11. Cunt-fessions
Chapter eleven
Cunt-fessions
Sal
B oth of us get lost in our thoughts on the way to Sweet Alchemy. Albany calls an order for breakfast into the local mom-and-pop shop, and the food is packed up and ready by the time we pull in to pick it up.
By the time I unlock the doors and we settle down to eat, I’ve lost my appetite. Albany picks at her stuffed hashbrown, then sets her fork down, sighing. “I’m scared,” she confesses.
I set mine down, too. “Don’t be. My reaction last night wasn’t very adult. Please believe me when I say my walking out had nothing to do with you and everything to do with me being selfish.”
Her brows draw together. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know why this is so hard to say.” I rub my hands on my denim clad thighs. “That’s a lie, too. I do know why. I know who your high school sweetheart was because I just broke up with his dad.”
Albany snorts. A puff of air exits her lips as she shakes her head in disbelief. “I call bullshit. Haze Harmon was obsessed with his wife.”
“She died seven years ago. You don’t think he’s moved on with his life?” I nod slowly, then wait, as if I could help her digest the information with a gentle push, even though I know I need to give her time for the information to sink in. “Haven’t you?”
“I…I guess you’re right.” She smiles sheepishly. “It’s rather silly, but I always pictured Jake’s dad as a modern-day Archibald Craven, tragic and tortured by grief over his lost love. Practically living in his office, doing all the business-y things he does to avoid living a real life.” She pops a strawberry in her mouth.
“That’s not totally inaccurate,” I admit. I gnaw on my lower lip, wondering how much of my feelings about Haze are fair to discuss with her.
“What happened between the two of you?” She holds her palms up, hurriedly adding, “If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand. It’s not my business.”
“As much as I want to agree with you, if the tables were turned, I would want to know, too.” A self-deprecating smile touches my lips. “I’m just trying to figure out how to be honest and be fair to Haze.” My thoughts turn to how carnal my interactions have become with the woman sitting beside me, and my gaze heats as my eyes lower. “My feelings for Haze are complicated,” I murmur, “so that makes them your business.”
“Why don’t I talk while you sort some of that out?” She reaches over and squeezes my knee. Sitting next to one another makes direct eye contact more difficult, but it’s a seating arrangement that makes confession a bit more palatable. She picks up her fork and taps the tines against her plate. “Wow. I didn’t think this was going to be so hard.”
“Hey. I promise, whatever you have to say, I won’t run out. I’ll be right here by your side, the picture of model roommate behavior.”
She chuckles weakly and rubs a hand over her chest. “Okay. I’m going to hold you to that.” She tugs on her shirt and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m sure you’ve noticed I work some weird hours.”
“Do you?” I ask blandly, wanting to put her at ease. “You know you’re talking to an ex-chef slash chocolatier. We work some pretty killer hours, too.”
“They’re not exactly conducive to maintaining a relationship, are they?” she muses. I bump her elbow with mine, encouraging her as she falls silent. “I’m proud of what I do.”
“Same. Now spill it.” My heart beats hard in my chest. Is there something she does that I won’t be copacetic with? Is she an assassin? Does she work for the IRS? Is she middle management at some horrible corporation, denying single moms health insurance and childcare benefits?
“I’m a cam girl,” she blurts.
A flood of relief has me slumping on my chair. “Thank God,” I breathe.
“What? What do you mean, ‘Thank God’?” Her face is a mask of panicked confusion as she turns to me.
“Why would you be nervous to tell me that?” I pick up her hand and rub her palm with my thumb. I’ve noticed she likes it. Her surprised blink tells me easy acceptance wasn’t on her list of expected answers. “Should I be offended you expected me to disapprove?”
“No.” She licks her lip, turning her face away, needing a moment to compose herself. When she turns back to me, her eyes shine and her voice wavers. My heart breaks for her as I shift on my stool, wishing I could get up and knock out the prick that made her feel less for earning a living with her beautiful body. “I’m not just a sex worker. I’m a therapist, too. My job is so much more than the sex.”
Rotating on my stool, I release her hand and cup her face. I want her full attention. I need her to hear me. “Let me be clear. Yes, I want to hear more about your job. But before we dive into that, I think you need to hear my confession. What I have to say might change how you feel.”
She shakes her head no, biting her lip and rapidly blinking. And then she lifts her slender hands and takes my face. Eyes locked, we breathe together in silence. My heartbeat speeds up, then slows, syncing with hers. My fingers clench around her jaw as an intense wave of possessiveness floods my body. I want her. I want to destroy anyone who’s hurt her and annihilate anyone who judges her. A tendril of panic forms, twisting, gaining size and ground while I figure out how to tell her my truth.
