Chapter 13 #2
He moans, his fingers tightening against me, dragging his cock up my crack as he fucks me like that for a long moment. Then his hand grabs the lube I have in the shower, and he dribbles it down my crack. The sound I make when his fingers swirl it around my hole echoes loudly through the shower.
“Okay?” he asks, and I nod, my forehead hitting the wall, pain zipping through me. But it’s quickly replaced by pleasure as he slowly pushes a finger inside.
I arch my hips back, bearing down, taking the entire thing. His lips land on my shoulder, kissing his way up my neck as he fucks it in and out of me. And hell, it’s been a while. A long while, actually. But god, this feels so good.
“So pretty,” he whispers, his voice low, his words piercing my chest as he dribbles more lube onto his finger and pushes it inside of me.
One finger.
“So perfect,” he rumbles.
Two, spread out now, stretching me.
“So gorgeous.”
I’m about to lose my fucking mind.
By the time he gets to three, I’m begging with my ass, with my hands, with my voice. He knows what I want to hear.
“So mine.”
I almost lose it right there, and it takes everything in me not to come on his fingers. My breath feels ragged as I gasp, squeezing my eyes shut as I regain some semblance of control. I want more. I need more. I need to feel his cock stretching me impossibly wide.
He turns my head slightly and forces me to look at him. He has three fingers inside of me, wrist twisting in and out of my needy hole.
“Tested?” he asks, and I nod.
“Negative?”
I nod my fist. ‘Yes.’
He grunts, and then my head drops to the cool tile before me as he pulls his fingers free of me and replaces them with his cock. “You are my first time.”
His words are like a spear to my heart—a heavy, almost painful realization of what this means to him. I want to make it good. I want to be good. To be perfect.
To be his.
He pushes in slowly, first the tip, and then each glorious inch after. His fingers are holding me tightly, his breathing heavy. When he bottoms out, I hear him curse, his thumbs spreading me wide to see where our bodies connect.
He must like what he sees because he swears again. “Fuck, Leaf. You’re so…” He doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he leans forward, his lips on my neck and his hand on my cock, stroking me, making me want to beg.
It’s then that he starts to move. His hips shift back and then push back in. Slow at first, but as he gains confidence, his skin slaps against mine, the sound of our bodies connecting obscene.
I throw my head back against his shoulder as he fucks into me, one hand on my cock, the other around his neck. His arms are wrapped around me, holding me up, his lips at my ear.
I can hear every frantic breath.
“So perfect. So perfect.”
He says it over and over again, like a prayer. Like a hymn. I’m starting to believe him. He continues to take me, and I let him, limp in his arms as I stroke myself to completion. It’s quick and almost painful, my cum spilling on the tiles, my hole clamping down on his cock.
His frantic breathing turns to loud moans as he shoves up inside of me, my soul damn near leaving my body. I scream when I feel him empty himself inside of me.
Despite coming earlier today, his orgasm lasts forever.
He pulses thickly, cock impossibly fat as he rolls his hips almost frantically, chasing the last of his pleasure deep in my ass.
For a moment, I wonder if it’ll ever stop, and then his groans turn soft—like a gentle sob as he starts to come down.
When he’s finally done, he slumps against me, his entire body trembling. “Fuck.”
I nod, unable to speak. That was otherworldly. I’ve never had sex like that in my life.
He pulls out carefully, and I feel his cum dripping out, so I attempt to clench—to keep it inside—but I’m too loose from how big he is.
He turns me around and pulls me against him, kissing me softly. Reverently. “Thank you,” he says.
I swoon. This hot man just fucked the life out of me, and he’s thanking me? Good fuck, what did I do to deserve this?
He twists me slightly so the warm water hits my back, and he helps me wash the mess he made. He does this for long, indulgent moments before he turns the shower off, then grabs a towel and begins to dry me wordlessly, top to tail.
These are things I’ve never had before. My own firsts.
Being cared for with tender touches and quiet kisses as we both pull on boxers.
The moment between us stretches on. It feels like infinity.
Then, as we make our way toward the bathroom door, reality starts to set in. It’s heavy, but not entirely unwelcome.
“You hungry?” he asks, breaking the silence as he puts his hearing aids in.
I nod. Now that I’m not being railed into oblivion, I realize I’m slightly light-headed. Probably from the steam and the lack of food. “I should probably get something in me. I’ve been neglecting regular meals.”
