Supply and Demand #3
There’s something amiss; in the back of her mind, this little twist of anxiety, a faint itch of uncertainty, but she’s too
tired to examine it.
Then a hand is in her hair, with a calm, heavy pattern of touch. Lili leans into it, soothed. Drifting, the lurch of alcohol
makes her balance, even lying down, spin every so often, and then she’s asleep.
It’s a good dream.
No, it’s an absurdly good dream.
Light peeks in, sleep disturbed. Lili tries to burrow away; she doesn’t want to wake up. Would rather stay drifting on this
pleasure, grasp after this indistinct dream. But as she comes to—consciousness slowly resolving—the pleasure doesn’t recede.
“What—oh.”
She gasps, realizing where she is; realizing what’s happening—the sheets much softer than her own bed, and the pleasure between
her legs adamantly not a dream. The robe she fell asleep in is undone, pulled off her shoulders, and his mouth—
“Stay still.” Jesus, the brush of his breath against her. His low voice thrums through her, tongue moving slow and deep. Lili
squeezes her eyes shut, trying to push away the insistent, building intensity. Barely awake, already halfway to something,
it’s disorienting and overwhelming.
“Aleksa—”
She shouldn’t be here. Why is she here? The morning light—still soft, dawn—slips through the tall windows—his loft, Tribeca, her legs thrown over his shoulders.
Fuck. Okay, she can do this. She can just—
He does something with his tongue that makes her legs tremble. “Oh, my God,” she moans. “We—we shouldn’t—” Her voice breaks
on a gasp.
Aleksandr laughs, hot against her. “Should I stop?”
“No! No—” His tongue flattens against her, making her back arch with a moan. “Jesus—there, right—”
Her thighs start to shake. Desperate for this pressure to release, she drags her nails through his hair, her toes curling
against his shoulder blades as he moves faster against her, and she’s drowning, she’s drowning—
She shatters with no breath left in her throat.
It’s like dark sunshine pours through her; like her skin bursts with glowing pleasure, wrenched from her before full thoughts
or clear words.
Chest panting, Lili tries to catch her breath, attempting to recover through the aftershocks of what might be the best head
of her life. Blurring and white, her vision falters and resolves. Everything starts to wash back: last night, Jane’s text,
getting belligerently drunk, stumbling over here.
Oh, Jesus.
She’s fucked up.
She’s fucked up so badly.
It’s difficult, though, to conceptualize the extent of how badly she’s fucked up—the magnitude of this stupid thing she’s
done, coming here again, sleeping over—when Aleksandr’s hands and mouth are moving down her body, kissing her hip, the inside
of her thigh.
“We need to have rules,” she gasps out, as his tongue traces the line of her calf.
“Rules.” His breath is warm against her bare skin.
“Rules, yes—boundaries, understandings. We can’t just—”
I can’t just come here. I can’t just sleep over.
Aleksandr pulls away. He considers her for a moment.
He grins. “No, I don’t think so.”
In one swift move, he grabs her ankle, and pulls her down the bed towards him, bracing himself over her. He crowds out the
light, he’s not wearing a shirt, and his lips gleam—with her, she thinks, dazed.
“Do you like running away, sweetheart?” he murmurs, nose brushing hers: not quite a kiss.
“No?” Lili says, disoriented, faint hum of residual alcohol making her burn a little looser. The urge to kiss him and the
urge to struggle confuse her.
“You seem to,” he says, tracing her mouth with his finger. A gesture that should be romantic and soft, but feels—looks—decisively
not.
Instead, sharpness edges into her breath.
It looks like he’s carving up property.
She should leave; she should leave now.
Leaning closer, Aleksandr’s mouth glances over hers. There’s a slip of space between them. Teasing her, daring her. Before
she can think any further, Lili strains up towards him, body betraying her.
It’s absurd how fast all she cares about is him: how fast she grabs his shoulders, pulling his mouth to hers; how fast he
crowds her, pushing her against the bed, and how it feels like relief, like a desperately deep inhale, as he kisses her back.
God, this—this is what she wanted: this sore need uncovered, this bruise hit again. As last night’s memories—gripping the cold sink,
thud of music, It isn’t a good time to have you visit—reassert themselves, she kisses him harder. He meets her intensity, grasping her face, a hunger deepening into starvation.
He’s an obscenely good kisser, and kissing him feels like a need growing, not a want satisfied—and that isn’t—that can’t—
“Rough,” she gasps, against his mouth. “I—I want it rough—like, like last time—”
He snatches her wrists, pinning them against the bed.
“Impatient,” he taunts. “Any other requests?”
Lili scowls, straining against his grip. “I didn’t come here to talk,” she snaps. “You have one job—”
He does not like that.
