34. Alexandra
thirty-four
Afew days later, I find several packages on my bed, all wrapped and tied with ribbons.
There’s a note attached to it:
Be you
C.
I unwrap the packages, and my heart fills with something new. Gratitude. Gratitude for being seen. Heard.
Understood.
Inside the small box is a clip-on lens for a camera, to take close-ups. The larger boxes hold two ring lights, a tripod, and a mike.
This means the world to me.
It means he cares about what I do, he sees me for who I am, and he’s not trying to force me into a mold I’m not cut for.
He’s encouraging me to do what I like.
Allowing me to be me.
No one has ever done that for me.
I’m not sure how to thank him, so I write a thank-you note and sneak into his bedroom to tuck it under his pillow.
I’ve never been inside Christopher’s bedroom. It’s large, simply furnished. Masculine. There’s a king-size bed with a mahogany headboard and a navy-blue comforter. The furniture matches the headboard. The room is bare, with no decorations or objects, except for a photo of Skye when she must have been about two years old, all round cheeks, large dark eyes, and curly hair flying in the wind.
Apart from the picture, the only sign that this is Christopher’s room is a low armchair with his dark gray cable-knit sweater swung over it.
I trail my hand on the edge of the bed as I silently make my way to the head. I was planning on dashing in and out of the room, tucking my note on or under the pillow for him to find tonight, but I’m hypnotized and can’t pull myself away.
This is where Christopher sleeps, where his body lays at night, right below my own bedroom. Where his dreams take place, and his hopes carry him and unravel. I imagine his body splayed across the bed, tangled in the sheets. I run a finger on the pillow and tuck my note under it, leaning in to inhale the scent of his sheets.
“Find something you like?”
His voice startles me. “I—I just came to say thank you,” I say, straightening myself. He’s still adamant about me never being in his room, and I feel like I’m trespassing. “I left you something,” I say, blushing as I make my way to the door.
He kicks the door closed and pulls me against him. Trailing his hands lightly up and down my back, he breathes in my hair. His erection, now familiar to my body, finds its habitual place against my belly, its pulsing unraveling an urgent desire I didn’t feel moments ago.
My heart stutters at the knowledge that we’re in his bedroom.
And I’ve gone from emotionally overwhelmed to sexually crazed in less than sixty seconds.
“Thank you for what?” he says, his voice raw.
The bakery is quiet, and there’s still at least a half hour before he needs to go pick up Skye from school.
I reach behind him to lock the deadbolt, pull him by his belt hooks, push him into the armchair, and kneel between his legs.
He groans and fists my hair while I get to work on his zipper and boxer shorts. “Fuck, Alexandra, it was only a small lens.” He smirks and then shuts up with a hiss when I pull out his heavy cock. I twirl my tongue on the tip, my gaze on his. His hooded eyelids are heavy with desire, and I tether myself to them. Never breaking eye contact, I take him in my mouth, inch by inch, teasing and licking and sucking. His hand is light in my hair. “Fuck, Alexandra,” he whispers, petting me.
I cup his balls in one hand, dig my nails in his hip with the other hand, and take him deeper. He pushes himself into my mouth, groaning. I didn’t think it would be possible, but he gets harder and longer. I adjust my angle so I can fit him and alternate the sucking and licking, teasing him and fulfilling him.
I love the feel of him in my mouth. His smell. The salty taste of his precum, the way his hands softly cup my head.
What I love the most is the power I have over him. The power to give him that release.
“I’m not going to last much longer,” he hisses after a little while. He tilts his hips back and tries pulling my head off, but I swat his hand away and bob my head up and down, sucking him rhythmically, both my hands cupping the base of his shaft, now that his balls are high and he’s entirely in me. His cock hits the back of my throat, and every time it does, I suck on it, longer each time, priming my throat for what I know is coming.
I will not let a stupid gag reflex ruin this moment.
Until Christopher, I didn’t enjoy going down on a man, but holy hell, am I drunk right now, on the pulsing of his cock in my mouth, on his heavy breathing, on his growling curse words at me. Shivers run through my spine at every sign he’s giving me of the effect I have on him.
I’m throbbing with pleasure at the sexual power I hold over him, right now. This is an experience like never before. I’m totally and only pleasuring him, totally at his mercy.
But I want more.
I bring his hands to my head.
I want him to direct my movements.
I want him to be in charge.
I want him to fuck my mouth.
He takes control, and for a few more moments—seconds or hours—I’m this pleasure thing for him, and I almost come. My spine arches, my breasts are painful with pleasure, and my middle is pulsating, mistaking the seams of my jeans for the magnificent cock in my mouth.
Christopher tenses and hisses my name like it’s a swear word. I lock eyes with him as he comes in long, powerful streaks down my throat. I take it all in, the saltiness hitting the back of my throat as I swallow, again and again, for as long as it lasts, tears lining my eyes as I strain to be what he needs.
After the last tremors die down in his body, he pulls me up so I’m straddling him. I unzip my jeans and slide a hand inside my panties, and before he can take over, I come against his chest.
“Is there something wrong with me that I just want to be your sex plaything?” I ask in a small voice, wondering what just happened to me but, suddenly, trusting him with all the answers.
His cock answers for him, but after a beat, he says, “That’s a question with too many degrees. I’m too spent to think about it, right now.”
He lifts us off the armchair and pulls up his jeans. He runs a hand through his hair and gets ready to leave and pick up Skye from school. He has sex written all over him, and I can’t wait until the next time we can spend the night.
“I didn’t want memories of you in my bedroom,” he says before leaving, and suddenly, I feel off-centered.