10. Elena #2
“Your priorities are wrong, and I’ve never wanted anything more.
” His mouth goes to my throat, my collarbone, closes over one nipple, and my back arches off the mattress before I’ve decided to give him that, my body posting entries I didn’t authorize.
He works down, mouth on my ribs, my stomach, the crease of my hip, taking his time where Lux had none, and when he settles his shoulders between my thighs, my knees fall open without consulting me.
“That’s new,” I say, to the ceiling, because watching him down there’s too much information.
“You said no foreplay last time. I’m correcting the record.” He drags his mouth up the inside of my thigh, and his breath against me where I’m already soaked nearly takes the top of my head off. “Hold still.”
“That’s the opposite of what my body’s doing-”
His mouth closes over me, and I lose the sentence, lose the thread, lose the running ledger I keep on everything, and there’s a pull winding tight and low with no name I can pin to it.
I reach for one anyway, because naming things’s the one thing I’m never wrong about, and I get it wrong, I think it’s almost the same as before, and it isn’t, it’s bigger, and I don’t have the word, and that’s never happened to me about anything.
“You’re trying to analyze it,” he says against me, and the vibration of it nearly finishes the argument. “Stop. You don’t have to know what it is.”
“I know what everything is, it’s my entire—”
He does something with his tongue and his fingers together, and my hips come up off the bed chasing his mouth, both hands fisted in his hair, and the tight thing snaps.
It rolls through me in waves I didn’t sign off on, my thighs clamping around his head, a sound tearing out of me I’d be ashamed of if I had any composure left to spend, and he works me through every pulse until I’m shaking and pushing weakly at his shoulders because it’s too much.
He comes up over me, mouth wet, far too pleased with himself. “That’s one.”
“You’re keeping count.”
“I keep count of everything that matters.” He turns me before I’ve got the breath to argue, one hand at my hip, guiding me onto my front, then up onto my knees, and the change drags a whole new sound out of me.
He settles behind me, the length of him sliding against where I’m soaked and swollen and aching. “This is new too. Tell me to stop.”
“If you stop, I’ll personally end your conspiracy and let OB6 win out of spite.”
He doesn’t stop. But he doesn’t push in either, not yet, and that turns out to be its own particular cruelty.
He takes the length of himself in his hand and draws it through me, slow, just the head, dragging it through where I’m soaked and swollen and have been since the laptop left my arms. Back and forth.
A deliberate, unhurried survey of exactly what I’m offering him, and the sound that comes out of me is humiliating in its honesty.
“You’re drenched,” he says, and there’s no performance in it, just a man reading a fact out loud, and somehow that’s worse than anything practiced would have been.
“I’m aware of my own condition, thank you.”
“Are you?” He does it again, slower, the broad head catching at my entrance and pressing just enough to make my hips push back before he withdraws it. “Because you’re pushing back for more and your voice is telling me you’re fine.”
“My voice is the only part of me with any dignity left, leave it alone.”
He presses in just the tip, holds there, and my arms nearly go out from under me at the stretch of the first inch of him, the specific fullness of it, the body’s memory of Lux firing at full volume and the reality of now already beating it.
I push back, but he withdraws. I make a sound that belongs to no language I’ve studied.
“Tell me what you want.” Low, his mouth at the back of my neck, his free hand splayed warm and heavy on my lower back, holding me where he’s put me. “Say it.”
“You know what I want.”
“I know. Say it anyway.”
The part of me that has never once in twenty-eight years asked for anything without being certain of the answer first wants to argue this point on principle, and the rest of me is already past it, stranded on the wrong side of principle, shaking faintly with my cheek tipped toward the sheet and every nerve I have pointed at the inch of him that’s barely inside me.
“I want you to stop teasing me and push in,” I say, and my voice comes out lower than I intended and steadier than I deserve.
He pushes in, one long unhurried stroke that doesn’t stop, that keeps going past the point I think is all of him and finds more, and my arms give out completely, so I’m chest to the mattress with my hips held up by his hand and the sheer animal need to keep the angle.
The stretch is total. The depth is a fact my whole body has to negotiate with, a breath held and then released in a sound I don’t recognize as mine.
He goes still, buried to the hilt, and gives me the second.
“You feel that,” he says, his voice low. “How deep does this go?”
“I feel everything, that’s my whole problem, I’ve always felt—”
He drives in harder, and the rest leaves me as sound. A second wind starts to coil, and I can feel him feel it, the grip of me going tighter around him on every stroke, and he doesn’t let up, takes me through the build with his fist in my hair and his hand at my hip, pulling me back onto him.
Then he stops, pulls out, turns me over again, and comes down over me face to face, pushing back in before I’ve finished gasping at the loss of him.
“I want to watch this one,” he says, forehead dropping to mine, his heart going faster than mine now, the one tell he can’t talk his way out of. “You hid the last one in a pillow.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re close. I can feel your cunt arguing with you about it.” He grinds in deep and holds, and the coil pulls past the point of any name. “Let it win.”
I do. It breaks over me with him buried to the hilt, and he goes with me, his control cracking in the one place he can’t hide it, his rhythm coming apart, his mouth at my throat saying my name like he wasn’t saving it after all.
He stays inside me long after, reluctant to move, his weight a warm dead anchor, his breath slowing against my neck.
“Better than the bathroom,” I tell the ceiling, because I say the true thing even now.
He huffs a laugh into my skin and doesn’t move to leave.