Each thump of my heart draws me closer. Albany’s head tips to the side, her lashes brushing her cheeks as her lips part. I could take her now. I could forget about confessions and truths and give in to the lust coiling tightly inside.
She’s a cam girl. This sweet, kind, gorgeous woman with the platinum-framed, dancing violet eyes and moonlit skin. This rare gem who still trusts people and gives endlessly, who has legs for days topped with creamy, thick thighs and a brilliant smile, is a cam girl. The kind of confidence and courage it must take to perform such intimate acts in a loving manner, which I know is the only one Albany is capable of, is such a turn on I can barely breathe.
Does her ability to share her body mean her heart might be open to shared love?
I close my eyes, struggling to remember why we are here, as her hands slide down and her arms wind about my neck. Her breath puffs against my skin, sweet and inviting, as her respirations pick up, a sure tell that she’s losing focus on the conversation as more primal needs than communication fight for dominance.
Focus, Sal. You cannot have her, truly, until your truth is laid bare.
She deserves full disclosure before indulgence. Will she trust me this much after I tell her? Is my present entanglement with her past going to be more than she can handle? “I think we both know that we’re becoming more than just friends,” I breathe, my voice lust-ridden and low. My mouth is so close I can taste the strawberry she ate as well as her delectable signature scent of spiced blackberry and vanilla; both stir my dick into a state of fuck now and talk later.
I could pick her up from her stool and swing her into my lap, settling her sweet heat over my cock. Her skirt would ride up, the thin scrap of fabric she calls panties hardly a barrier to the weight of my erect sex nestling into her arousal-coated paradise. I could slip all the way into her silky tightness before I drew my next breath. I could lay her across the black gold veined marble and sup on her sweetness, not caring if every single future sculpture might suffer for my lack of attention as my mind would fill with the wanton memory of her sex on my tongue.
“Sal.” Dripping with cream and honey, her voice rolls into my ears, her sweet breath into my lungs, heating a path through my chest and abdomen, coating my cock like I’d dipped my fingers inside of her before stroking myself.
I grab her around the waist and yank her off the stool. One hand slides up her smooth thigh, lifting her skirt over her ass before her flesh hits the cool surface. “Sal,” she moans again, her voice achingly beautiful, rich with lust.
I lay her down, oh so gently, discovering a new obsession as pale waves of satiny, silver strands float across my work surface.
She lies back, pliant in my hands, her abdomen contracting as she lifts her legs enough to kick off her sandals. Running my hand up one of her calves, I bend her pliant limb, setting her heel on the edge of the counter as my gaze fixates on the wet patch of lavender between her legs. “Don’t rip those,” she pants, lifting her ass up.
I grin, murmuring, “Yes, ma’am,” as I slip my fingers under the hem, bunching up the shiny material at the sides. She shivers as my fingernails scrape across the skin of her hips and down the outside of her buxom thighs. Her brightly painted toes point as I slip the bit of fabric off one foot and then the other.
“Biscuits and gravy, Sal, hurry up. If you don’t get that mouth and those hands on my pussy, I’m going to do it myself.”
For a brief second, I’m stunned. I’ve never heard a woman manage to both boss and beg at the same. I like it so much I’ve got to reach down and adjust myself before I burst through the front of my pants. Her now greedy violet eyes follow my hand as her lips part to protest.
The words are out of my mouth, growled before any thought of consequences. “If you touch yourself without my permission, my little dove, you’ll pay for it. This pussy belongs to me.”
Her eyes widen, and she bites her lip.
And then she raises her arms above her head, crossing them at the wrist. She drops her lids, watching me as my gaze travels up, stopping to savor the curve of her ass and hips pressed against the marble, over the neatly trimmed tuft of hair on her mound, over her soft belly, between her breasts, now almost flat upon her chest. In the low light of my kitchen, she glows with a radiance that feels holy.
The thought occurs to me that playing like this is dangerous. That perhaps I shouldn’t touch Albany without a conversation about her preferences and boundaries, both hard and soft. How selfish I am to abandon my confessions and give in to this.
Growling as if possessed by Haze, I’m too cunt drunk on the heated ambrosia in front of me to bother modulating. My eyes are locked on the tiny puff of curls between her thick, juicy thighs. I bury my nose in the small, expertly groomed patch of pale silver curls and inhale. My mouth waters, my cock throbbing so painfully that any thought of responsible conversation suffocates in the absence of space behind my zipper. My hands find her thighs, my fingers spreading as I slide up and grip her, splaying her legs flat against the table.
