Chapter 27 #2
I can’t help it. I arch into his touch—have to. He can make me forget. Make it seem like nothing in this world is wrong, and I won’t wake up to the glaring light of day, worried that all my dirty secrets will come to light at the hands of another.
A distraction. Yes. That’s it. This is what I need—Leo to help me get rid of this weight on my chest, even though his presence here shows everything that’s wrong with our relationship.
God, this is crazy. Stupid. Insane. It’s every version of screwed up, and I can’t bring myself to pull away.
Distance and time aren’t something I want right now. All Leo needs to do is sneak into my room while I’m sleeping after the text I received, and apparently, all is forgotten.
“I told you to keep my bed warm because I’ll be seeing you,” he whispers against my ear.
My eyes fall shut, and I focus on his presence, reminding myself this is real. It’s the only thing that exists. Not the text, not the state of my apartment, not my career, and not my shitty family.
Just me and Leo beneath the covers where nothing can reach us.
I grip his wrist and sink my nails into him when his fingers dip into my entrance. Yes, a distraction.
“W-we need to talk.” I say it for the sake of saying it. To tell myself I tried—pitifully.
Talk is the last thing I want when the muscles in my lower stomach are spasming around him, and I can barely keep my eyes open because of how good it feels—like a fucking dream come true.
I should tell him about the text, but voicing it makes it real. It’ll mean it’s not an incident I can just forget because he’ll blow it up to the size of the moon, and this pleasure will go away.
Leo stops his ministrations, and I tense. I’m toeing the line of lashing out from frustration, because I didn’t actually want us to start discussing a situation I haven’t yet wrapped my head around or come to terms with.
My heart stops altogether when he slowly lowers me onto my back and begins inching down my body.
“Then talk,” he says simply.
I blink against the darkness. I can only make out his silhouette, and the faintest brush of light on the high points of his body, like the line of his shoulders down to his collarbone, the bridge of his nose, the curve of his cheek. Still, I can feel him smirking.
And that eases something in me.
He pushes up my shirt, so it’s gathered around my waist and settles himself at the edge of the bed, placing my legs over his shoulders as if the act were as natural as pulling up his sleeves before he eats.
Leo’s grip around my thighs stops them from closing—whether from self-consciousness, self-preservation, fear or general shock, I’m not sure.
Even though I don’t have any real complaints, the part of my brain that screams we need to try to be normal makes me say, “Y-you can’t just sneak in and—”
“Don’t you want to see me tasting your cunt?”
My stomach contracts when the heat of his breath hits my core. It makes me very aware of the mess he’s made of me. Especially when moisture trickles from my entrance at the lewdness of his words.
Because yes, I would very much like him to go down on me.
This scenario has played in my fantasies more times than can be healthy.
“It’s not that, Leo.” My voice is barely above a whisper.
What am I even causing a fuss about? I’m not better than this. I’m not somehow morally above the things Leo is doing.
If this is my punishment for not showing up to yesterday’s date, then I’m not even remotely upset about my decision, or lack thereof.
“Tell me to stop then.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Those words will never come out. He gave me a couple days to work through my thoughts, and it’s far more than I thought he would.
I want this. I want him.
I need to get to know the real him better. This is a start, if anything.
He kisses the tattoo near my hip, and I take a deep breath. The sound Leo makes when I relax my legs and let him spread me wide open for him is nothing short of heavenly. The first touch of his tongue against my swollen clit? I think I see God.
My hips buck off the bed, and I slam my hand over my mouth to keep from making a sound. He snatches it away, and I gawk down at him. Joyce is in the next fucking room. I’m not about to subject her to this.
“Fuck, you taste better from the source.”
It’s a miracle I don’t make a sound when his tongue comes back down, swirling around my clit like he already knows what I prefer. His hair, on the other hand, pays the price for my silence.
I fist the soft strands like I’ve always wanted to do, but I can’t enjoy it because he doesn’t give me a moment of reprieve. He feasts. I tug on his hair, run my hands through it, grip it, use it as leverage and a way to grasp onto the last vestiges of my sanity.
“Say my name again. I love the way your voice shakes when you do.” With that, he slides a finger in, and I’m at his will.
