Behind the Pitch, a novella: Seeking Serenity 1.5 (7 page)

But I couldn’t hold back for long. I just couldn’t. Those lips were too full, too pink, too sinfully tempting. And I couldn’t control myself, how hungry she made me. I wanted to dive so deep inside of her. I wanted her craving me as much as I craved her. I wanted to be buried into her body, into the soft curves and firm planes. Her skin was like sugar, sweet, tempting.

I wanted it to be all mine.

A brief hiss of pleasure lifted past my teeth as McShane raked her fingernails down my neck and I had to take a breath; had to insert some calm before this situation escalated faster than she wanted.

I wanted her to want me. To have me, to make me hers.

“We’re not drunk,” I said to her, just to clarify that we couldn’t excuse away our actions tonight.

“No and I still don’t want casualness.” She sat up, stared at me with clear eyes. “I don’t love you, Declan.”

“I can live with that.”

I really didn’t think I could live with that.

“I’m not sure if I even like you.”

Well now, that was just boldest lie ever. Just the idea had me laughing. “You like me fine, McShane.”

The cogs of her mind worked, twisted and ran until I could make out her consideration on her face; eyes narrowed, lip tucked under her teeth as though she was trying to sort out how to best react to me, to us. To this electric thing that was happening between us. “Can you kiss me, just kiss me and not let us get all worked up?”

“I’m already worked up,” I told her as though that wasn’t abundantly clear. “But if you don’t want me—”

“I do. I just…I can’t, Declan. This… you and me? It’s too fast.”

A stronger man would have left the bed, been a good lad and run along home. A stronger man would have smiled, left her like that; wanting, eager, because she was uncertain.

I wasn’t a strong man. Not when it came to McShane. But I couldn’t take her, not then, not if she had reservations. Primal Declan screamed at me, told me to convince her. I couldn’t do that, not with this girl. Not with my McShane.

So I offered her a smile, the slightest nod, but didn’t move off her, couldn’t make my fingers stop touching her. She was fire, rain, all those things that warmed me, worked in me sensations that were foreign, impossible, new. My hands moved on their own, sliding down her neck, fingering the buttons on her shirt. I watched her eyes, listened to the faint moan that left her throat.

“I’m not going to ask you to do anything you don’t want, love.” I didn’t know why my voice thickened, became a whisper I knew sounded like wanting, desperation. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop touching you. Not if you don’t stop me.”

There were very few freckles on her neck. Four, perhaps five, that dotted near the cleft of her throat. But as my fingers worked open the buttons on her blouse, the collection of spots grew, until I saw the most beautiful sweep of freckles across her collarbone, down into the full,
buggering hell,
blessedly full cleavage. I had to physically restrain myself from attacking her tits, or ripping apart the lacy bra she wore.

Then, I couldn’t control myself. I had to taste her; her smooth skin, the brilliant cushion of her chest, I had to kiss every freckle I saw. One, two, ten, twenty; my mouth ran over each one, loving the delicious taste of her flesh, the sweet, intoxicating flavor of her body.

When I thought I could not possibly kiss another space of beautiful skin without exploding, I moved back to helping her discard her shirt, then lowered the straps of that lacy bra, and was met with even more freckles. “I knew you had freckles everywhere,” I said, enjoying the sweet sound of her laughter.

We looked at each other, confirmation, approval, as I worked the clasp at the front of her bra and my heart stopped beating for a second. This was it, what I’d been desperate for, what I’d fecking dreamed about for ages. And then, she was free, the most beautiful tits I’d ever seen spilling out, displayed for my examination.

I. Was. Dead.

My fingers smoothed over her perfect, pink nipples, already hard, standing at attention for me. I knew I sounded like a wanker, the way I groaned, the way my voice vibrated in my throat. But I couldn’t help myself. Not one bit. Those tits were a temple and I was a lowly worshiper. I closed my eyes at the feel of them, at the hardened points sliding against my palms and felt myself grow so hard I thought I would explode just from touching her.