Ten fingers land on my scalp, winding into my hair as the transcendent blackberry and rum scent of her transports me to another plane.
And then she whines, triggering a primal desire I’ve never felt before as she curls her pelvis up while pushing my head down. The primal urge to both possess and be possessed hits me so hard that I grip her thighs tighter to maintain my balance between them. Does she feel the brush of my lips curling in delight? I open my mouth and press my tongue against her opening, flattening it into a spoon before pressing it against her and dragging it up slowly. I refuse to waste a single drop of her.
Mine.
Her flavor bursts against my tongue, filling my mind with possibilities.
She could be ours.
I want to sculpt her almost as much as I want to rip my pants off and rut her. The urge to drive my cock into her and fuck her hard and fast off the other side of my alter wars with the deep need to lick every inch of her, to ground my scent into her, to blend our essential aromas into a signature flavor.
She begins to writhe as I work her with my mouth. I let go of one of her thighs and splay my hand over her belly, pressing down and digging my fingers into her softness. She’s the exact opposite of Haze. She’s as open as he is closed off. She’s bright and shiny, making her own light even when she cannot step out into the sun, while he prefers the shadows. He’s hardened steel to her comforting softness. "More, Sal, give me more," she begs, pulling on my hair. "I want to come," she pants, as I drag my tongue up one side of her, swirl it around her clit, and drag it back down to her entrance. "Oh jeez, that's perfect, but Sal, I want more." I grin again, not daring to stop, and let go of her thigh. With one hand still splayed across her belly, I slide two fingers into her slick cunt.
She gasps, her back arching, her body begging for more. My eyes slide up past my hand, my tan skin darker, stark against the shocking white of hers. Her peaked nipples blush, staining her areolas a color I long to taste. They beckon, taunting me to tear my mouth from the succulent flesh I'm devouring to crawl up over her and feast upon her chest. "Sal," she pants, her hands fisting my hair, her hips grinding against my mouth. "I'm so close. Please, don't stop."
She shifts her weight, her hands gripping my hair tighter, attempting to drag me up and center. She’s done playing. She wants to come.
One hand lets go of my hair, and I catch her grabbing a breast, her index finger and thumb massaging and rolling her nipple. Haze would punish her for touching herself without permission. How I long to see his handprint make her eggshell skin bloom like a summer rose.
I could lose myself for hours fantasizing about Haze punishing Albany while I watch and wait for him to hand her over to me. My dick surges again at the thought of him giving me permission to care for her, to coddle and comfort her after watching him work her into a limp mess.
“I want you to fuck me,” she gasps. “Fuck me so hard you’ll never be able to look at this table again without seeing me come all over it.”
Christ.
I change the angle of my wrist and pick up speed. Dropping my head to the exact place she’d steered me, I focus on that little bundle of nerves that, in conjunction with the way I’m about to stroke down her G-spot, are going to give her exactly what she’s asked for. Her breathy little sounds pick up, deepening into harsh exhales. Her belly quivers. Her legs draw up.
Now. I suck hard on her clit and crook my fingers. Albany explodes, her cries echoing in my empty kitchen. I rub her thighs as I gently bring her down with my tongue. And then I take her hand and pull her to a seated position, wrapping my arms around her. She nestles her head in my chest.
“Damn, Sal,” she whispers. I can feel her heartbeat, still pounding through her rosy, flushed skin. She drags her hand down my chest, but I catch her wrist.
“My dick aches for you, little dove, but I can’t. Not until I tell you the truth.”
“Okay,” she sighs, snuggling in a bit more. I wait a beat for her to say more or shift on the hard countertop, but she doesn’t. She waits patiently for me to speak. There’s a calmness to her, an honest sort of patience that isn’t born of training or ingrained manners. She has a natural peace about her that slows time and soothes my fears.
“I think you know what I’m going to say,” I start, then pause, giving her the opportunity to respond.
“I don’t. And I would never disrespect you with assumptions. You don’t have to tell me anything out of a sense of duty, Sal. Physical intimacy is only enhanced by emotional trust. You don’t owe me your secrets because I chose to share my body with you.” She tilts her head back and drops a kiss under my chin. “But I want to hear it if you want to tell me.”
“The reason I’m holding back, the reason I broke up with Haze is—”
Rubber sweeps over tile as the kitchen door swings open and bangs against stainless steel. My face pales as a familiar voice puts a halt to my confession. “—none of her fucking business.”