Chapter 11 #2
Either way. Nothing to write home about, nothing that made me scared.
Or if I was, it became so normal over time that I don’t remember it, really, feeling any kind of way.
Even in the moment, when I was in that alley with him—what I remember of it—I wasn’t scared.
I wasn’t feeling much of anything, then.
And for nearly half a year I’ve felt basically nothing for him at all and now there’s this visceral, gut-ripping terror, like my body knows something my mind doesn’t.
Both it and my limbic system both have some sort of awareness that doesn’t quite penetrate the fog of my memory of that night.
No fear in those moments specifically, since I couldn’t actually feel it at the time.
Delayed reaction, maybe? Because now there’s this almost-panic, panic prelude, stomach in knots and the taste of bile in my mouth and the dizzying certainty that I will throw up if I don’t calm myself down.
Dirty. I feel dirty. Like I did something wrong. Could’ve avoided what happened, somehow, been more vigilant and assertive. Known better than to entertain Jordan at all.
There’s a knock at my door and I nearly jump out of my skin; I have to bite the inside of my mouth to keep myself from crying out. I quickly stoop, grab my phone (unscathed, this time) and then peer into the peephole.
Luca.
Relief floods me as I fumble the door chain and let him in.
His gorgeous handsome face is all smiles, and he’s happy to see me, which is still so crazy to me, but I don’t question it.
I throw myself at him and he kicks the door shut behind him as he catches me in his arms, kissing my lips, my face, and now nothing else matters.
“Hi, stunt girl,” he murmurs in his deep, lovely voice, and the way it resonates against my ear sends shivers through me. “I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.” The phone calls aren’t enough. The constant texting isn’t enough. I wanna get inside his skin and live there. I’ve missed this so, so fucking much and it is so hard to temper myself, be cautious with him the way I know I should. I just want to lose myself.
He stands there with me, holding me and kissing me, and in a moment I’ve forgotten everything else I was upset about. We are still reacquainting ourselves with each other, getting back to that place we were before.
Months spent apart but he feels so, so familiar and right, like he’s never gone anywhere at all, all smelling and tasting and feeling the exact same.
Still the same sculpted face beneath my fingers as I trace his face and jaw, the same soft, wavy hair that I stroke.
Still the same hopeless, heated yearning that roils beneath my skin and I love the way he makes me feel.
I’m not this unclean thing, but something beautiful and desirable.
My mouth’s on his neck, tip of my tongue tracing the outline of his tattoo.
I know it so well, I could probably do that in my sleep at this point.
Even after our break. He makes a low, guttural sound in his throat.
I can feel him stiffening against me in his jeans already and my hands wander down his sides, his hips, until I’m palming him through the denim.
I want him so fucking bad.
And I need him.
I seek comfort in this, in him, and I find it there.
In the taste of his skin and the feel of it against mine, after I get rid of his t-shirt, and my lips follow the shape of his abs.
Lower still, as I gracefully sink to my knees, waiting for him to open his jeans and pull his boxers down just enough that his perfect cock comes spilling out, firm and thick.
I love the way it hangs there heavily in front of my face, streaked with veins, and I love the way it sort of curves off to the right.
I love rubbing my face against the length of it while he moans quietly, and burying my face in the thatch of dark hair at the base, breathing in his musk.
I catch his gaze as I wrap one hand around it and let my tongue run up along the underside of it. I love the way he shudders, too, and gasps ever-so-softly when the tip of my tongue finds the slit. And I fucking love the way he tastes: like salt and need and I know it’s all for me.
“Oh, fuck,” he says faintly, and his fingers thread through my hair. “Yes.”
I don’t have much of a gag reflex. He can push all of himself into my mouth, even though he’s fucking massive, and I hardly flinch when he does.
My nose hits his pubic bone, and he holds me there by my hair, and his cock twitches on my tongue.
I can’t quite breathe but that’s okay because I love it, the knife’s edge on which we can play.
And I missed that. This, us, the dynamic where we fit perfectly, me and him.
Luca’s grip eases and my head bobs up and down, slow at first and then quick. His eyes don’t leave mine for an instant, except to flutter shut at the end, hissing through his teeth before he comes down my throat. And that’s a fucking lot, too.
“You’re so good,” he’s praising me, breathless as he pulls me into his arms and kisses me hard. Tasting himself, and I’m only too happy to let him. “You’re so fucking good, baby.”
