Heart

Chapter 41

Lennon

My homecoming is the same as it was last night, but more urgent. More desperate. More magnetic. It plays out the same way, but this time, we don’t make it to the bedroom, so our reunion happens on the living room floor.

This time, when the first thick haze of arousal lifts, Connor says, “Kitchen. Dinner. We need to eat something tonight.”

“Eat something?” I parrot mindlessly. It seems a strange concept. One I can’t see the point of. There’s only one thing I crave, and that’s Connor.

He sits on the counter like he always does. The problem is, I can’t remember how to cook. I get a chopping board out and look at it for a while, then I look up at Connor and forget that I forgot how to cook.

“…such a nice day. I skipped class this morning and took a long nap.” He says a lot more about his nap, and I’m incredibly interested in what he’s saying because the concept of Connor curled up and sleepy is utterly mesmerizing, but I lose focus because of how he looks sitting on the counter.

His legs are crossed at the ankles and he’s swinging them both at the same time.

He’s wearing jeans and I can see a clear bulge in his pants when his legs move.

It distracts me so much that I rinse the chopping board and put it away without chopping anything.

He notices and laughs. “Did you mean to do that?”

“No,” I admit. “I’m a little tired.”

“Aw, did I wear you out last night?” There’s a sparkle of excitement that lights up the blue striations in his eyes more than the green. A subtle vacillation that makes his breath shallow.

Warmth trickles down my body and pools in my groin. Skin tightens. Flesh thickens and goes stiff.

The mesmeric force between us amps up.

I run my fingertips up his thighs. His jeans are pulled tight over his legs because of the way he’s sitting, and the coarse fabric scrapes against my skin. The friction it causes lights a flame that laps up my arms.

“You know you did,” I tell him. My ability to lie or hide things from him has been badly impacted.

What’s left in its place is a brutal, peaceful kind of honesty.

An honesty without fear of judgment. An honesty that doesn’t feel like a choice.

It’s something that exists like air. Like breathing.

“You took me apart like you said you would.” My fingers reach his fly and worry the stitching near his zipper.

His hands clench on the counter and he sucks in a quick, small breath.

“But guess what, Connor Lockwood… Tonight, I’m going to be the one taking you apart. ”

He nods earnestly, eyes fixed on me in a way that assures me I have his undivided attention.

“You know what I think,” he says. “I think maybe we should order in.”

“Good call ’cause I can’t remember how to cook a damn thing.”

Laughter peals out of him as he pushes himself off the counter and onto his feet. He brushes past me, a whisper of his shoulder against my chest. A whisper that says things like you want this? And come and get it.

I follow him like an animal with a leash around its neck. A leash that’s pulled tight.

A leash I like.

A leash that makes me drop to my knees, crawling behind him in big, ungainly paces, when we get to the living room.

As soon as I reach him, my hands are on the back of his jeans.

On his waistband, pulling. Dragging them down with no care or understanding of how zippers and buttons work.

Fortunately, Connor is in a clearer place of mind than I am because he unbuttons and unzips, then stands still as I yank his jeans and underwear down in several frantic motions.

His legs are naked, denim bunched around his ankles. The hair on his legs is dark blond. Thick. A coarse mat that fades as I run my hands up his thighs. He’s still wearing his T-shirt. It’s long, a little too big for him, like always, and it covers most of his ass, but not all of it.

Twin globes peek out at me. Mounds of muscle cloaked in pale skin.

It’s a thundering, heart-pounding sight that makes me feral.

I don’t mean feral in a human way. Not feral in a way that describes human behavior minus social conditioning.

I mean feral in an animal way. A wild way.

A savage way that causes my thoughts to fade and makes me claw at his ass.

At his skin. At every part of him I can get my hands on.

Not just with my hands, but my mouth too.

In my stupor, I tug at his shirt, pulling it down like I did his pants, instead of pushing it up. Thank fuck he’s still human, or if he’s not, he’s closer than I am because he has the presence of mind to wrestle his top out of my grip and pull it off over his head, tossing it onto the floor.

