Chapter 27 Selkie
Selkie
Gemiah
I’d forgotten how much I love being on the water.
My limbs are pleasantly lethargic from their battle with the surf, and my skin has that tight, tacky feeling that comes from being drenched in brine and not quite drying in the coastal haze.
The desert has its own charms, but I can’t pretend I didn’t miss the sea.
Still, the sunrise over the Pacific has nothing on the man sitting shirtless on the steps in front of me. With his sleep-mussed hair and his bare feet and his broad, tanned shoulders catching the dappled light…I could get used to coming home to this.
Then I notice the bottle dangling from his hand, and my steps slow as my brow furrows.
“A little early for you, isn’t it?” I ask, keeping my voice light.
“You jealous?”
I rock back at the sudden sting. “What is this?”
“You left.” The words are toneless, but a hurricane of hurt swirls in his eyes.
Fuck.
“I went surfing.”
“You didn’t call or text.”
“My phone was dead. I forgot to plug it in last night, but I—”
“You couldn’t charge it in my truck?”
“I did, but you know what the service is like on the coast. That’s why I left the note.”
“What note?” He tilts his head as I approach, all guarded menace.
“The note on your nightstand. Didn’t you see it? It was right by your phone.”
“There was no fucking note,” he spits, bursting to his feet to tower over me from the top of the porch.
“I—”
“You disappeared in the middle of the fucking night. Again.”
Goddammit. This isn’t fair. I was fucking trying.
“I didn’t disappear.” I stalk up the steps toward him. “I thought you’d be proud of me. I didn’t drink, even though that was obviously an option. I was freaking out, and I didn’t want to bother you with my shit. What was I supposed to do?”
“Wake me the fuck up,” he roars. “You fucking promised.”
“Fuck you, Josha.” We’re chest-to-chest, fear and frustration heating the air between us. “I promised not to disappear. I’m right here. I’m trying to figure out how to handle my own shit, and I was feeling pretty good about myself for a minute there.”
His nostrils flare, color high and eyes raking over my face. “Turn around.”
“What? No. I’m not leaving. You can’t make me.” Christ, I sound like a fucking child.
“Turn the fuck around, Gem.” Without waiting for me to comply, he grabs the folded wetsuit at my hip and spins me roughly, before crowding me up against the railing.
“Wha—what are you doing?” I catch myself on one of the vertical supports and peer at him over my shoulder.
“Making you feel good.”
I want to tell him it’s not the same—that I already know he can make me feel good—but then he leans to put his lips against my ear, and his breath butterflies over my pulse. From behind me. My brain scrambles to parse the implications as blood rushes to my dick.
“Tell me about the waves.”
The waves?
“They were crap. I didn’t—oh.”
He yanks the back of the wetsuit down, exposing my ass and pinning my thighs together.
The damp neoprene is sinfully tight, trapping my swelling dick against my thigh.
His hand trails down my back, rough over the skim of salt and sand left by the sea.
When he drags a finger through the crease of my ass, my lips part on a grunt, caught between the galvanic jolt of arousal and early lessons learned about the practicalities of sex on the beach.
“I should shower if…” I trail off. If what? If he’s going to fuck me?
Cool liquid hits my spine and trickles over my skin.
Did he pour vodka on me?
He’s washing me with my own sin.
“Stop moving,” he says when I squirm to look again. He takes a long pull from the bottle, swishing it in his cheeks as he palms my ass and spreads me open with his thumb. When he bends and spits the liquid into my crack, it’s warm from his mouth, and something shivers and breaks loose inside me.
If I’m being totally honest with myself, when I first started giving my fantasies free rein, I always imagined I’d be the one doing the fucking. I mean, it’s all I’ve ever done, and I’m fucking good at it. Or at least, I was, back when I was getting laid.
And yeah, when Josha blazed into my motel room, all fire and fury and hard, rippling muscles, maybe I got a little curious and started questioning my assumptions about how this was going to go. But he’s Josha. Virgin Josha, and I’m—
Half bent over the porch railing, trapped by neoprene and wood.
A trickle of fear pricks at my arousal, driving it to an almost painful spike, and my cock throbs in its confines.
“Please let me rescue my dick,” I beg. “It’s dying in this thing.” But when I go to peel the suit down my thighs, he stops me.
“This stays on.”
“It’s fucking tight as hell.” That’s what he said. A slightly hysterical giggle bubbles from between my lips. Shit. I’m losing it.
His gaze flicks to mine, the corner of his mouth twitching with dark amusement. Taking pity on me, he reaches around and pulls my aching cock free. I absolutely do not almost come at the contact, but the sound I make when he immediately releases me can only be described as a whine.
Apparently satisfied with my arrangement—thighs pinned together and cock, balls, and ass lifted in an obscene display—he nudges me down to brace my elbows on the rail.
I dart a glance at the outline of his erection, blatantly straining against the front of his gray sweats. It’s…big. Not porn-star big, maybe, but bigger than mine, and I’ve never had any complaints.
Instead of freeing it, though, he sinks to his knees and buries his face between my cheeks, the scrape of his morning stubble a bright contrast to his plush lips on the sensitive flesh.
