Addicted (25 page)

Greedy for each other.

More than greedy, in fact. My head is absolutely fit to bursting with him saying
I’d have done anything to keep you
, and his head is definitely full of me saying
nothing can keep me away
. And I know it is, because once he’s between my legs, with his shirt half hanging off one arm and his jeans shoved to mid-thigh, he tells me so. ‘Did you really mean it when you said … ?’ he asks, and when I tell him, ‘Yes, yes, of course, yes’ into his hot, wet mouth, he sinks all the way into me, too quick and too rough.

But too quick and too rough is bliss, quite frankly. One more bruise takes my mind off all of the others – and, unlike the others, the sting fades after hardly a second. By the time he’s started fucking into me, I’m hanging onto the kitchen cabinets while gasping his name. I’ve forgotten most of what we’ve talked about and am intent on the feel of his erection, shoving nice and hard against that bundle of nerves inside me. And his mouth … oh, God, his mouth on my breasts, on my throat, so hot and wet and then …

And then he takes one of my tight nipples between his teeth, and I definitely make some undignified noises. I think I claw at his back too – though I only know for sure later on once we’re sprawled against the kitchen cabinets, panting, and he tries to sit up a little straighter. He makes it about halfway to his destination, then winces and turns to show off the red lines I’ve drawn all over him.

It’s like I’m a kid who went mad with a crimson crayon. I think, amidst the mess, I can see a house with a smiling sun above it.

He can hardly complain, however. I’ve got a similarly coloured bracelet around my right nipple, and another on my left shoulder. We’ve practically mauled each other in our mad dash towards orgasm, but somehow it still isn’t enough. I can tell it’s not enough just by glancing at his face. He’s got that briefly-lost-his-mind look about him, right down to the foggy gaze and the parted lips. The lower looks kiss-bruised and still ever so slightly slick from all the licking I gave it, and it draws me in just as fast as I’m apparently drawing him in.

He gets a handful of my hair and a fistful of whatever clothes I’m still wearing, then suddenly I’m not wearing them any more. I’m completely naked on his kitchen floor, with hardly a care in the world – though naturally it’s difficult to worry about anything when someone like Dillon Holt is forcing your mouth onto his. When he’s laid-back, it’s bad enough. When he’s like this, it’s impossible to step back and suggest we have some more chats about stuff.

I find myself completely lost in the smallest things: the curl of his tongue against the inside of my upper lip – just a little too tickly and yet still somehow exciting. Or how about the sound of him moaning into my mouth? It excited me before but now it’s almost electrifying, when placed alongside all of the feelings he mentioned and the thoughts he expressed. It has an extra layer of longing that I can’t really describe.

But I can at least understand the effect of
honesty
. This is his honest passion, I think. His true desire. I can’t pretend it’s some gimmick or gag. It’s real and unfettered and so, so good … oh, it’s so good I almost choke, in an effort to cram every feeling down into me all at once. I squeeze his hair into my fist the way he’s done mine, and, when he attempts to manoeuvre us off the floor, I almost get in his way. I’m too busy trying to eat his face and his throat and his left earlobe to pay attention to things like lifting and pivoting, and it’s really just a testament to his strength that we end up staggering towards the bed.

Or, more,
he
staggers. I just hang off his hip and his massive shoulders, like a misplaced Christmas ornament. And once he’s in a position to put me down, he can’t quite manage it. I won’t let him manage it. I’m stuck on him now, and I can’t quite detach.

Though he does an excellent job of working with what he’s got. He somehow twists me around his body like a ballroom dancer, and it’s only after I’m on my hands and knees with him inside me that I remember the promise I made, and the place we’re now in. He doesn’t get to hide from me any more. It’s not going to be all about me – though, I confess, for a moment I’m almost seduced right into it, all over again.

He’s fucking me just like he did in the kitchen; hard and fast and without room for interjections, those big hands tight on my hips, drawing me back and back and back onto his cock until I can hardly speak around the pleasure. It’s difficult enough to think under circumstances like these, never mind question.

But I focus. I make fists in the bed sheets and brush off my building orgasm.

