Chapter 4
Marlow
Not going to lie, I’m a little pissy at the moment.
I’ve been turning down smirking idiots all morning, I didn’t get to eat my cookies and milk in peace, and my body is hot-wired with this tingly kind of tension that it only seems to experience around Eric.
I’m hot and achy in ways that I usually only feel when the fictional characters in my illustrations kiss and touch each other.
All those complicated physical urges have now seemingly been transferred to Eric Von Hagen, and what does he do? He sends dumbasses to ask me out.
Yes, so I think I’m a little pissy!
Unfortunately, he appears to be almost hypnotized by me, breathing extra hard, a stiff angle risen and straining behind the zipper of his jeans. There’s an apology in his eyes, too. All of that does a lot to dampen my irritation.
“How do you feel about not waiting for the final bell?” I ask him.
He drops his backpack and closes the distance in between us. I dodge him, however, giving in to the last ounce of my annoyance and I enter one of the many empty, darkened classrooms along the hallway, being that we’re smack in the middle of lunch.
Eric follows me inside.
We’re alone for the first time.
I turn and stamp my foot at him. “You sent your teammate to ask me out?”
“Not technically, no. But I didn’t stop him, either.” He closes his eyes. An ashamed giant. “I’m sorry, Fairy Tale. I hated watching him sit next to you. I fucking hated it, okay? I just can’t believe you want me.”
That’s when the crux of the issue finally hits me. This man doesn’t realize how sexy he is. He’s so positive I’ll choose someone else, he’s attempting to provoke the inevitable.
Well, it’s time someone explain to Eric that he’s a desirable man.
Putting it mildly.
His thick chest and waistline are making me pulse at the apex of my thighs.
All morning long, I’ve reminisced about how it felt to sit in his lap, that big appendage throbbing against my sparkly panties. The size and strength of heat of him. How gentle he was with me, even though he could crush a Honda.
“I find you insanely attractive,” I blurt-whisper in the silence of the classroom, my face heating immediately following that statement, because I meant to offer an explanation first. And now, he’s looking at me, stunned, but…
in awe? “Let me start over. I’m an artist. Illustrating has been my escape for the last several years.
I have to hide them now, because my stepmother found them and decided my brain was a playground for the devil.
” He begins to question that, but I wave him off, wanting to get my whole speech out first. My stepmother and how she reacted to my drawings is a story for another day.
One I try to think about as little as possible.
Until I get home and my reality becomes avoidable, at least. “Anyway, most of the time, I live in a fictional world of my own making.” I go toward Eric, tracing a downward line along the straining buttons of his shirt.
“In my world, you would be a god. A mighty, all-powerful superhero. That’s what I see when I look at you. ”
A lump rises and falls in his throat. “Just don’t expect me to fly,” he rasps, trying to make a joke, but ultimately, he just sounds overcome.
“I bet you have super strength, though,” I murmur, kissing his chest through his shirt and making his breath catch. “Maybe you should try lifting me.”
A rumble erupts in his chest. “Marlow…”
“Touch me.” I tease the button of his jeans with a featherlight touch, before stroking my palm down the unfathomable length of his bulge.
Every time I think I’m close to the tip, it keeps going.
And going. Holy moly. He’s already self-conscious about his size, however, so I keep my exclamation to myself. “I’m touching you, aren’t I?”
He stands frozen, unbreathing, but he’s very much alive.
I know because his flesh is beating feverishly in my hand.
“Pick me up,” I whisper against the center of his chest, squeezing his sex at the base and beginning the long journey again along all those hefty inches, listening to his groan build and eventually tumble out, leading to a round of heavy panting. “Play with me.”
“Holy shit, I can’t believe you’re real.”
“Feel for yourself.”
I’m swept off the floor by two hands around my waist, my pulse screaming with excitement as Eric carries me to the teacher’s desk at the front of the room, setting me down on the short edge.
His gaze ravages my body hungrily, but his hands stop just short of touching me, as if he still can’t believe he’s allowed, but I arch my back, pressing my breasts up into the palms of his hands, my panties dampening when he finally, finally, rakes his hands down my mounds, then back up, squeezing just this side of rough.
“I love that, Eric,” I gasp.
“Holy…I can tell, Fairy Tale. Look how hard that made your nipples.” He rubs them in a circle with his thumbs, his breath stuttering in and out, so delicate for a man so huge.
But there’s a thrill in knowing he could manhandle me, if he had the inclination.
Or was encouraged. There’s an abundant part of Eric trapped in his jeans that is nothing short of violently hard.
Even if he tries to be gentle with it, I’ll be screaming for mercy.
“You said I can play with you,” he begins, sweat beginning to bleed through his shirt. “Did that mean I can…”
“What?”
