Chapter Sixteen Prue #2
With a deep breath in, and one last glance at that desperate plea in his eyes, I nod. “Okay, yeah.”
“Toss me that pillow,” he says, pointing to the pink throw pillow next to my shoulder. I do as told, holding it out to him. He immediately sits up, lifts my hips up off the bed, then places the rectangular pillow underneath my lower back.
“Relax for me, Prue,” he says, hands gripping my thighs and massaging as he drops his head between them. “Good,” he tells me when I let them fall. I relax against the pillows behind my shoulders but lift my neck so I can see him press kisses against my inner thigh. It’s driving me mad.
“I’m ready,” I tell him, when he starts to kiss his way back up toward my knee. “You don’t have to keep—”
“Thank you for telling me.” Milo, once again, buries a smile against my skin.
“I’m proud of you for saying what you want.
” His tongue follows his lazy, slow, tortuous path back to the crease where my thigh meets my vulva.
He bites into the flesh there, darkened eyes flicking up to my face.
Then, after one last glance, he places his tongue where no one else ever has.
“ Holy —” I say, fisting the duvet underneath me as my body fights not to convulse.
He releases my clit from between his lips with a wet pop, smirking as he tilts up to speak. “Easy, Killer. I’m just getting started.”
Every nerve ending, every fucking cell in my body, is reacting to his touch.
The scrape of his facial hair, the feel of his nose pressing into me, the sensation of his lips on such delicate, soft, sensitive skin, and the flick of his tongue.
The way his throaty, deep laugh vibrates against me when I begin hiccupping with uncontrollable pleasure.
“Fuck!” I squeak out, squeezing his head between my thighs. I see what he meant about not being able to hear now, I’ll be surprised if I’m not bruising him.
Milo grabs hold of my legs, just below my knees, and forces them apart, before coming up for a breath. “Need me to stop?”
“No!”
He chuckles, sliding one finger down my slit to rest at my entrance.
“Can I?” He applies a small amount of pressure, eyes held on mine and awaiting consent.
His mustache is reflecting light, now wet.
It’s me, on him. It’s lewd and indecent and by far the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
And to top it all off, he keeps licking his upper lip as if he can’t resist getting another taste.
“Yes,” I say, near whining. “But your—”
“My mouth too, I know.” He licks his smiling lips, his chest rising on a deep breath. “Greedy girl.”
“Am I?” I ask, panting and breathless but weary all the same. “Should I not—”
“You’re being perfect, ” he says, tilting forward so his eyes can stare into mine.
“You’re doing so well for me.” He slides his finger into me, up to the first knuckle.
“More?” he asks, and I nod eagerly. I watch him study my expression carefully as he moves deeper into me, curving his fingertip to lay flat against my inner wall.
Once his finger is fully inside, I feel myself flex around him as I adjust to the feeling.
He moans, his dark eyes rolling to the back of his head. “Fuck, Prue, you’re so goddamn tight.”
I lift onto my elbows, sitting up so I can have a better view. “And is that…is that a good thing?”
“Yes, Prue. I’m imagining—” He stops himself, biting his lip. “Can I tell you?”
I nod desperately.
“I’m imagining how good it’s going to feel to have my cock in here instead.
” He flicks his finger, tapping against me and sending a flash of lightning up my spine.
“The way you’re squeezing my finger is letting me know how much fun it’ll be to get you ready to take all of me.
” He drops down, folding his tongue around my clit as he continues to tap against my inner wall.
“Fuck, I cannot wait for that,” he whispers against me, his breaths unsteady.
“ Whoa. ” I shudder, falling flat against the pillows. “Whoa, whoa, wh—”
Milo lifts away slightly. “Too much?”
“No! I mean, yes, but keep going,” I say, straining as I try to keep my body relaxed under him.
“Good girl, fight through it,” he praises against my needy flesh. “Are you ready?”
I answer by digging the heel of my foot into the space between his shoulder blades.
He laughs again, soliciting another gasp and moan from me as it reverberates over sensitive skin.
Then, his tongue begins flicking at a new, rapid pace over my clit.
A speed and pattern I’ve tried to achieve with my fingers but couldn’t quite get right.
I shriek, arching off the bed, as I grow lightheaded and explode like a crossette firework against a night sky—breaking into dozens of pieces, all equally burning bright and falling apart around him.
A high-pitched series of breathless moans fall out of me as Milo hooks his arms over my belly and keeps me pinned to the mattress.
I orgasm in a way I’d never imagined possible, feeling my whole body give way to a sensation I’d always thought was a tame, enjoyable, nice experience before now.