‘Tell me what you want,’ I try, though I know it’s not quite good enough to get the desired result. He might have spilled the beans about this little poker game he’s playing, but apparently it doesn’t mean he won’t attempt another hand. He’s still set in that groove, I think – the one that tells him I might run away or be less than impressed if he doesn’t think of me first. And though I find that idea as wildly novel as I did when he first let me know about it; the urge is strong to be as selfless with him.

It’s more than strong. It’s overwhelming enough to make me take it further. I put a hand over his on my hip, in an effort to slow him. And when that’s not enough I try to shift a little way up the bed – just to make it that bit harder for him to keep pinning my pleasure down like this.

Of course, I utterly fail. He’s so strong and insistent … not to mention persuasive. He even knows exactly what to say to keep me in place: ‘just your tight pussy
,
’
he tells me, followed by the kind of groan that would make a nun cream herself. He even adds a bunch of stuff a moment later, as though he’s completely aware that one comment isn’t enough. One groan isn’t enough. One thrust of his thick cock isn’t even enough.

But maybe this could be:

‘All I need is what I’m looking at right now. You around me, making my cock so wet … just taking me so easy. You like that, huh?’

Of course I like it. He’s slowed the pace, and the sensation is a protracted, nerve-buzzing version of the thing he was putting me through a moment ago. He slides in and I flow forward as though I’ve turned to water, and then, even worse – I have to endure him pulling slowly back out again.

I think I actually judder at that. So I’ve honestly got no idea how I’m able to squirm away from him. It’s a miracle that I manage to disentangle myself from his hands, never mind anything else – though my resolve is definitely strengthened by his expression, once I’m halfway up the bed. He looks like he did in the church: flummoxed and frustrated, ready to stop me or drag me back but unable to do either for a moment.

His hands are still holding the air where my hips once were. His cock is a rudder jutting out in front of him, seeking heat that isn’t there any more. And though he clearly wants to say a word or three, I think he knows there isn’t much he could go with. Something’s shifted between us now. The dynamic is more level. He’s not the cocksure Svengali, teaching me a thing or two about a thing or two.

And I’m not quite as shy as I would have been before.

The church got rid of most of that. And the conversation put paid to the rest.

‘You can have it when you tell me what you want,’ I say, and to my great delight, I even manage to point to the thing I’m talking about it as I do it. I flash that wet, flushed place between my legs at him, then watch his eyes go big at the sight.

I can make his eyes go big at the sight of my pussy
,
I think, which only spurs me on.

‘I told you,’ he says, but he doesn’t sound convincing. For a start, he’s kind of half-whining. And then there’s the fact that he goes for one of my legs, when he thinks I’m satisfied by his rubbish get-out card.

I’m too quick for him, however. I’m fully prepared for any and all assaults on my senses at this point – whereas he’s mostly stupefied and definitely on shaky ground.

‘You didn’t get anywhere close to telling me,’ I say. ‘But try a little harder and I might give you it.’

He comes close to putting his hands on his hips. At the very least, he rolls his eyes.

‘What if what I want just happens to be what you want?’

‘Then I’m probably going to doubt you.’

‘You shouldn’t, you know. I’m pretty sure I go nuts over some of the same stuff you do – like when I bury my face between your legs and you jump and jitter in my arms. Or how about all that storytelling I did … yeah, you liked that. You think I didn’t like it too, seeing you get so flushed and ready to fuck because of a few words?’

‘Lying words. Was the tale you told me about your first time even true?’

I kind of don’t want to ask it, for many reasons. If he says yes, I’m going to be too excited to keep this conversation going. But if he says no, I know I’ll be disappointed. I can feel it spreading through me already – that little tale … the one that gave me my only clues about him and his life and likes and dislikes … all of it fake.

It can’t be fake, can it? Oh, I’m hoping too much that it’s not fake. And I know I am, because when he finally tells me I actually feel a kind of relief. I hadn’t even realised that the lies were worrying me a little – as though everything we are has no foundation – until he answers, as calm as you please:

‘Yes.’

‘So you really did let her seduce you.’

‘I did.’

‘And you liked it when she teased you.’

‘I loved it.’

‘Like you might love it if I did it to you now.’

