She doesn’t answer in words, and simply burrows her face in my chest. And together we stand, arms tight, breathing in harmony, her cheek to my heart and my lips pressed to the top of her head.
“I’m getting makeup on your tuxedo,” she mumbles, but I don’t let her move.
“Fuck the tuxedo.”
Finally, she tilts her head to look up at me with liquid eyes. “Take me home,” she says.
And I take her home.
Chapter 21
My apartment is nothing but moonlight.
I open the door for Zenny, and after I lock back up, I don’t bother with the lights. I don’t bother with anything, actually, except coming up behind where she stands at the window and kissing along her neck. She smells, as always, faintly of roses, and her skin is so soft and delicious. I can’t stop kissing her neck, her shoulder, the secret hollow behind her ear. She sighs back into me, a sigh of contented desire this time, her hands reaching up and back to lace in my hair and keep my mouth against her neck. That small act alone has me hard beyond belief, throbbing with the need to fuck.
“Tonight?” she asks.
“Tonight,” I confirm, and scoop her easily into my arms, carrying her like a bride to my bedroom. She moves her arms around my neck, and it’s so good, so very good. She’s all I want, all I’ll ever want, and I almost don’t want to put her down when we reach my bed.
“Is this still what you want to do?” I ask her instead, still holding her tight. “Am I still the one you want to do it with?”
“Yes,” she says simply. “And yes.”
“Are you sure? I know you’ve said one part of sex doesn’t matter any more than the next part, and I know that’s technically true, but it just feels like this is different—”
“Sean,” she calmly interrupts. “If you don’t shut up and start taking my clothes off, I’m going to scream.”
And I pause, because even as she says it all bold and daring, I feel her shiver of nervous excitement, I see the shyness hiding in her eyes.
“Honest girl thing?” I check one last time. “Fun-nervous?”
“Honest girl thing,” she says clearly. “Fun-nervous. Please, for the actual, literal love of God, make love to me.”
I don’t bother to correct her adorable sex phrasing—I didn’t know people actually still said the words make love—and she’ll see soon enough that I’m not the kind of man to whom words like that apply. Instead I set her gently on the bed and crawl over her, moving in a slouching, slow prowl so that I can absorb every single detail, memorize every single part of this beautiful, trembling girl laid out in front of me.
Her parted lips and her hooded eyes. Her nose ring glinting in the dark and the shadows swirling like fog in the hollows of her collarbone and between her breasts. The gleaming skin of her legs and arms and the tempting swells of sweet, innocent curves underneath the flirtatious chiffon. And her high-heeled feet moving nervously against the bed and her hands twisting fretfully at the fabric of her skirt—both things at odds with the expression on her face, which is one of pure, aroused fascination.
Nervous and bravely wanting—even now, Zenny is a puzzle of feelings, quivering like a virgin sacrifice but looking at me like I’m her next meal. It’s endlessly enthralling, and I drink down every part of it. I’ve fucked an untold number of women, but this is something different, something much different, and it’s all to do with her. All to do with this strange cavity she’s carved out of my chest and left empty and keening.
I’d dreamt of this night since the gala—exactly how I would unwrap her body, in what gradual stages I’d uncover her nakedness and kiss and lick at her skin. Exactly how I would seduce her already willing body and introduce her to my own body and its needs. But before I can execute any of my careful plan, Zenny reaches up for my face and pulls me down for a long, lingering kiss, a deep one of shared breath and parted lips and silky tongues. Between us, my cock pulses like a living iron bar. I try to hold it up from her, which she notices.
“Be yourself. Don’t baby me,” she says against my mouth, and I remember all the times Elijah and I were trailed by a pigtailed Zenny, demanding the same thing. Don’t baby me. I’m the boy who once tied her shoelaces and helped her find her missing Barbies, and is it reprehensible or some kind of fucked-up destiny that I’m the one to initiate her into these things now that she’s grown?
“I’ve never fucked a virgin before,” I admit. I’m over her, braced up on my arms, and still tuxedoed, and the flowing skirt of her dress is everywhere, tangled around my dress shoes and half-rucked up around one of her thighs and spilling around our knees like a sea of tears.
“Really?” she asks. “Never?”
“Never,” I say, ducking my head to nip at her breasts through her dress. “You’re my first.”
“What would you do if I weren’t a virgin?” she asks curiously, her words studded with gasps as I bite teasingly at her. “Would you do anything different?”
“Some things.”
“Like what?”
I shift my weight to my knees and elbows so that I can find her hands with my own. “Well, first,” I say, leaving her breasts to kiss at her neck and jaw, “I’d pin your hands over your head, like this.” And I do as I’m narrating, stretching her arms over her head and keeping them locked there with one of my hands around her wrists.
“Oh,” she says underneath me, and she gives a shivery kind of wriggle. A happy wriggle.
“And then I’d reach under your dress and check your pussy, to see if you were wet for me.” And I do that too, finding the weightless hem of her dress and sliding my hand up her warm thigh, my thumb brushing across the bare, slick skin of her snatch. She lets out a low whimper, her legs falling completely open and her back arching the tiniest bit underneath me.
“No panties?” I ask in a growl, rising up to my knees and yanking her dress up to her waist to see for myself.
“No panties,” she agrees. And sure enough, that cunt I’m so obsessed with is naked and exposed, a velvet split between her legs. The revelation that she was bare all night like this, that I could have pulled up her skirt and tasted her whenever I wanted…
I groan at the very thought, leaning down to smell her.
“Sean!” she says, her voice embarrassed as I press my nose and lips to her cunt and breathe her in deep. Why she hasn’t accepted the terminal thing I have for her pussy yet, I don’t understand. I love everything about her cunt; I love to smell her and to taste her and even just to look at her, which is what I do now. I spread her legs, and in the moonlight, I stare at the welcoming, wet seam; I use my thumbs to part her folds and see the tight, pink place I’m about to fuck. And very suddenly, it’s not enough to be only looking at her, I need more, more, more, and I settle between her thighs for a long kiss on her pussy, and I stay there for several more kisses, enjoying the delicate scrape of her high heels along my back, the tangle of her skirt around my head, and her taste. Fuck, do I enjoy her taste. Sweet and intimate and all her.
“Sean,” she says again, but her tone has changed, and now she sounds like she’s been running, like she can’t quite remember how to breathe. “Sean, oh, oh God—”