And then he’s pushing me back onto the couch, divesting me of my clothes quickly, like he can’t get to the rest of me fast enough and he’s fucking greedy about it.
Frantic. Kissing my throat, biting and sucking hard enough to bruise while I mewl beneath him like the pathetic thing that I am, offering myself up and up and he’s taking it all.
Luca abuses my nipples while I writhe, yanking my shorts off, and then he kneels before my spread legs.
He pulls my hips towards him kisses a slow, hot trail up the inside of one thigh.
I’m already leaking pre-come all over myself and whimpering by the time he’s made his way to my cock, and even then he just teases me with light flicks of the tongue.
He’s got other ideas in mind, though.
“Open,” he says, pressing his fingertips to my lips, and I do just as he says. I suck on his fingers like they’re something else entirely, and when he’s satisfied he pulls them away and slides them between my legs instead, pushing them inside me, one at first and then the second.
My back arches right up off the cushions. “Luca,” I gasp. “Wait.” It’s a little rough going, not entirely unpleasant but not as smooth as with lube. I’ve never gone in with just spit before.
“Relax,” he murmurs to me, kissing my hip. “I’ve got you.”
He’s curling his fingers just so, on a seek-and-find mission for my prostate, which he usually hits just fine with his dick but with his fingers it’s a different, even crazier sensation.
My belly goes rigid and seizes up, the pressure is so fucking incredible.
I’m making sounds that are almost inhuman; I feel like I’m about to explode.
He’s resting his cheek on my hipbone and watching my face, his eyes dark, intent and hungry, and I reach for him, but I don’t know what the fuck I’ll do when I get to him.
“Let go,” he whispers. “I want to see your face when you come.”
It’s building into something insane, edging without the edging, and my eyes flutter shut.
My body isn’t mine to control anymore; it’s contorting and trembling and making noises of its own accord.
It’s like a wave that just keeps cresting and cresting without breaking and I don’t know how much higher it can go, it’s endless almost, towering.
And when it does break, it’s a fucking tsunami.
He doesn’t even have to touch me. My cries are torn from my throat, ragged, his name and other things all jumbled up because I’m practically speaking in tongues as it jets across my stomach and chest The most I’ve ever done at one time.
My back’s bowed and I’m all twisted up on the couch and it doesn’t seem to end until Luca’s sliding his fingers out of me.
Only then do I go limp. I’m dimly aware of his wet tongue on my skin, lapping up every last drop, and then I’m the one tasting myself when he kisses me.
“Good boy,” he praises me softly. “You’re fucking gorgeous.” My body’s still a live wire, shockwaves rippling through it as he presses his lips to my neck. “Want me to take you to bed?”
“Hm-mm. I’m good right here.” It’ll be too warm in my bedroom, anyway. I wrap my arms around Luca, holding him close for a moment. “That was awesome. Should let me do it to you.” And the thought of that sends another jolt through me, because it would be hot as hell.
“Maybe.” He gives me a smile before he slides off me to sit on the floor beside the couch, reaching up to stroke my damp hair. “I missed you,” he says again. “I missed this.”
“Me too.” I run my arm over my mouth, licking my lips as I catch my breath. Still salty. “Hey, you know,” I say after a minute, after our panting has subsided to quiet, “about those clubs…”
Luca’s fingertips brush my knee, raising goosebumps on my skin, as he leans back. He tilts his head to look up at me. “What clubs?”
“You know what clubs. The ones you went to. Without me. To watch little dark-haired boys like me get their asses whipped.”
“Yeah, because I was hoping I’d see you there. That was kind of the whole point.”
“Would you really have, though?” I hook my leg over one of his shoulders, and he wraps an arm around it. “Wanted to see me there, I mean. Like, what if you had? Tied up, naked, getting flogged…what would you have done?”
“Hmm.” He’s going for nonchalance, but I can tell the thought of it makes him a little bit spicy.
He turns, pressing his cheek to the side of my leg as he gazes up at me.
He’s some mix of adorable and sexy right now, hair tousled and damp, clinging to his face in a way that is utterly charming.
He rubs his face against my leg absently and his stubble tickles.
“Well, first I would’ve been excited to see you at all.
My heart practically stopped when you showed up at Anathema. I thought I was going to pass out.”