His name comes out on a broken moan, and I clamp my teeth together to keep from making another sound. The pleasure is blinding, and he’s barely done anything.
“What will you sound like when I fingerfuck you while you’re awake?”
One single finger seems to be all it takes to have me turning my head and shoving my face into the pillow.
Deep in the recesses of my mind, I flag his choice of wording, but I’m too hopelessly gone to care.
My core clenches around him, and for a moment, I’m scared that the pain will start, and I’ll have to tell him to stop before my body reduces me to tears from something that’s meant to feel good.
But the ache never comes, and I let myself enjoy the feeling before my illness decides my time of fun is up.
The moment he pulls his finger out and wraps his lips around my sensitive flesh, I know, deep in my soul, that it’s not going to be long until I’ll be fighting every god known to man to keep myself from screaming.
A fact confirmed when he easily slips another finger in and starts pumping. My nails find purchase with his skin, and I’m clawing, thrashing, quietly begging with ragged breaths.
It’s Leo.
We haven’t even kissed yet, and Leo is already eating me out and fingerfucking me after breaking into my bedroom while I was asleep.
Jesus fucking Christ, I don’t think my fantasies were ever this crazy.
It’s something that would happen in my books. I’ve written about scenes like this before, without ever having experienced it. Frankly, I thought I’d die before ever getting the chance.
I’m not sure which part is headier. The sinful things he’s doing with his mouth and fingers, or that I woke up to it.
Leo flicks his tongue over my clit, increasing the speed of his thrusting. There’s no mistaking the wet sounds that follow.
I whisper his name again. Or maybe I moan it out. All I’m sure of is that I’m gripping his head, and the darkness is becoming blindingly light. None of the thoughts pouring through my mind are coherent.
They’re just a clash of colors and muted sounds that grow deafening as the finish line approaches. There’s no use trying to keep silent. I’m a flurry of grunts and restrained moans, cursing and praying to be saved and forever tortured with this pleasure.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs against my aching flesh before sucking harder, becoming more relentless with his fingers.
He slips a third in, and I snap upright only to be anchored back down by his solid forearm. It’s a blessing and a curse because the pressure across my lower stomach amplifies the sensations created by his fingers, and for once, it doesn’t hurt.
I try to hang on. I really do. I do everything I can not to make a peep. But when the climax hits me, I’m done for. It bulldozes into me, and stars flash behind my eyes.
I think I might grip him so hard that I draw blood—and he doesn’t stop. I’m squealing and hitting his arm to tap out, but he’s still relentless, drawing my orgasm out until I can no longer draw air into my lungs, and that deep, uncomfortable ache I know too well returns.
Finally, he frees my oversensitive sex and pulls his fingers out of me. Then the only noises that fills the silence are my heavy breaths that sound as if I’ve run a marathon.
The dull pain in my lower stomach is there, a constant discomfort that likely won’t go away for several hours. But it’s not so bad that I want to call it a night.
A shiver rolls down my spine from the cool air kissing my flesh. Another when my thighs rub together as Leo releases me to stand and move across the room, abandoning me on the bed.
I push up on my elbows and squeeze my legs together as embarrassment colors my cheeks. Did I do something wrong?
“Are you . . .” I swallow the lump in my throat and force myself to say the last part. “Leaving?”
I don’t want him to go. I want space to process, but while he’s here—and I don’t want to be alone after what we just did.
His amused chuckle both soothes me and sets me on edge, especially when his only response is by way of unzipping a bag of some kind, then returning to the bed and placing something large on the other side of me where I can’t see.
My vision has hardly adjusted to the darkness, but even blind I’d know Leo’s taking his shirt off. I’ve never been so upset that the lights are off until this moment.
He pushes my legs apart with his knees and settles between them. I’m either bold or stupid for reaching forward to touch him. When he doesn’t stop me, I decide I’m the former.
Leo feels like he’s been sculpted from marble beneath my fingers. Fire burns through me as I study him with my hands. Every ridge of his abs is noticeable; the hard planes of his chest and the bulge of his biceps are a testament to the hours he’s spent honing himself.
His stomach clenches, breath hitting a stutter when I dare trail lower, snaking over his belly button, down to the deep V, and hesitating before brushing the inch of skin above his sweatpants.