Chapter 33 #2
We stop in Albuquerque for the night. As we window shop in the city, I take her hand, and she looks at me and smiles. I pull her to a stop in front of a store with a Christmas scene in the window, little toy trains circling through fluffy cotton snow with twinkling lights under it.
“We can get that set for our son one day,” I say, squeezing her hand.
“Preston,” she warns, trying to withdraw her hand.
I hold it tighter, pressing it to my chest. “Or daughter. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about having kids.”
“Of course I want kids,” she says. “Someday.”
“How many?”
“Two boys and two girls,” she says. “The boys first so they can protect the girls.”
I close my eyes and picture it, all those beautiful babies underfoot, in my arms, at her breast. An ache forms in my chest, and my nose clogs up in a way it hasn’t since the first time with her, when the guilt was so thick I couldn’t breathe.
“But I can’t even think about that right now,” she says. “That’ll be a long way in the future.”
“Yeah,” I say. “A long time.”
It’s not a lie. Nine months is a long time, almost an eternity. I know firsthand how much can change, how many lives can be destroyed in the length of one school year.
“What about you?” Dolly asks. “How many kids do you want?”
“As many as my wife’s able to carry.”
That night, I turn off the lights and fuck her in the dark, slow and deep, and when she asks if I’m wearing a condom, I tell her I am.
When she falls asleep, I push a pillow under her hips to keep the cum from running out just a little longer, and I wrap my arms around her and press my lips to her hair.
“Marry me,” I whisper into the dark, into her sleeping ear.
I fuck her awake the next morning, and it’s not until we’re halfway through that she remembers. “Did you put on a condom?” she asks, pushing up on her elbows to watch my cock sliding into her.
“I want to cum on your tits,” I say, kneeling up to drive into her harder.
“What is that?” she asks, gaping in shock.
“What?” I ask, though I know what she’s looking at.
Dolly’s a submissive lover, one who lies back and sighs with bliss, closing her eyes and losing herself in it.
It lets me take charge, and I fucking love it, especially because when she’s lying there all open and giving, I don’t have to think about who I am now, how I look.
With her eyes closed, I’m not a hideous monster with a scarred face that no one could love.
I’m a skilled lover, one who knows how to please a woman, one who takes care of her pleasure and doesn’t worry how she sees him.
I love to see her, but I’ve spared her the sight of my face since the first night in California, turning off the lights the way she likes.
She asked that night, and I can’t blame her.
I wouldn’t want to see my disfigured face staring back at me during sex, either.
So I don’t turn on the lights at night, and I let her close her eyes when we fuck in daylight.
But now she’s looking. Not at my face, but at my cock as it owns her, taking her bare, the way I want her. Together we stare down at where we’re joined, her slick cunt hugging my cock in its snug grip.
“You… Tattooed my name on you?” she asks, her gaze flying to mine.
“Yeah, so?”
“On your dick?”
“Is that a problem?” I ask, lowering myself on top of her.
“I… Don’t know,” she says, looking at me in a different, more guarded way. “It’s a little odd, that’s for sure.”
“How’s it any different than having it on my hand for all the world to see?” I ask, resting on my elbows and leaning down to kiss her forehead. “No one sees my penis except you.”
“What happens when some other girl sees it?”
“There is no other girl,” I say. “No woman exists but you, Dolly.”
I kiss her, moving into her slow and deep until she relaxes. “I can’t believe you did that,” she whispers.
“I told you, I’m yours,” I say, pressing soft kisses along her throat. “Every part of me belongs to you, Dolly Beckett.”
“Let me on top,” she says.
I roll us over eagerly, savoring the rare treat, watching her face lost in bliss, her gorgeous, round tits heaving with the rhythm of her hips.
After a few minutes, I can’t sit back and watch any longer.
I sit up, sucking her nipple into my mouth, massaging her soft flesh while she rides me.
