21. Chapter 21 Theo
Chapter 21 Theo
H omer heeded warnings, and yet I ignored every fear, every gut-wrenching moment of rejection to traverse the red-headed siren’s lap until my face made contact with her vagina. Staley up close is a sunny beach day, salty and fresh, where it’s impossible not to want to drag my fingers through her, feel her tide coming in. I breathe her in, and the sweetness of the mewls leaving her body fills my lungs, lighting my brain on fire.
One might argue I’m over my head, too far out to sea to do what I’m about to do next. Men aren’t supposed to lack experience by society’s standard, and all I can hope for is a guest appearance by biology itself, leading my body in the direction of taking all of Staley in without having to overthink. I may not be able to tell her, but I can show her.
Consent needs to be a clear sign from Staley. I’ll accept nothing less than a giant neon flashing arrow screaming the word VACANCY pointed at her body. Show me.
Rolling to my side, I position myself to face her middle head-on. A gentle nuzzle and a slow exhale against the fabric between my mouth and her pussy elicits a quivering in the tops of her thighs. Now, I can fully appreciate them through touch and not with my eyes. One thing is abundantly clear—removing me from between Staley’s full, thick legs will require the jaws of life.
Either she’s got her eyes clamped shut in misery, or she’s teetering on the edge of want.
Staley’s face is as red as Bronte’s wild-rose briar, a blooming of color and life. Our bodies against one another are the moon’s magic and the tide’s ebb and flow. Without letting my nerves get the best of me, I lift my body and drag her right leg up from the floor, having it lie alongside the couch’s cushions. She doesn’t question my movements or try to stop where I’m headed, and all I can hope for is all of the audio work I’ve put together can easily translate to this real-life experience. Faking confidence is part of my DNA. Staley lets me take the lead, making this all the more decadent because I have no idea how to do this right. I guide her other leg up by hooking my forearm underneath it, sliding my hands under the expanse of her generous ass.
The weight of her body on my shoulder is the only thing keeping me tethered to this couch. I consider pinching myself to see if this is all real, examining her face again and looking for signs I’m doing this all wrong.
Stay in the moment.
This is starvation in the face of a meal inches away. Wanting to make Staley feel good before I remove a single article of her clothing is the first thought on my mind. Living is about feeling good and still having other emotions swirling about your body. This is the essence of poetry. It’s unusual to crave something I’ve never been able to indulge in. And Staley’s body, the way her soft skin feels under the grip of my inked fingers, is what I crave. As I massage her ass, Staley presses her perfect center toward me. Begging?
She doesn’t need to beg or ask or insist I press my mouth to her. Her existence is enough.
Pretend it’s her mouth. Not too hard, not too faint.
This is not how I envisioned kissing Staley for the first time, but it’s a first kiss all the same. My mouth meets her need with enthusiasm. Pressing into the thin fabric of her leggings, I squeeze from behind, pulling her body into mine. Staley’s back arches, and her hands dig into the couch’s cushions, desperate to hold on or hold back—I cannot tell—but both egg me on further.
I gaze above her waistline with an overwhelming need to make eye contact to witness the golden brown in her eyes flash to darkness with pleasure, to prove how capable I am and because checking-in matters. Staley’s focus is precise and direct, as if she’s been waiting for me to lock eyes with her. Panting, she nods and whispers, “Please, Theo. It feels damn go—”
I graze the band of her leggings with my fingers, cutting her words off at the bend and tugging them down as she lifts her pelvis upward, aiding me in the removal. And because Staley is the muse upon which poets draw, I revel in the casting of specks across her abdomen and the crease where her hip meets the top of her thigh. I love a curvy body as it allows me to envision all the places I can run my tongue through and press my fingers into. The spots are a dotted map for me to follow, showing me where to kiss, nip, and savor—constellated, waiting for me to connect them with my tongue.
Jesus, fuck. Her hips are freckled too.
Like pen to paper, I press into her, my tongue offering languid italic strokes across her slit. Staley writhes against my tongue, hissing at our contact. Her body language is a long, unspoken wish, a demand, to which I respond with my hands tucked into the bend where her hips meet her thighs. I thought I was hard when I stood under the cold waters of my shower a few weeks ago, but now I’m on the edge of a tangled pleasure kind of pain.
We create a rhythm in which she rides the wave, undulating underneath me as I pull her back to the shores of my mouth.
Grateful for the gap in the couch cushion and how it lines up with my erection, I sigh in hopes it’ll provide me with some counterpressure. There’s nowhere else for me to put it aside from the obvious. If I die right now— f-f-fuck.
Staley’s hands reach my head, fingers pulling and coiling through my hair. Mother Nature guides my right hand away from the sacred land of Staley’s hip crease, where I use my index finger to enter and coax her inside. I continue to lick and suck on the tiny, sweet spot drawing out whatever groans I can from her perfectly pink mouth.
“Theo ... Talk to me, please.”
The front of my pants reaches its capacity. Thoughts rush through my head.
Does she want Theo or Luca?
A slight shake of my head is all I can muster because I will not ruin this moment with sloppy, stuttering bedroom talk. I’m not in control enough to give her the Luca side of me. Staley presses a thumb to my cheek, her hands grappling the back of my head, forcing me to pull away from sheer bliss. Yes, I want this from her. To be used.
“I want to hear the sound of your voice when you make me come.” This is Staley in control, and who am I to deprive someone as lovely as her?
The expanse of her chest heaves up and in, the act of breathing brand new to her. The writing that will come out of this—sonnets, epics, odes, and ballads all in her name.