I harpoon his ass cheeks, roughly at first. Rough enough to leave pink marks on smooth skin.

Pink marks that make me pause. That make me slow down.

That make me stroke him softly and gently and lean in and kiss him until I swear to God I’m almost suffocating and he’s still nowhere near as close as I want him.

My vision blurs and comes into focus, blurs and comes into focus. It takes me the longest time to work out that it’s not my vision determining whether I’m able to see, it’s whether my face is smashed into his ass or not.

I swipe a hand across him from the left to the right. The line between his cheeks smudges from the effort, and when I bring my hand back to do it again, I hold his left cheek in one hand and use my right to spread him.

A shadow appears in front of me, a line that leads my eye down. A dark valley punctuated by a little star. A little knot that seals him.

The sight slams into me like a freight train. Like a large piece of machinery moving at speed. The second I see it, I recognize it as something I’ve wanted for much, much longer than I realized.

I kiss his ass cheeks and moan from a throttled desire that bubbles up from wanting so many things at the same time.

I want his back and his front. His dick and his ass. I want his muscle and skin. His laughter and his soft sighs. I want him arching and bucking. On his back and on all fours.

I want to kneel for him, like I am now, and I want to offer him whatever he wants. I want to be to him what he is to me.

A consuming, overwhelming fixation.

An obsession.

I want him to want me the way I want him.

I want him to feel the way he makes me feel.

I turn him gently, nudging his hip to get him to face me.

The view from down here is spectacular. Awe-inspiring.

Connor looks strong from my knees. The muscles in his thighs pleat and form dips near my face, so do the lines that travel up his abdomen.

Mostly, though, his balls and raging erection obscure my view and make it so I hardly see anything else.

He has a nice dick. A really nice dick. Straight with a slight curve. He’s uncut, and it suits him. There’s something intensely masculine about it, yet also vulnerable.

I like it.

Fuck. I like it so much.

His foreskin is retracted to expose his swollen pink head. It’s fat and stocky, but not threatening. It’s inviting. It’s the kind of thing that looks like it needs my hand wrapped around it.

Or my mouth.

Or maybe even my ass.

The thought shocks me a little because it’s not something I’ve wanted before.

Not actively. Not consciously. It’s not something I’ve really given much thought to, but now that it’s an option, it’s big and obvious.

A consuming concept. An enticing notion that tugs at my organs.

At my insides. It makes my blood thicken and burn, and my thoughts slow to nothing.

What would it be like to be with him like that?

What would it feel like to have him inside me?

I curl my hand around his base and test the weight and give of his dick.

It has a nice heft to it, and when it’s hard, so hard, there isn’t much give at all.

It’s meat and muscle that’s been pulled tight.

Smooth skin that slides over sinew as I move my hand up and down. I watch, spellbound, as I do it.

I like it in a way that’s hard to describe. A way that feels similar to the way I felt when I first saw Connor’s picture. Like I needed more but didn’t know why. Like I couldn’t look away. Like I couldn’t stay away.

What I’m doing with my hand is almost embarrassingly simple, but it’s commandeered my attention like it’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever been involved in. The most thought-provoking, captivating thing I’ve ever done.

I raise my hand, and his foreskin slides up to cover most of him. I push my hand down, and his head peeps out at me.

It’s fucking incredible.

I like it so much that I want to rub it all over my body. Because of my position, that’s not possible. Instead, I lean in and rub my face on it. Cheeks, nose, jaw.

Lips.

The second my lips touch him, a new level of awareness, of want, is woken.

I take him in both hands and angle him down so he’s an inch or two from my lips. I lean in unhurriedly, savoring everything about the experience, watching as his slit comes into focus and blurs out as I get closer.

I kiss him lightly. Sweetly. Almost chastely.

I expect him to gasp or react, but he doesn’t, so maybe he was expecting the contact. Maybe he was bracing for it.