He sighs, but not like he’s angry, and he kisses my temple. “Go lay down. I’ll get something for us to eat.”
I don’t want to be separated from him, but I do as he says.
I’m afraid he’ll go downstairs and panic when he realizes how head over heels I am.
But he doesn’t. He’s quick with his work, and within minutes, he’s back upstairs with a plate of crackers, cheese, fruit on a platter, and a pitcher of water cold enough that the glass is fogged.
“My hero,” I say as he sets it beside me and sets himself on the edge of the mattress. I stare at him, not liking how far apart we are. I need to touch him. I need him to ground me.
I scoot forward and point to the spot behind me. “Here,” I say, and he grins, scooting his mostly naked body behind mine.
I lean against him, my eyelids closing as he patiently feeds me bit by bit, forcing me to drink water to hydrate.
“How was your first time with a man, Mr. FBI man?” I finally ask, my stomach and heart both full.
“Like I knew it would be,” he says, his hand drifting across my abdomen to my thumping heart.
“And what would that be?”
“Didn’t you hear me say it? It was perfect, Leaf. Just like you.”
I guess it’s pretty foolish to think that suddenly everything is roses. Or peaches and cream. Or…whatever fluffy metaphor is used to describe sex solving problems.
Michael is still an issue, and Thorne is still an FBI agent—though I guess I’m not his case anymore—and I’m still sleep-deprived and half out of my mind from the torment of my current situation.
It’s mostly Michael and a little bit this farm I’m completely allergic to. To add on to it, the weight of being jobless with only a tiny nest egg to live on but no idea what I want to do next is making my hair turn grey.
Well, mostly.
I’m too young to retire, but I also feel too old to pursue something new with my life. I did not expect to burn out this fast, but here I am.
Turning over on my side, I see Thorne on his back, sideways on the bed with his feet on the floor, an ice pack against his neck and a cool cloth over his eyes.
He’s in the middle of a vertigo cluster spell. It comes and goes, and his stomach is in knots. He’s been sick twice now, and I can’t help but think this is mostly my fault.
The sex was very vigorous and, coupled with the shitty sleep he had on the porch and me finding out who he was, has put him through the wringer. Though that one is kind of on him for being a lying liar who lies. But I want to take care of him, and I’m doing my best to learn how.
“Is there anything else I can do?” I murmur as close to his ear as I can without yelling in it. His hearing aids are off because they make the vertigo worse.
“Just leave me to die.”
I slip my hand under his and wait for his fingers to curl around me before I sign, ‘No.’ I hope he gets it.
He laughs, so he must.
“I just got you. If you could, you know, not do that for at least five more decades, that would be great.”
His free hand lifts to pull the corner of the cloth up so he can see. His eyes are still a little shaky, but not as bad as when the vertigo first hit. “You don’t need to sit here and try to will me better. These days happen. I know you have shit to do.”
The shit I have to do is figure out how to get rid of Michael, but for the first time in months, I’m not in the mood to think about him. But I can tell from Thorne’s tone that he kind of wants to be alone. I get it. I think I would want to be as well.
“I think I might go into town for a bit. I’ll pick up something for dinner on the way home, okay?”
He groans. “No food.”
I bring his hand to my lips and kiss his palm. “Sorry.”
“Mm?”
“Sorry,” I say, pitching my voice a bit louder.
If this is going to be a common occurrence, I might need to show him how tactile sign works.
Plus, I have a feeling he and Otto would get along like a house on fire.
This thought is slightly terrifying because if that happens, Otto might convince him to start raising bees, which, hell no.
Although that implies Thorne would stay here with me and not go back to Portland, and…
No. I’m not dealing with those feelings right now either.
I slide from the bed, and his hand flops to his side, unmoving. He doesn’t even twitch as I get dressed, comb my hair, take what feels like the world’s longest piss, then find my keys on the dresser.
I don’t bother saying goodbye. He looks peaceful for the first time in a while, and I don’t want to ruin it. It’s a nice day out anyway, and while I could scour a hardware store for more ways to eradicate vicious, vegetable-stealing rodents, the gym sounds better.
I hate the gym, but Thom is right about it being great for working out stress. If I can sweat out some of my Michael-induced rage, I might be able to think a little more clearly.
Besides, while being with Thorne is a great workout, it’s also been a lesson in how I’m not nearly as strong as I need to be if I want to lift him up and manhandle him a bit.
Which I do.
Very much.