“One job?” he murmurs, humor gone.
A hard exhale—her own—as his free hand moves between her thighs, still warm and wet. “Tell me what my job is,” he says, brushing
his nose over the line of her neck, as his fingers start to rub circles against her: slow but not gentle, forcing friction
through the slip of how wet she is. Frustration flares; she wants him to hold her down and fuck her; she wants to get this
over with, and never have to examine why she wants it.
“Just so you know,” she grits out, “just because I’m fucking you doesn’t mean I like you.”
“We’re fucking now? Ah, is that my job then, little one?”
“Screw you, I don’t even like you—ah—” He found a particular point of friction.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She can hear the satisfaction in his voice.
“This is a one-time thing,” she gasps. “Just—one time.”
Against her neck, she feels his grin. “Oh, Lili,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to her skin, a hot open-mouthed kiss that
she wasn’t expecting. “Whatever you say.”
The world surges, and she’s lying on her stomach suddenly.
“What—” She looks over her shoulder, about to protest; she should be outraged by how he moves her around like some doll—
“Lift your hips for me, sweetheart.” He grabs the pillow by her head.
Lili does as he says, letting him slide it underneath her.
He straddles her legs, and she’s effectively trapped. His hands coast over her back, before tugging her hips towards him,
hiking them up the pillow. She feels him, heavy and hot against her, and she grasps the sheets, bracing herself.
A glance of fingers run down her spine, a dangerously light touch.
“Did anyone else touch you, Lili?”
“What?” Why is he asking questions now?
“Last night.”
A memory snippet, her own voice: I could have had sex with so many people tonight. So many—
“Fuck,” she mutters.
His fingers slide into her hair. Not pulling, not yet. He slowly starts to push into her.
“I asked you a question. Did you let other people touch you like this?”
There’s too much cold flint in his voice. Lili forces a laugh to diffuse it. “Just my friends.”
In her hair, his hand tightens into a fist.
“I’m not your friend, Lili.”
He thrusts into her. White sears her vision, grip seizing in the sheets. “Jesus Christ—”
“Open up,” Aleksandr demands. “Isn’t this what you came here for?”
As he pulls out of her, she shakes with the release of pressure. It’s not a respite. As she relaxes, he pushes into her again, harder. Lili’s choked groan is shoved into the mattress with the force of him, the sudden saturation of rough ecstasy building.
Tears blister in her eyes. “You—you can’t just—”
He slams into her like she’s worthless. The stretch of it sears—and he’s still not fully inside her—and it can’t be good,
how much this is—how overtaken she feels—and yet, how much she wants exactly this: the dark-throated bliss of losing her control,
of having no choice.
“I can do whatever I want,” he says. “Especially to you.”
She moans: clear, specific, sharp—the want of this; some fucked-up absolution of the burden of her own agency, just for a moment.
“There,” she gasps. “Right there—”
“Yeah?”
Lili nods so insistently she feels like a child in class with an answer. She squeezes her eyes shut as that blinding threat
of oblivion grows louder, drowning her out. “That, that—please . . . I want that—”
She gasps—high, sudden—as his hips finally meet hers, as he fully buries himself in her.
Somehow, he’s fucking her deeper—harder—than before. Every time he moves, forcing her to accommodate him, it’s agonizing,
a hot tide of pleasure, caught up with pain, and the exact type of overwhelm she wants so much that its need feels lodged
in her throat, daily.
She feels ragged, the stitches of herself coming loose. This roughness grounds her in her own body, where she can—here, under
him—want with indecency, without shame; she’s always been too much, or not enough, a dichotomy that makes her skin crawl.
Deeper. She wants him deeper, until she can’t think about anything but him. Erase me, is what she wants to say; keep taking until she’s nothing. Desperate, she pushes her hips back against him.
“Christ,” he groans, “has no one ever fucked you properly before?”
She moans, and he knows.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he says, as her body starts to tremble, a scald of vicious heat unraveling inside her, “show me how
much you can take.”
“It hurts,” she pleads, but it’s both protest and entreaty. Hurt me more.
“I know,” he says. The praise jars with his grip in her hair, wrapping around the back of her neck. “I know, but you’re doing so well.” He tugs, and her chest arches off the bed. Changed angle, she sees white, but still, there’s more she wants—
Aleksandr grabs her throat. Relief washes over her.
It’s immense, this perfect annihilation. She doesn’t want the burden of deciding when to breathe. She wants to fall, and not
know if she’ll be caught; she wants to be fucked out of her mind, and she wants to blame it on last night’s alcohol still
in her system, this desire for him—him—to push her there—him, not anyone else—