And when I come to, when the sensation cools to a dull, aching reminder, Milo is still between my legs, his fingertips digging into my thighs as he licks me from entrance to clit over and over as if trying to clean up any evidence of such a life-altering event.
“Milo,” I say, lifting my forearm from my eyes so I can blink back to focus. Milo mumbles against me, his soothing, warm tongue pressing into my sensitive entrance. “That was…”
“Nice?” he asks, one brow rising as he tilts up to face me.
“Something like that,” I say, giggling as I fight against the desire to cover my face and hide from the giddy, gloating expression he’s wearing. “I think my heart is going to explode,” I say, placing a hand on my chest. “Is it supposed to feel like that?”
Milo climbs up the bed then collapses on his back next to me, his arms underneath his head. “Now I hate to say I told you so…but…”
“You were right,” I reward him, my eyes dipping down his body and holding on to the tattoo on his right hip. “It’s definitely my new favorite thing.” My voice is vacant and far away as I read the tattoo once again, to be sure.
Milo chuckles, moving one hand from under his head to brush the hair next to my ear. “Good, because it’s mine too. I couldn’t help but fuck myself against the mattress when you started making all those nasty, filthy noises. Jesus, Prue, you sounded—”
“Milo,” I interrupt, reading the tattoo again. I sit up, wrapping myself in the knitted blanket that had been tossed against my headboard. I place two fingers on the script, underlining the tattoo as my mind swirls and spins and tries to come up with a reason.
“Uh, yeah?”
On his hip, Milo has the words go, question, and find, which I could consider coincidence—it’s not an impossibility that those words have been written elsewhere—until I notice the tattoo is written in my handwriting. “Milo, how… Why do you have this?”
“Is something—” Milo’s voice slows to a complete stop. “Oh, that one? I mean, I told you your mom was important to me.” I turn my face to his, and he’s staring back at me, his head tilted with a half-lifted smirk. “You seem upset. I don’t—”
“This is…” I crawl off of the bed before further cocooning myself in the blanket. No, this is fucking weird. “Where did you see this? How did you…?”
Milo’s eyes narrow on me as I pace in small circles. “It was in a poem Mrs. Welch kept in a frame on her desk. I took a photo of it, showed it to the tattoo artist…Why? What am I missing here?”
I cover my crazed laugh, realization washing over me.
“What is happening?” He laughs too, nervously, sitting up against my headboard. “Prue, is something—”
“I wrote that,” I say, pointing to his hip. “I wrote that poem. That is my handwriting.”
He rolls his eyes. “No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.” I pick up the blanket from where it has started to slip down my chest.
Milo’s smirk grows lopsided, with a keen set of eyes held on me. “Don’t fuck with me.”
“I am not fucking with you! Look!” I say, walking over to my collection of notebooks. I take one off the top and throw it at him. “See! Same handwriting,” I say as he flips through the first few pages.
“I thought…” he says, eyes widening as he closes the notebook in his hand. “I thought it was like…some random art print or something.”
“And you got it tattooed on your body? Forever?”
“I was eighteen! I—” He stops, looking at me. “I wanted to remember Mrs. Welch and I liked the phrase and…”
“Milo, I’m going to ask you this once. ” I still, crossing my arms as I fight off a wide grin. “Did you want to fuck my mother?” A laugh breaks free, but I suppress it between two tightly pressed-together lips.
“Oh my god!” he shouts, horrified. “No!” He shakes his head with a deep belly laugh. “No, I—You sick fuck, no!”
“Okay, well, I’m glad we cleared that up.”
“She just, she was like a…mom to me, at the time. I didn’t—” He throws his head back. “You wrote this? You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I say, grabbing one of the many postcards off the wall and tossing it at him. “See?”
I had written the poem on the back of a postcard my aunt Lucy sent me from Normandy.
She wouldn’t send them the traditional way, but rather a dozen at a time in a large envelope so I could mail them back to her with poems for her to read.
My mother insisted on keeping this one for herself, and I let her.
“You have this now?” he says, flipping it over to reveal the blank side that has my writing on it. “Wow, yeah…there it is….”
“When Mom retired early, Dad went to clear out her things. He left it in this massive pile of stuff on the studio floor and I took it to hide away up here. I didn’t know she’d had it on her desk.”
“You didn’t ever see it?”
“No, I didn’t go to Lakeview.”
“Well, I guess that’s why Nadia didn’t recognize you either,” he mumbles, flipping the postcard over in his hand.
“You asked her about me?”