“Can I look under your little skirt?” His right-hand flies to his arousal, squeezing it with a groan, as if posing the question has caused him pain. “Just for a second.”
“I’m afraid,” I whisper.
“Then I won’t,” he says, adamantly. “I shouldn’t even have aske—”
“I’m afraid for you to see how wet I am.
” I look him in the eye while I slide my knees wide open, the pleats of my skirt tickling the sides of my thighs, cool air confirming exactly how soaked I am, plastering the damp, sparkling material to my sex.
“You’re going to know how badly I want to try sex for the first time. With you.”
With a strangled curse, Eric stoops over, supporting himself on the edge of the desk, his teeth gritted together, his hand molding the ridge behind his fly while he devours the sight of my drenched underwear. “Fuck. Fuck. I’m going to come.”
Exhilaration takes hold inside of me at the proof I’m not the only one who wants.
Who needs. Who gets desperate for physical relief and doesn’t know how to handle the pressure.
I’m torn between wanting to watch him climax in his pants and wanting to prolong this moment.
This perfect moment in the deserted classroom where we are running on pure anticipation.
In the end, I decide I want to experience his orgasm with him.
I want to be a part of it.
Keeping my thighs open, I grip the front of his shirt and bring him down on top of me, his mouth conforming to mine in the kiss that I’ve always dreamed of.
Always needed. His lips are ardent and adoring and desperate, pushing mine open to introduce his tongue, which I welcome with a whimper, moisture trickling along the flesh of my sex when he grunts and goes into overdrive, kissing me voraciously, like his aggression has been pent up.
He needs to burn it off.
With me.
Our mouths are insatiable and the rest of me follows suit, getting hot and anxious for more, his tongue delving past my lips over and over and over, until I’m practically squealing into his mouth and trying to unfasten his jeans.
I just want to touch him. Want to touch him so bad, and he encourages me with a moan, deepening the kiss, making it so rough that my lips are getting delightfully sore, my tongue remaining starved for the taste of him.
Oh lord, that musk and pine scent is disorienting me, increasing the temperature of my blood and now, now I have his pants unzipped and he’s feeding the brutal weight of his erection into my hands, helping me stroke.
Grunting like a big beast while we kiss like there’s no tomorrow and I pump his humungous shaft for everything I’m worth.
“Come all over me, Daddy,” I whisper in between kisses, my filter having disintegrated and now I’m bold, like one of my imaginary characters.
Speaking out loud on behalf of my body that has been plagued by hormones that I don’t know how to sate.
“I want my wet skirt to slap against my thighs all day and know you made it that way.” I baby talk up at him, nipping at his chin.
“I want to be such a bad girl for your cock.”
“Oh my God! Oh fuck. Oh fuck!” Eric goes stiff as a board, his mouth gaped and panting against my temple—and that’s when I feel it. His hot, gluey come. As soon as it starts splashing and pooling on my belly, I know I’ve found my fixation.
This fluid…it represents his pleasure. His secrets.
It’s the sacred seed of life. And I’m the one who made it spurt out.
I communicated with his body that he was safe to give me his pain and there it is, dripping down the sides of my ribcage, soaking into my skirt, panties, even the tippy tops of my stockings.
And still he groans brokenly, more and more and more glorious come leaving his tip and raining down on me. Flooding me.
“Next time, will you put it in my mouth? Please?” I dig my nails into the meat of his back and haul him closer with all my might, even though he’s so much bigger and stronger.
He flattens his chest to my breasts, and we go back to pumping his fat prick.
“I want more come. I want more come.” He convulses, shaking while another load gets pumped onto my tummy and frantically, I lift the waistband of my panties with one hand, shoving as much of his spend down to glaze my pussy.
“It’s so hot and sticky. I love it. Don’t stop. ”
“I can’t,” he chokes out, unloading one more time, looking almost embarrassed about it, while I’m in complete awe of his abilities. “I can’t stop coming on you.”
Oh, my goodness. Wow.
He’d have no problem getting me pregnant.
That errant thought triggers something deep, deep inside of me and I scream behind my teeth, my hips elevating and twisting while the lust escalates in intensity, so much, so much that I go blind with need and my sex constricts, pulsing, pulsing, a kind of relief that I’ve been chasing my whole life cascading through me, tightening and releasing the inner walls of my flesh until I’m drawing blood on his back, it feels so good. So good. So good.
“Eric!”
“I’ve got you, Fairy Tale. I’m here.”
When I finally come down from the euphoria, Eric is staring down at me like I’m a miracle being performed in front of his very eyes, while he struggles to catch his breath.
“Christ, Marlow. Where the hell did you come from?”
This morning? From a locked attic, where I’ve spent most of my teen years. Praying for a hero like him to come along and save me. “It doesn’t matter,” I whisper, bringing his mouth down to mine, just as the bell rings. “I’m yours now.”