He presses a hot, open-mouth kiss right over my hole, and I clutch at the railing, heedless of the splinters digging into my palms.
“Holy fuck, Rocket,” I rasp, then “fuckfuckfuck” when he does it again, this time with tongue.
I’ve had my ass eaten a few times before, by women who were curious or crossing it off some list—a few minutes of tentative licks, delicate fingers, and smothered giggles before moving on to the main attraction.
This is something wholly different.
Josha eats me out, not like he has something to prove, but like he’ll fucking starve if he doesn’t taste every inch of me.
Since I can’t spread my legs in the damn suit, he holds me open with his thumbs, fingers digging into my hips, while he licks and sucks and teases until my cock is weeping and my legs are shaking.
All I can do is cling to the wood under my hands and pant breathless curses to the trees and struggle not to fall the fuck apart.
Warmth spreads out from his questing tongue until my hole is flushed and fluttering and fucking wanting.
Until his tongue isn’t enough.
“Rocket. I need—” You. More. Something. You.
His breath comes out on a sigh, sending goosebumps over my skin.
“You taste like summer,” he says, so low and reverent that my eyes burn, and I have to blink away the sudden sting.
Then he presses the pad of a finger against my entrance, and all my attention coalesces on that one vital point. He spits again, even though I’m already coated in his saliva, and rubs a small circle around my rim.
“Are you sure?” he asks, like I’m not going crazy from the teasing touch.
“I would have let you bend me over and hate-fuck me back in Bakersfield,” I tell him, realizing it’s true. “Yes, I’m fucking sure.”
“That’s…really fucking hot.”
I bark a short laugh that sounds more like a groan.
“You wanna rough me up a little, Rocket? Punish me with your cock?”
“Would you like that?” he asks curiously, while he continues to tease my hole.
“Umm.” My hips shift without conscious direction from my fried-circuit brain, chasing the contact. “I’m starting to think, yes?”
“Good to know.”
“Then what are you waiting—fuuuuck.”
He nudges his finger inside me, and my cock pulses as my balls draw up tight and my head falls back.
“Did you just come?”
“Only a little. Fuck. Don’t stop.” I clench around the intrusion, and he swears softly.
“It’s so tight. Relax for me.” He leans in to press a small sucking kiss on my rim, still spreading me wide with his other hand.
“There you go. Fuck, that’s hot.” He starts to move his finger, drawing it out and plunging back in, a little deeper each time.
“You feel so good. Like silk. Or—god, I don’t even know. Like heaven.”
And then he brushes over the magic spot inside me, and I. Am. Unmade.
“Ohmyholymotherfuckinggod.” A full-body shudder sweeps through me as I light the fuck up, arching off the porch rail.
“I think,” I pant when I can put words in order again, “that you found my prostate.”
“Here?” He does it again, his voice husky with satisfaction, and my hand flies to squeeze the base of my dick because no way in hell am I ready for this to be over.
“Yes. Holy fuck, yes.”
Of course he’s fucking amazing at this too.
My beautiful genius.
“Think you can take another?” he asks, coming to his feet behind me and wrapping his free hand around my throat. I tilt my head to give him a slow smirk, pretending to be functional.
“Bring it.”
So he does, sliding a second digit in along the first. This time, there’s a stretch and a burn, and I hiss between my teeth. He stills at my back, stroking his thumb along my jaw and bringing his lips to the pounding pulse below my ear.
“I wanna watch you come for me,” he murmurs, pumping his fingers in and out of my ass with slow, deliberate strokes.
“I want you to play with your pretty cock while I fuck you like this, and I want you to remember how good it feels the next time you think about sneaking out on me in the middle of the night.”
And how the fuck am I supposed to say no to that?
It takes all of fifteen seconds. I can’t even muster the grace to be embarrassed, sagging in his grip as my ass flutters around his fingers and my cock jerks and splashes cum onto the porch and down the front of my wetsuit.
I’m dimly aware of him pulling out, leaving me empty and strangely bereft, and then of the soft rustle of cotton on skin behind me.
“You feel this?” He rubs his bare cock through the crease of my ass, precum slicking over my tender hole.
“You feel how hard I am for you? You do this to me. Only you.” His chin comes to rest on my shoulder as he slots himself between my thighs.
“I haven’t been able to really get it up for a guy since…
that night.” A slow roll of his hips drives the head of his cock along my taint.
“I thought it was about fear of rejection.” Another thrust. “But then I saw you on stage in that jockstrap, shaking this gorgeous ass and backsliding down the pole to throw this”—his hand slips around to cup my dick—“in my face, and it made me so hard I thought I was going to explode right there on the barstool.” Stroke.
Thrust. “I’ve been struggling to hold myself in check ever since.
I want you all the fucking time. I ache for you. ”
He’s going to fuck me with more than his fingers someday.
And I’m going to love it.
And even though I already came, even though my flagging cock is oversensitive and my legs are boneless and my heart is fucking wrecked, I pulse another spurt of cum over his knuckles at the naked urgency in his words.
His teeth sink into my shoulder, and his chest rumbles against my back as hot liquid explodes against my taint, coating my balls and trickling down the inside of my thighs.
“No one else, Quill. Only you.”