“W-why?” I ask because I am nothing short of an inexperienced twenty-two-year-old man, and I’m still figuring out what this all means. I continue to stroke the center of her with my middle finger, praying it is enough of a distraction to give in to her request.
“Because the sound of your voice makes me forget everything else.”
I pull back and lift to my knees, my fingers wet with her arousal. It’s rude of me to consider licking my fingers clean, right? She latches onto my wrist with a squeak of distress. “No, don’t stop.” Looking at my hand and back up to me, she guides my fingers to my lips, and we gasp simultaneously. She says, “Open.”
Mother of pearl. If you do not come right this second, you are a god among men. They’ll write epics about you.
Mere moments ago, I was devouring her, and now, in all of her forwardness, Staley serves me a new encounter, one only Luca Blue could conjure up on paper. My tongue makes fast work as our interaction becomes incalescent. Staley holds my wrist as I lick her taste away. This is all it takes for me to snap if she wants me to talk.
“Eyes on me.” When I record, I’m not speaking to anyone in particular. The listeners are faceless.
Amber flecks in Staley’s eyes, flashing dark gold as her breathing speeds up, causing her shoulders to climb to her ears on every inhale. She’s nervous too.
“Lie back, Staley.”
She nods and eases back against the sequined pillow behind her. My left hand meets the arm of the couch, mere inches from her flushed cheeks, as I guide my right hand back to her warm center, curling inside of her to finish what I started. Staley draws in a sharp breath as I position my knee against the back of my hand, giving her a buttress to press against. Gravitational pulls must exist in the realm of sexual exchanges because I drift toward her without even thinking, my forehead kissing hers. I steady my breath before I speak.
“Eyes on me, Staley.”
I cannot explain the sensation in my body; it’s awakened and hungry for her, but my throat is relaxed, and my tongue is unswerving. Staley once said how cuddling leads to lowered stress and a dip in cortisol, and I’m relieved to be disburdened by these things because the intensity between the two of us is winning out. She shudders under my strokes as I add a second finger. Palming her sweet spot and coaxing from the inside, I imagine I’m trying to find the perfect summer melon, careful not to bruise the fruit. I press my knee into my hand, hitting a spot that removes her gorgeous eyes from me. Then, down to where we connect, her mouth opens wide.
Staley reaches for the rigid outline in my pants, and it’s tempting—hell, it’s downright criminal how badly I want her to hold me—but I move her hand away.
“Next time. Right now, I w-want to w-watch you come undone.”
Who the hell do you think you are? A Shakespearean sex god?
Staley nods, clamping down on her bottom lip. I wait for my stutter to break through again and disrupt the constancy and length at which I hope my words will take her.
“Breathe, sweet girl.” I pause and take my time. “It’s adorable how every inch of you is p-pink for me.”
She shows no signs of noticing the break in my true self. Gently, I kiss beneath her eyes as an excuse to hear her breathiness close up, to feel the heat of her exhales of desire on my skin.
Between my eager strokes, Staley submits, trusting the rhythm. I’m driving into her middle. Want slips from her lips and tangles with the wet sound of my fingers within her. I am drunk on her aroma. I breathe her in and f-fuck .
“There are freckles on your h-hip.” I stutter at the sight of the vivid spots, turning me upside down and begging for my mouth.
Staley pushes her head to the side, our cheeks pressed together, her body trembling with heat. “Theo ... p-please ...” Now she’s the one stuttering, and a sly grin hits my entire face at the notion that she knows what it’s like to lose control of the spoken word.
“You don’t have to b-beg. Eyes on me when you’re ready.”
My hand works her body over as her thighs try to lock together, stopped only by my leg centered in the middle of hers. A frantic whine hits my skin. I nod, my breath rising and falling against her body.
I pull my head back to give her my full attention. Her eyes clamp shut.
“Stay with me ... Now. Let it all go.”
The sounds leave her body all wild and growly, as if they’ve been trapped within her for ages, suppressed by sadness and chaos. I’m grateful we’re the only people here. Her hands hook behind the back of my knee, driving my body desperately into her release. Her once wet hair is now splayed behind her, unraveled from its braid and dried from exertion.
As her body slows, a small tear rolls down her cheek, and I am overwhelmed with what we’ve done together. I make to scoop her into me to apologize for the tears, for all of it because I think I’ve done this all wrong, for my professional overstep for not being more experienced, but Staley jumps at the sound of my phone ringing.
“Oh, I’m s-sorry.”
My back pocket is empty. Shit, where is my phone? The ringing has Staley clamoring for her panties and leggings to cover herself. I want to stop and admire how much I love the color pink, but my phone drones on. Staley stands to step into her leggings when she discovers the ringing is coming from beneath her. The phone must’ve slipped beneath us during our exchange.
The color on her face slips from pink to pale white as Professor Graham’s name flashes across my screen. I hoist it up and hit decline. The man’s timing is unprecedented. I think the tears are a simple post-coital release, but Staley covers her eyes with a shy gesture.
“St-staley? T-tell m-me.” I move to soothe her, to tell her it’s okay if she regrets it. However, this would be the first time I’ve ever been this far with someone.
Staley moves from my touch. I want nothing more than to be a salve, but it’s me who feels blistered, my feelings far more tender than ever before. She turns, panicked, and tidies the space around her. I have no idea what is happening.
“I think you should go. I’m sorry, I could lose my job, and you could too.”
Blood flow returns to the rest of my body when her words land where it hurts the most—my heart skips a beat, and I pocket my phone.