Her skin was like satin, without the slightest flaw and I opened my eyes to watch her face as I touched her, loved the way her eyes rolled up, loved how her soft mewing sounds mimicked my own.

I took my communion at her altar, her chest rising to meet me, her nipples melting against my tongue. I craved this skin, the sweet sounds she made as I lapped her pink nipple between my lips, my teeth, sucking harder as the sound of her moans amplified.

McShane had lovely curves that dipped and swayed around my hands. And I leaned forward, moving between her legs, rubbing against her like a horny teenager. I wondered if she felt me. I wondered if she wanted this as much as I did. I wondered if she liked me resting on her, touching her, desperate for more, always more from this woman.

Her expression was free of inhibition. There was open pleasure pulling her features, deepening her voice as I ground against her and it was there, in that moment, I fully realized it wasn’t just her body I wanted. To be sure, I wanted her desperately; to feel her tight body, to feel how wet, how hot she would become just from my touch. But as I watched her expression, I realized it was more than that. I wanted more from her. I wanted everything. I wanted this gorgeous creature to be mine.

I wanted her to love me.

I thought I could love her.

“McShane, you’re fecking beautiful,” I said, trying to hide the emotion I knew snuck out behind my words. I was suddenly warm, hot actually, and tried to calm my raging heartbeat with quick pants against her neck. But that went buggering straight to shite when Autumn moved, pulled me closer and wrapped her legs around my waist.

She didn’t want me to move one bit from her body. So, I obeyed, my hips working against her soft, hot center. And while my body moved, while my dick rubbed and ground against her and she clawed her nails down my back, I imagined that I was already inside her.

Deep inside her.

I imagined her deepest, wet walls clenched around me, throbbing, pulsing as I took her. In my mind, I took her hard, took her slow, always slow because I didn’t want it to ever fecking end, I didn’t want her to stop clutching me, squeezing me. I didn’t ever want to stop moving so deep that her head moved back, that those perfect, glorious tits jutted and moved as she came around me.

Beneath me, Autumn moaned and I knew what she needed. Her pointed nipple was warm against my fingers and grew harder still when I pinched it, worked it between my thumb and forefinger. It was her undoing and I stared down at this gorgeous woman, my chest full of something I couldn’t name as her voice elevated, rose and her body shook as she climaxed in a shuddering release.

Fuck me, I did that to her.

Just the thought had my bollocks tightening, the sensation shooting straight to my knob and I moved against her faster, harder until, unbelievably, even with layers of fabric between us, I exploded into tiny shards of shock and release.

I collapsed on top of her, pining her to the mattress, completely overcome by how hard I had come, how relaxed and sated this sweet creature looked.

“Jaysus.” I tried not to be loud. If I was dreaming, I didn’t want to wake, not just yet. I wanted to be here, on top of Autumn, tasting her sweat slick chest, letting my heart return to normal beats.

Did that just happen?

I tried not to think on it too much. I needed McShane close to me, near me so this dream wasn’t over, so I rolled over and moved her to my chest, loving how easily she rested against me, how natural, normal it felt to have her dipped under my chin.

“I’ve not done that since I was a kid,” I said, because it was the truth, because it seemed fitting.

“Me either.”

“McShane, you kill me.” My thumb immediately went to her bottom lip. “But fuck me, it’s a happy death.”

Donovan has let me kip out on his sofa for days now. It’s a lump of a thing that makes my back ache and gives me a wicked crick in my neck. The only comfort I get at night is from my own pillow.

I waited until I knew Joe would be off with his mates for poker night down at McKinney’s. Thursdays, eight p.m., every week like clockwork, and then I snuck into my own home and bagged up some clothes, my book bag and my pillow.

For the first couple of days on Donovan’s sofa, I slept like a baby, mainly because my pillow smelled like Autumn. I cuddled with the barmy thing and let the scent of her shampoo, her perfume relax me.

Jaysus, that makes me sound like a sad little wanker.

Still, those first days, I got more sleep. But now, my pillow smells like me, or mostly like the God-awful forty dollar shampoo Donovan keeps in his shower. It also smells mildly of weed which Donovan’s idiot roommate smokes every afternoon after his classes. More importantly, and pathetic as it sounds, all traces of Autumn’s scent has disappeared.

I haven’t slept more than five hours in two days.

Dark circles have formed under my eyes and today at practice, Coach asked if I had the flu, threatened to send me to the infirmary. I begged him off and doubled my efforts with the sprints we were running, hoping that sheer exhaustion would help me sleep. But so far, it hasn’t worked, most likely, though, that’s due to Donovan’s amplified yells at whatever arsehole he’s playing against online. Assassin’s Creed: Black Flag.

He’s losing.

I’m not one to beg. I’m not one to want things that I have little chance at getting, but with Autumn, I have become a beggar. She is mine, no matter that she refuses to speak to me, the stubborn arse. She’s mine as much as I am hers. And so I swallow my pride, bite back any shred of dignity I thought I might have and dial a number on my phone out of desperation.

It’s only ten p.m. Surely, she’s not in for the night.

The phone rings twice and then I hear a fumble as though the person on the other side has answered then dropped their phone. I hear a distant “shit” and then “nice” and the soft voice picks up.

“Declan, seriously?”

“I’m sorry. I need to talk to you. Can you meet me?”

Sayo’s breath is heavy, like she’s debating the wisdom of getting involved in Autumn’s love life at this point. It hadn’t gone well for Layla, even though Donovan says Autumn has finally resolved to speak to her again, deciding that her friend’s lack of judgment was actually my fault. Whatever. Besides, I know Sayo. She’s Autumn’s best friend. Of course she’s going to stick her nose into Autumn’s business.

“You still at Donovan’s?” Sayo asks and I don’t bother to question how she knows that. Small fecking town and Donovan’s bigger mouth.

“Yeah, but I can meet you at the coffee shop in town.” I don’t think Sayo would be too happy to visit me in this sardine can, guy-smelling weed shop of an apartment.

“Fine. I’ll be there in ten.”

She does not meet me in ten minutes. She does not meet me, in fact, until thirty minutes have passed and I’m convinced her lateness is meant to be some sort of test of my patience. I don’t care. I’d wait an hour, ten hours, if it meant I could actually talk to someone close to Autumn. Sayo is close to her, I know that, and so I don’t mind waiting. I don’t mind eating day old muffins and espresso that will ensure I get zero sleep tonight.

The manager of the coffee shop kicked me out ten minutes ago to close, but I still wait at a table outside, running my take out cup between my fingers. It clicks against the plastic table as my eyes move up and down the nearly empty sidewalk. February in Cavanagh is always frigid; breath fogging in the cold temperatures, the smell of damp weather clinging to your lungs. The winds are picking up, the leaves gone from the trees. I know that the heat and humidity of summer will be here soon enough and I can’t wait for it. Autumn’s promised to take me to the Smokey Mountains. She wants us to watch the fireflies swarm. At least, that’s what she
wanted
. There is no way I can endure without her. No way for me to move past her, forget that I belong to her.

She owns me.

Sayo clears her throat as she approaches and my vision jumps to her. She nods once, but doesn’t speak and falls into the chair at my left. She wears one of her usual mad outfits—white, ripped Sex Pistols t-shirts and jeans so holey I can see the faint birthmark above her knee and a thick, gray wool pea coat. Her combat boots are black, the laces fluorescent orange. She looks rested, which surprises me since I know as Library Director she’s likely already preparing for this year’s annual book sale, even though the last one was just four months ago. Funny how I was forced into volunteering for that. Funnier still how all that organizing and dusting and shelving led to me in Autumn’s bed and her entrenched in my heart.

God, I sound pathetic.

“Thanks for meeting me,” I tell Sayo, but before I can utter another word, she stops me with her hand uplifted.