His eyes briefly look up to find mine, teasing. “Shut up.”
“You talk about me, draw me, have a tattoo on your body written by me…Milo, you’re obsessed!”
He shakes his head, smiling, flipping the postcard over another time. “The world requires so little of you, my mother tells me,” he reads. “These expectations are all in your head. Go, question, and find what you require of yourself. That is all you owe…. P. W.”
“That’s me…” I whisper. “P. W.” I say, shyly.
He chuckles, disbelieving eyes meeting mine. “That’s you. ”
“Milo, you have one of my poems on your body.” I cover my lips, trying not to laugh. “That is … strange, right?”
“Okay, and? You have one of my paintings on your wall.”
I stop, my chin jutting out toward him. “What?”
“The shitty blue dot canvas by the door. That’s mine.”
“No…” I shake my head, sitting on the mattress next to his feet. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He fights back a smirk unsuccessfully. “Your mom kept it for some reason…. All these years. And you walk past it every day.”
I blink toward the edge of the loft, as if I could see the painting below. “This is all a bit too…”
“Connected,” Milo finishes for me.
“Yeah,” I say, wincing as we both begin laughing uneasily.
“Oh my god, look at it!” I say, pointing at his hip again. “My handwriting is on your hip!” He reaches across the bed and covers up the tattoo with a pillow. “Ew, no! Don’t rub your penis on my pillow!”
“Then stop ogling me!”
I scoff. “You first!”
He wraps his arm around the front of my shoulders, and pulls me back onto the bed, wrestling me underneath him as I squirm. I still when he kisses me, slow and lazy.
“Is this too weird for you?” he asks. “All this…coincidence?” He lowers his forehead to mine.
I sigh, thinking it over as I brush a strand of his hair. “Honestly? Not really…” It should feel strange, right? Why doesn’t it? “I mean, small towns, am I right?”
“Yeah, you probably have a tattoo hidden somewhere linked to Clyde or Doreen, right?”
“Most likely,” I agree, leaning up to press a kiss to his lips. “Is it too weird for you?”
“No,” he answers definitively. “Actually…” He smiles, shaking himself. “Y’know what? Never mind.”
“Oh, come on,” I whisper, brushing my hand over his hair again, then holding on to the back of his neck. “You have to tell me now.”
He rolls his eyes. “I was going to say that…I think I like it more this way. ”
I decide to kiss him again, because he’s really good at it. Not at all because of the way those six pesky words immediately burrowed into my heart and made it glow. No, that’s a passing, fleeting feeling—certainly not one worth overthinking or latching onto.
Milo rolls us so I’m on top of him, and I deepen the kiss as he removes the blanket I’d wrapped myself in and tosses it onto the floor.
“We’re getting good at this,” he whispers against my lips.
“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m a well-read woman.”
“I meant changing the subject,” he says. “But good to know you think books can teach you this.”
“They definitely can,” I argue, mid-kiss. “And”—I pull my lip away from his teeth—“we’re masters at changing the subject…it’s kind of our thing, it seems.”
He nods against my neck, lifting to kiss my pulse point. “Exactly. So put a pin in it, Prue. I’m trying to impress you.”
“Mm-hmm,” I agree, running both hands through his hair as I suck on his bottom lip.
“Yes, no more talking.” I press my tits to his chest and roll my hips against his abdomen.
“ Unless… ” I whisper against his lips, avoiding his kiss narrowly.
“We want to debate the benefits of literature some more?”
“Fucking kiss me back already.”
“Only when you admit I’m right,” I tease, my nose bumping into his.
“ God, you’re right, Prue. So damn right.”
I give in, and we kiss for hours, riling each other up over and over and over again. Milo gets me off again with his hands because I refuse to give up his lips. Afterward, he won’t let me return the favor.
“Let’s leave it there for the night,” he says, pressing a kiss to my temple as I wind back down and hesitantly reach toward his hip. “There’s no rush.”
But there is, isn’t there? The more seconds that pass in Milo’s presence the more aware I become that he seems to be a transient, unkeepable thing. His stories, his tattoos that tell them all the same, all point to one thing: Milo doesn’t stay in one place for long.
His lips have said that too, though that is easier to doubt now that I’ve had them buried into the side of my neck.
Still, I’ll need to listen, to trust that he means it when he says he’s not staying. That he does nothing but casual. Despite how it feels, or how he looks at me.
I close my eyes and snuggle in closer to him as he tightens his hold. And, as he tells me a long-winded story about a mishap in Peru that nearly led to his arrest, I fall asleep.