I look up and see the sunrise in his eyes. Soft, dusty hues pour out of him and settle on me. Gentle rays land on my face. They’re warm and inviting. Fire with no fury. Light burning away darkness.

He looks down at me and a familiar smile skips over my skin.

“Lennon,” he whispers, reaching out and stroking one side of my face. He does it again. His hand sweeps across my cheek, then my temple. His fingers are on my brow, smoothing it, and then following the line of it into my hair. “Lennon.” This time, his voice shakes. “I’m so into you.”

I open my mouth and take him inside it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like something I’ve done before, many times, for him. He fills my mouth completely, pressing my tongue down and making it necessary to swallow repeatedly to stop myself from drooling.

This time, he does gasp. His fingers tighten in my hair, and his breath hisses in and out of him.

I know exactly how he feels. He did this to me last night.

He took me into his mouth and laved me with his tongue.

I know how his cheeks feel on the inside, when they’re hollowed.

And what the back of his throat feels like when he swallows.

I know what his tongue feels like when it teases the underside of my head.

I want him to know all these things about me too. Thinking like this wakes an intense circular sense of want. Of desire. Of gratification. I sink down on him and take him in as far as I can. He steadies me, caging my face in his hands, not letting me take more than I can handle.

I know what he’s doing. I’m on my knees, and he’s fucking my mouth, but he’s also taking care of me. He wants what I’m giving him, but he wants it to be good for me as much as he wants it for himself. Maybe more.

The thought of that, that he’s good, that he’s Connor, that he’s The Spark, and he’s taking pleasure from me and giving it back, sinks into my bones and makes them sizzle.

It drives me wild in a new way. A slow way that unfurls with a strong sense of inevitability.

Inescapability. A true and deep understanding that what’s happening between us was destined to happen rather than being a consequence of my actions.

I use my hand and my mouth on him, sliding my other arm around him and hungrily groping big handfuls of his ass. The feeling of that, his ass cheeks, his smooth, warm skin in my hand, and his hard, hot dick in my throat does something to me.

It lights up part of my brain I wasn’t aware of before, but I am now. I really, really am.

Fireworks go off. Pleasure centers react to every tiny sound Connor makes.

Every breath he takes. Every shiver that racks him.

I feel his pleasure as if it’s my own, and I chase it.

At first, the chase is distant. A leisurely pursuit.

But it quickly grows necessary for living. Necessary for survival.

I increase my speed, sucking harder when I pull my head back and sinking my mouth onto him deeper when I dive down. I use my hand in time with my mouth. It’s not difficult. It’s easy. It comes easily to me. I’m a well-oiled machine. I was made for this.

His fingers knot in my hair, pulling until my scalp stings.

My mind sings.

Connor’s body stiffens—his abs, his legs, his ass cheeks—and then he freezes. For that moment when he’s motionless, I’m hungry. I’m starving, suffering.

And then a salty eruption floods my mouth and spills down my throat.

Afterward, Connor falters and sags, and I catch him as his knees give way. I pull him toward me, onto me, into my open arms, and hold him like he’s the most fragile, most solid, most real and unreal thing I’ve ever come into contact with.

By the time we have the presence of mind to move onto the sofa, we’re no longer two separate beings.

We’ve merged at the seams. I stretch out, and he lies across my legs, arms wound around my neck.

We tell each other important things and nonsense things.

We laugh and kiss, and by the time our food arrives, I have no pants on.

Connor throws a blanket over my legs before pulling his jeans up and answering the door with me sitting there, somewhat covered but butt naked, a few feet away.

I giggle like a fucking idiot the entire time the delivery guy is at the door, and so does Connor. Poor guy probably thinks we’re high.

And maybe we are.

My head is spinning, and I’m relaxed, like super relaxed, and if the way the light is distorting around Connor’s head is anything to go by, there’s a good chance my sensory perception has been altered.

I move my head, tracking Connor as he brings the food in, and the room tilts slowly onto its side.

Yup. I’m high. Definitely high.

I’m high on Connor Lockwood.