Chapter 34
“Does my beard bother you?”
“What?” I gasp the question as my brain tries to function properly. My fingers have a strangle hold on the sheets, and I’ve been staring hard at the ceiling as my insides liquified these past fifteen or so minutes.
“My beard,” Arthur repeats, his voice a touch deeper as if he realizes that’ll feed better through my hearing aid. “Is it a bother?”
Tearing my gaze off the light fixture above Arthur’s bed, I meet his eyes. His head is between my thighs, lips slick with my arousal, his beard damp too, his eyes both hot and curious.
“No. Hell no. It’s so good.” I press a flat palm against my chest, trying to slow my racing heart. “A little rough. When your tongue is soft.”
He grunts, and I’m too muddled to discern what the tone of the grunt is. I prop myself on my elbows to get a better look at him.
We’re in his bed—me completely naked, him completely clothed—and he’s been sucking on me like I’m his favorite piece of candy almost since the moment we got home.
“How’s your neck?” I ask, trying to be equally conscientious. “That’s got to strain.”
Arthur frowns, as if offended I would mention his possible discomfort, then wraps a tighter grip around my thighs and pulls me hard against his mouth, suctioning his lips around my clit.
The tug sends a bolt of pleasure up my spine, and my back bows off the mattress as I let out an involuntary shriek and fist my hands in his hair.
Arthur is a dedicated student in the study of my vulva. I’ve never had a man ask for so much direction. But not in a bothersome way. His genuine curiosity over what feels good for me makes every question he asks all the hotter.
When we got home from the Jam Session and that impromptu front-seat fingerbang, I thought things might get awkward. Our agreement was for a fake relationship, where I’d help him practice kissing.
There was no orgasm clause.
But maybe Arthur has been out of the hookup game for so long that he’s worried about his bedroom skills. Or maybe he never was sure his past partners were orgasming. I tend to be up-front about what’s working for me, but I know some women are worried telling the truth will piss off their bedmates—or at least make the man sulk.
Not that Arthur has anything to worry about. The guy gets a five-star rating from my vagina.
Still, he got that A-plus rating with only his fingers, but the moment we stepped through the front door, my fake boyfriend asked if he could practice making me come with his mouth.
Who was I to deny him a valuable learning opportunity?
This orgasm is for Arthur’s education, of course. I’m a giver like that.
“O-okay,” I stutter as the muscles in my jaw spasm with the nerve-tightening pleasure coursing through my body. “If you could do two—or maybe three—fingers.”
Arthur runs a broad, flat tongue up my seam, and my eyeballs try to escape my head.
“Do?” he asks, clarifying.
“Fuck me with them,” I gasp and rock my hips, needing more yet also worried my pelvis might crack in half from the force of the orgasm I’m on the verge of.
Arthur mutters something I didn’t catch, but from his tone, I think he might be cursing.
Then, I can’t think because there’s the insistent press of a thick digit at my opening. Arthur slips one, two, then—bless the man—three fingers into my greedy, slick channel. He eases his touch in and out, movements slow, the slick suction noises loud enough for even me to pick up on over my heavy breathing.
The guy has me drenched.
“Now what?”
At the gruff question, I glance down my body to find a set of dark, determined eyes gazing up at me through the valley of my breasts.
Part of me wants to tell him to stay right there so I can paint a mental portrait of this moment. But another orgasm-greedy part of me moves on to the next instruction.
“Move your fingers like . . .” I trail off when I lift my hand, only to find a weirdly bent claw. I try to straighten my fingers, but they don’t listen, staying tense, the skin tingling.
“Something wrong?” Arthur also stares at my weird claw hand.
“No.” My toes are curled to the point of almost cramping too. “I’m just on the edge.” The words are breathless, my lungs starting to seize up as well.
“Should I stop?”
“No!” I yelp, aghast that he might leave me in this tightly strung state. “What you should do is suck my clit like it’s your job, so I can come and then hopefully regain control of my limbs.”
Arthur’s thick brows dip into an expression of concentration before he gives a definitive nod and dips his chin.
Then, he sucks.
In a good way.
With the invasion of his fingers inside me and the hot pressure on my bundle of nerves, it’s not long before I’m done for. Another few tugs from his lips, and I’m coming hard, calling out Arthur’s name because it’s the only word I can remember. I shudder through a bombardment of ecstasy. The delicious clenching is still going on when I feel his fingers start to slip out. Desperate for a few moments more, I grab his wrist, keeping his touch inside me.
When Arthur curls his fingers, I let out a moan and roll my hips, wantonly riding his hand.
“Fuck,” he says.
Then, that perfect, heated suction finds its way to my nipple. Arthur tongues my breast as I leisurely float through the last waves of my orgasm.
When I finally let go of his wrist, he makes no move to leave. Instead, Arthur sprawls at my side before pulling me against his chest.
As my thoughts ease back into focus, I enjoy reliving each moment of this evening. All except one. A question that’s been bothering me even though someone else might think it was minor. With my body in a state of utter relaxation, the words slip out on a sigh.
“Why didn’t you get pie?”
Arthur loves pie. He’s a fan of food in general, always cooking for me. I know without a doubt he wanted a slice at the Jam Session, but I found him with an empty plate and a wounded expression in his eyes. Then he wanted to leave.
His body stiffens against my back, and I know I was right to worry. Something happened.
Will he tell me?
Arthur doesn’t answer for a stretch, but the man keeps his fingers buried in my pussy, working them slowly in and out. The movement comes off as a soothing gesture, more than him trying to rev me up for another round.
“Heard some gossip,” he grumbles eventually, his lips rest behind my right ear, so I hear him fine. “Comparing me to Daren. That he’s...better.”
My heart aches, then sets on furious fire. “That’s fucking ridiculous.”
His body shifts behind me, like he shrugged.
“I’m used to it.”
Obviously not, if it put him off his pie. My skin grows cold as realization slithers through me. “Do people do that a lot? Measure you against Daren and your cousins?”
There’s another pause, then, “Sometimes.” He clears his throat. “I look different than them.”
The words sound innocent, but in them I hear the pain of a man who gets told by strangers and neighbors that he’s different than the men who are basically his brothers. That he’s less than them.
Arthur still has a firm hold between my legs, so I don’t roll to face him. Instead, I reach back, dragging my fingers along his rough beard until I can delve them into the hair at the base of his neck, fisting the curls so I have a hold on him, too.
“You’re my favorite Kraut,” I announce. His grip tightens, pulling me harder into his body. I want to say more, but I don’t know what the right words are. So, I give his hair a gentle tug, almost a chastisement, before letting my hand fall away. “We’re getting you pie tomorrow. My favorite Kraut deserves pie whenever he wants it.”
Arthur chuckles, the sound vibrating through my body and giving me hope that he believes me over those ignorant gossips.
Wrung out, I ease into sleep, his fingers still buried deep when warm, comforting darkness overtakes me.