and my eyes roll back. God, that was close. I almost came in her mouth, without warning, like the most crude sort of man. It must have been an accident.
And then she does it again.
My hips thrust into her mouth, without permission from me. “Mon Dieu,” I mutter, panting, unable to see anything except stars.
When my eyes focus again I see her watching me. That’s how she’s doing this. Because she’s watching me, gauging every reaction, weighing every touch. Figuring out what I like best, because she thinks I deserve to be cherished.
Desperation fills my chest, because eventually she’ll find out the truth. I’m not worthy of her mouth, her body. I’m not worthy of anything.
She touches that place beneath my cock for a third time, and I lose control. Her hair is grasping me, or I’m grasping her hair, pulling her close. Pressure bursts from the base of my spine, turning every muscle in my body to pulsing stone. My mouth opens on a silent cry, the only sound a guttural surrender as my cock empties down her throat.
There’s no reason for her to stay within my grasp, to let me pull at her and thrust into her mouth two more times, wringing out the most intense orgasm of my life. This is a base act, almost cruel the way I used her. I can’t hate myself for it, because I would do it again.
She sits up, wiping her thumb across her bottom lip, looking both pleased with herself and self-conscious. “Was that okay?”
At this exact second I’m struggling to move my limbs or form words. It feels like a Herculean effort, putting together a complete sentence. “That was incredible. Come here.”
I don’t wait for her to snuggle in but instead pull her down, rolling on top of her with a burst of gratitude. My hand slides down her body, reveling in the way she twists and turns into my touch. Her body is wet and swollen, made ready for me.
The blowjob turned her on. That knowledge sits inside me, too powerful to resist. I slip my fingers inside, my thumb rough on her clit. I stroke her once, twice, three times. She comes with a soft exhalation, her body turning pliant, eyelids heavy as she sinks into sleep.
Through the walls I can hear the soccer games that Mr. Alami watches every night. From somewhere a baby cries. The windows don’t close all the way. It smells like the smoke from the hookah lounge down the street. Our building is never quiet, never asleep, but no one came when Mama let out a short, surprised scream. They didn’t come when I yelled at the man hurting her or when he hit me.
He’s gone now. The bed stopped making that horrible creak. From the crack in the closet door I watched his shadow stand up and fix his clothes before he walked out the front door.
Mama’s shadow got up much slower.
I can tell she’s in pain by the way she’s hunched over, by the sniffles she probably thinks I can’t hear. She didn’t come and move the chair locking me inside. Does she not know I’m here? Did she forget? I stay silent, my arms wrapped around my knees. I can tell my eye is getting big and swollen where he hit me, but it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t feel like anything.
There’s a high-pitched sound that I recognize as the pipes that are behind this wall. The shower is running, with its leaky spray and its hot water that runs out. Mama.
It feels like forever when she finally comes and lets me out.
I run to her, pressing my face against her warmth, her dress clean and soft—not the stiff uniform she wore home from the hotel, smelling of sharp chemicals, the one she wore when he came. We have to call the police, I tell her in French, my words too fast and too afraid.
She shakes her head, slow and sure. “Non. We call no one.”
I have grown up for seven years on these streets. No one trusts the police, but this is something very bad. This is what they are supposed to protect us against. “He hurt you.”
There is no mark on her eye. It was not that kind of hurt. “He’s a powerful man. Very rich. Staying at the hotel in the top floor. The penthouse.”
He may be very rich in the top floor, the penthouse, but he came into our rooms. “So he can do that and nothing happens to him?”
She looks away, hiding the tears. “Don’t, Hugo.”
Or maybe she’s looking away because she does not want to see my tears. “You are wrong,” I tell her, even though I’m afraid she’s right. Rich men and women can do anything they want.
The sheets on the bed are still rumpled, the pillows fallen off. It’s her bed, but I have crawled in at night to cuddle with her, when my cot in the main room feels too cold and sad. There’s only one bedroom, and it has never bothered me, never felt too small or too poor until now.
On the floor there’s something brown and flat. Something that does not belong.
I pick it up, feeling the very smooth material. Inside there is scribbled writing I can’t read. And money. So much money.
Mama gasps, “What is that?”
She knows what it is.
I know how to pick pockets. This one would be a prize, but tonight I’m not interested in the pink and green slips of paper. I’m looking for something with a picture on it. A name.