‘It’s a distinct possibility.’

‘Then tell me. Tell me you want me to do something just for you. Be selfish with me.’

He shakes his head in this slow, deliberate sort of way that shouldn’t give me the chill it does. But it happens, nonetheless. There’s something dark about his expression, something deadly, and it sends a little frisson through my body.

‘I don’t think you really want me to be selfish,’ he says, and I wonder for just the barest second – is that the secret? Is he into something nightmarish, sexually … something so bad he can’t stand to tell me? Maybe I’m right about all of his generosity.

Maybe it’s just evasion in disguise.

‘Why? Do you really think you’re going to disturb me?’

‘Maybe.’

‘You didn’t disturb me with any of your tales – true or otherwise. And the things you’ve persuaded me to do … none of them have disturbed me.’

‘Not even public sex?’

‘Not even that.’

‘And being your priest?’

‘You could be the Pope … I wouldn’t mind.’

‘I see,’ he says, but he still sounds unsure. So unsure, in fact, that it’s a little insulting. After all, this isn’t just about fulfilling my fantasies and forgoing his own. It’s not even just about evasion.

It’s about him seeing me as too fragile to take whatever he can dish out. Apparently he’s got a red room of pain that I’m too pathetic to see. He’s into whips and chains, and I might run for the hills if only I knew.

And that makes my tone far angrier than I intend it to be when I finally ask.

‘Don’t you have faith in me? Do you really think I’m so weak – ?’

‘It’s not that I think you’re weak, Kit,’ he says, and then he sort of sighs. His tongue touches his upper teeth, as though he’s searching for inspiration there. He’s searching for inspiration anywhere except the place he’s most likely to find it. And when he does finally wrestle with himself enough to get to the root of the matter, his words are just as daft as they were two minutes ago. ‘I’m just a little worried that you’ll think I am.’

‘Are you serious?’

He can’t be serious. He’s six foot three. He told me earlier. And he didn’t need to tell me about his enormous shoulders and his big-man hands and the thing between his legs that’s still pointing right at me. No one could ever mistake him for weak. He’s so strong he’s managed to forge this insane path with me for months, without me having the ability to do anything about it at all. I couldn’t even get him to share a fantasy.

He’s like Fort Knox.

A crazy, ridiculous Fort Knox.

‘You might not see me as the same person. Other people didn’t when I told them about this,’ he says, as though the person he is has such a faint, indistinguishable outline. Like he’s not stamped on the insides of my eyes for ever.

‘Honestly, Dillon, if your big secret is that you like to cross-dress, you really shouldn’t have put on that show for me last Tuesday. I mean, wearing my bra and panties was a bit of a clue. But jumping out of a closet while dressed in them was a mammoth giveaway.’

He rolls his eyes at that one.

‘I was just fucking around.’

‘And you think that, if you weren’t fucking around, I’m somehow going to be really upset here? Oh, no, my boyfriend likes to do something that may make other members of society question his complete and total burly masculinity! Whatever shall I do?’ I say, expecting maybe a sarcastic answer in response. Or perhaps he’ll be serious, and focus on the kink that he may or may not have … it’s right there in the words I’ve just said, after all.

So really the last thing I’m anticipating is him lasering in on this:

‘I’m your
boyfriend
?’

Yeah, that throws me all right. Here I am, blustering about his lack of faith and men wearing panties, so sure and certain of my own ability to cope with anything. And he lunges at the one thing that actually throws me for a second.

I don’t think it could have been worse if he’d said
I like to bum goats while wearing a top hat.

‘Well … yeah.’

‘Holy shit, I’m someone’s boyfriend. Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘And you’re not just saying it because it pretty much means I have to tell you now?’

‘To be honest, I’m kind of scared that the word slipped out.’

I love him for doing a little fist pump after I’ve said that. I love him for sounding so delighted about the whole idea. He keeps saying ‘boyfriend’ in this wondering, chuckling sort of manner, and then when he’s done I love him even harder.

Because he tells me stuff.

‘OK,’ he says. ‘OK.’

And then he winces, and I wince, and finally he explains in a great rush of unfettered shame and uncertainty and obviously mixed-up feelings: