Throb (Club Grit) (3 page)

“It’s not rape if I want it,” I groaned, leaning down onto the couch and screaming into a pillow. We’d had this conversation so many times: Jason would count how many drinks I’d had, add three for the VIP section part of the night and for me miscounting, and wait until I was sufficiently sober to let me have sex with him, even if that meant he sat with a raging hard-on as we watched chick flicks.

“Well, I don’t want it til you’re a bit more sober, okay?” he teased, bringing in snacks from the kitchen. He’d made kettle corn in the microwave, its sweet and salty scents filling my nose, as well as hot chocolate (just classic Swiss Miss). The doorbell rang and he answered: Chinese food, delivery. He must have ordered from the cab, on his phone. The piece de resistance? A small dish of rock candy, blue, of course. A gift I’d gotten him for Christmas, instead of chocolates or some other stereotypical couple’s gift like a white teddy bear with a red heart for a chest holding a matching Mylar balloon on a stick, because I didn’t want it to be weird.

But it had gotten weird. And this was the point that I realized it.

Friends with benefits didn’t have Breaking Bad marathons together.

They didn’t order Chinese food from cabs.

They didn’t insist that I sober up a bit before we actually get to the fucking.

So why wasn’t I running? And why did this feel...right? When I had a message on my phone waiting for me, from Keanne, of all people, who had chosen tonight, of all nights, to make things even more complicated?

I leaned on Jason as we started the deleted scenes. At least an hour went by and as we watched TV and we started another episode, switching positions so his head was in my lap at some points, at others, mine in his, I felt myself thinking more clearly about things. The food helped, soaking up the alcohol, and as one scene drew a close, another began, as I leaned up to kiss Jason.

While I ate the pork and scallion pot stickers, Jason kept one arm around me, using his free hand to hold up the sauce for me to dip my dumplings into. When I sipped my hot chocolate and it was too cold, he didn’t even ask me before he went to warm it up for me again. Jason and I never talked about this, about how our relationship was slowly changing, and how this was so different than how we’d first met, drunk, on his night off, but both at Club Grit, where we ended up hooking in the backroom, and eventually moved the festivities to his apartment. We didn’t talk about the fact that we no longer had sex drunkenly, and about the fact that he knew more about me than most of my ex-boyfriends had, that he treated me better than them too.

We also didn’t talk about how the fact that I was about to do what I was about to do wasn’t random, that it was routine, but still full of passion, and that he could read me like a book and figure out when I’d do it.

At least, that was the only explanation I had for the fact that although my head was in his lap and seconds before, I’d been watching Jesse call someone a bitch on the widescreen, that he met me halfway, around the midpoint of his chest, in the kiss I was going to try and initiate on my own.

His lips were salty but I tasted the sweetness of marshmallows and chocolate in his mouth before much longer.

My arms slipped but he kept his left arm wrapped around my back, cradling my own left arm, and lifting me up as he used his right hand to brush a lock of hair off of my face where it clung to a remnant of the pink MAC lip gloss I’d last applied in the limo on the way to Club Grit. Jason leaned down and kissed me hard, his chin still smooth from being shaved before he’d gone to Club Grit for work, but his lips rough, chapped by the fact he had to sample so many drinks during bar set up, when he experimented with his new recipes, and by the fact that when he was asked to take a shot by patrons, he almost always had to partake. It was club policy, but it meant that it took Jason a while to get sober.

However, in all the months I’d known him, he had never once had “whiskey dick”: the inability to get an erection due to having consumed too much alcohol. He’d also never gotten drunk. He said it was because he’d built up an immunity, of sorts, as a bartender, but he was able to hold his liquor better than any of the other mixologists on staff, many of whom didn’t make it past the first few weeks of club life, either getting too sloshed to work or worse, dabbling with harder drugs. They could be fun, but at work? Never. That was another thing Jason and I had in common: even though we both drank at work out of obligation, we didn’t go for the harder stuff. That’s what the girls at Omega Mu didn’t know about me: all the times they’d offered me drugs, I’d secretly either thrown the pill away or wiped my share of the powder off the table. I’d seen what drugs could do to people and I didn’t want to touch them, not even cigarettes.

Although I knew it was wicked of me, I slipped my hand over his pants and felt what I knew by now to expect: that his member was hard, so hard I could feel it through the thick denim of his designer jeans. I wanted to undo the silver buckle of his brown leather belt and take him then and there, but before I could reach up to do so, Jason grabbed my wrist gently but powerfully enough that I couldn’t pull away easily. Not that I’d want to: having Jason hold me and control me was rare, and when he did take charge, I never questioned his authority.

“You ready?” he whispered into my ear, still gripping my wrist, but he already knew the answer as he moved his hand from my wrist to my palm, enlacing his fingers in mine as he rose from the couch and led me to the bedroom.

Jason was so caring usually, but whenever we went from friend mode to friends-with-benefits mode, he changed: he became dominant, taking the lead sexually and physically. It wasn’t something you would have thought he had in him, if you talked to him at Club Grit about relationship problems and he lent a caring ear, but it was as much a part of him as his “nice guy” side.

The open layout of the apartment allowed us to get to the bedroom without breaking our physical flow with any opening of door knobs. We made a beeline to his bed, the white plush carpet pressing in between my toes as he led me to the bed, before turning me around at the foot of it and pushing me down.

Jason didn’t bother to take off my dress. The first place that his firm, warm hands touched were the bottoms of my feet, which he rubbed and pressed, because he knew my body better than anyone. He knew that by doing that, I’d giggled, lose my balance, and end up on my back, allowing him to trace two asymmetrical lines up my thighs, until he reached the place between my hips and him.

As he pressed down on my wetness, he rasped into my ear once again, and asked me, “How much do you want me?” My only answer was to try and steady myself on my elbows to kiss him, but Jason pushed my arms out and away to force me to lie down before letting out a low chuckle. “You minx. I know exactly how much you want me, and the question isn’t whether I’ll deliver, but how far I’ll go.” As he teased me with his words, he spoke in a calm monotone, like a dulcimer’s dulcet tones merging into one melody, the only dynamics that of physical punctuation, as he continued to press his fingers against me, through the thin cotton lace of my panties.

Even though he was the king of the bedroom, it was Jason who got down on a knee, as if he was a prince pledging his fealty to me, except it wasn’t to me, but to my pleasure. That was the only promise he could make and right now, it was the only one I could accept.

His fingers were warm but as he hooked a finger around each side of my lace thong, shimmying it down, a shiver went down my spine as I felt his rough fingers against my smooth, soft thighs. We’d been together, or at least, sleeping together, for months now, but each time was like the first time. Each time, he surprised me, and each time, I let myself be surprised.

Jason hadn’t even taken my thong panties past my knee before he leaned in to put his head under my skirt, like a shameful Frenchman eating an ortolan, hiding his shame from God underneath a napkin, except he had no shame, only pride, as he let his warm breath over my already wet sex, which absorbed his heat readily.

Even though all I could see was Jason bobbing his head up and down under my skirt, I could feel him all too well. His warm tongue wandered into my love canal but it wasn’t enough to fill me, nor was it enough when he slid two of his digits inside of me, his phalanges not phallic enough for me. Where was the bulbous head of his cock that I so desired? The only similarity was the fact that, once wetted, his finger’s ridges and roughness were textured to feel more like his cock, but they were a poor substitute.

It wasn’t that Jason was bad at what he was doing. On the contrary, he was the only man who could please me this way, orally, without trying to make it into some cheesy porn production, like men who expected a pussy to taste like cherries and for a woman’s orgasm to result in a rain of glitter like some ersatz New Year’s Eve party in my pants. It was just that Jason was so good at sex, that no matter what else he did to try to please me, it wouldn’t be enough. Nothing would ever be enough.

“You know what’s weird?” asked Jason, his voice muffled by my skirt.

“No, what?” I asked, leaning back, my hands wrapped around a pillow I’d reached for with one of my long, graceful arms just minutes before. Although the sheets were fresh, the pillows smelled of Jason.

“It’s not raining...but you’re absolutely soaked,” he said mischievously. I pulled away from him, shimmying up the bed and pulling my legs up so that I was on my knees, looking down at Jason on the floor. He grabbed for my panties though and they were left in his hand, leaving my nether region naked underneath the flimsy skirt.

“You’re so mean!” I said, bopping him on the head with the pillow, and he laughed, before getting onto the bed with me.

“Or maybe, I’m not mean enough,” he growled, leaning in to give me a hard nip on the neck, sucking at it until he had me gasping, and then, he flipped me over, so I was on all fours. Finally, he hiked up my dress, and gave me a slap on the ass before taking a cheek in each hand and spreading me wide.

But, although I wanted him to fuck me, that’s not what he did. Instead, he flipped onto his back, propped himself up on his elbows, and kept licking at my clit while finger fucking me, preparing me for his cock. Jason’s arms were strengthened by regular visits to the gym as well as tossing around bottles and martini shakers all night, so pistoning in and out of me wasn’t a challenge for him.

“Say it,” said Jason. “Say you want me.”

“Jason...I want you.”

“I can’t hear you, babe,” he teased.

“Jason, I want you. I really want you,” I said, with a gasp at the end as I felt him suck hard at my clit.

“That’s right, baby, I know you do,” he said as he pulled himself out from under me like a mechanic under a fine racecar and got on his knees, shimmying down his pants and boxers, before holding the slick tip of his cock against my entrance. Carefully and slowly, he pushed it inside of me, until he had me halfway down his shaft, and then he pulled out, thrusting in harder, so that I had him in me as far as he could go, my labia practically touching his testicles.

“It was so easy that time, Becca...maybe my dick’s getting smaller,” he joked.

But, I was naughty: I teased back. “Maybe it is. Two inches shorter, three inches shorter?”

Jason wasn’t about to put up with that. Although he let out a low chuckle, he said, “You think you’re about to get smart with me now? No way, babe.” As he pulled out of me again, he spread my cheeks further so that it hurt, but he could also enter me more easily, now that he’d widened my canal, and he thrust in and out of me faster and faster, like one of those fucking machines I’d seen one of the whores Keanne hired ride.

The last person I wanted to think about was Keanne and with a single mighty thrust, Jason fucked the thoughts of him right of my mind. It was only around Jason that I was able to forget about Keanne, able to forget about the way that he’d broken my heart without even trying at all, by not doing a God damn thing.

As I moaned from the fact that Jason had angled my hips so the bulbous tip was pressing against my G spot, hard, each time, he asked me, “Does it feel shorter now?”

“No, Jason, no,” I cried out. “Just...just fuck me harder, please.” I knew that this was the only way that I’d forget, that I’d really get Keanne out of my head, because although specific memories were dissipating, the aching in my heart was still there, made worse by that stupid text message I’d received mere hours before.

“Alright, babe,” he said softly, pulling my hair out of my face without actually yanking my hair backwards, like some guys I knew would, and just putting it gently behind my ear, before stroking down my back, until he got to my hips. He grabbed a side with each hand firmly and pulled me closer to him so he could re-adjust the angle once again. He knew the best way to make it so that his cock would slide in and out of me faster than anyone else’s possibly could, and although it wasn’t as pleasurable, physically, as what he was doing before, he could fuck me harder this way.

With me in position, he told me, “Lower your head, babe. Onto the pillow.” I obeyed him, pressing my face down into the pillow to muffle the moans I knew I’d release when he started the inevitable thrusts. He then gently pulled my arms up, so that he had one of my palms in each of his, before pulling in and out of me in this wheelbarrow-like position.

Taking me from behind, he knew he could make me scream, and as I moaned loudly into the pillow, I thanked God that I had Jason in my life, the only man that could help me forget about the only man I wanted to forget about but couldn’t, for too many reasons. Jason kept a hold of my hands and didn’t pull them, just held them as I clenched hard and he thrust in and out of me, his balls slapping so far up that they hit my clit on more than one occasion.

As the sensation of being filled and emptied so quickly, over and over, was taken in my body, I felt the pressure building up, a pressure I’d grown to know all too well since meeting Jason. I bit down on the pillow, knowing I’d have my release soon enough, and turned my head to the side.