She moans, pressing her chest forward, burying my face between her tits.
I kiss and suck and lick her flesh, one hand guiding her hips, impaling her on my bare cock with each pass.
She starts moving faster, her tits bouncing harder, little cries of bliss leaving her lips.
I suck her nipple into my mouth, then open to pull as much of her tit in as I can before biting down.
She squeals, riding harder, her walls tightening around me.
“I’m almost there,” she says, panting between words. “Then you can pull out and cum on me.”
Her words send me over the edge, though.
I picture my cum spurting over her tits, her face, and I lose my mind.
She rocks slowly, the globes of her breasts rising and falling with the motion as she grinds her clit against my pelvic bone, her head thrown back, her breathy sighs echoing through the room as she cums.
Seeing her wrapped in such bliss, lost in the throes of passion, is too much.
I couldn’t hold back if I tried. I snake my arm around her hips and slam up into her, grinding deep as I spill my seed into her clenching core.
She tries to rise off me, but I hold her tighter, pinning her hips to mine as my cock continues pulsing cum into her flooded center.
“What are you doing?” she cries, little flutters still tightening her walls, milking the cum deeper into her. “You said you’d pull out.”
“You said I’d pull out,” I growl, gripping her to me as she struggles.
“Are you crazy?” she demands. “We can’t take that risk. I could get pregnant, Preston. Do you realize what that would do to me?”
Make you mine, I think, my chest expanding with hope.
When I don’t speak, she goes still against me. “That’s what you were trying to do,” she accuses. “Wasn’t it?”
“Marry me.”
“Let me go,” she growls, placing her palms on my shoulders and shoving me.
She’s strong, and she manages to put some space between our chests.
I wrestle to get her under control, keeping our hips together, my cock still driven to the hilt inside her.
Whatever else happens, I want my cum in her as long as possible, want to give it a chance to find its target.
When I don’t let go, she rears back and slaps me across the face. “Let me go, you psycho,” she snaps. “This isn’t funny.”
“I never said it was funny,” I say, twisting around to pin her under me on the bed. She slaps me again before I grab her wrist and hold it pinned to the mattress.
“You’re serious,” she whispers, wide-eyed with alarm.
“I’m always fucking serious,” I say, even though that’s not true. Not with her. She can bring out another side of me, the one that’s still a kid, like when we met. The side that laughs in the car with her, tickles her side when she lies down to sleep with her head on my thigh while I drive.
But that side couldn’t keep her.
Something inside me dies as I watch her eyes change, watch the realization sink into her that I’m not just a monster on the outside.
That this isn’t just a fun road trip where we can step outside the relentless river of time and float in a bubble of our own making, one that exists in that alternate reality where we ended up together.
We had two days of honeymoon happiness, with laughter and teasing and orgasmic nights together.
But eventually, it had to end. Time always runs out.
Last time, when she left me at the train station, I was the one caught off guard. I’d been so caught up in my own confusing recovery, my own pain and despair, that I hadn’t let it sink in that she was leaving, even though she’d told me. I didn’t think she’d really go.
This time, I knew better than to let the illusion fool me.
We were always on this timeline. There is no other reality. She’s the one who forgot.
A shutter of distrust falls over her eyes, a wariness as she realizes she let the enemy into her body, that she gave herself to the wrong man.
That she can’t trust me. That she’s the one who got played this time.
That I’m not a boy she can fuck with and string along, one who respects it when she says she can’t risk our friendship by taking the next step, one who agrees when she says it’s just for the night, because he thinks that’s all he’ll ever get.
Who agrees when she says no one can know, because he’s hoping he’s wrong and that if he gives her what she wants, she’ll do the same for him.
She’s more than I deserve or could ask for, so I don’t ask. If I only take what I deserve, it will be all I ever get. I want more.
My father was never a good man, but he was always right. I’ve finally taken his advice. I’ve learned to take, like a man. He’d be proud.
When I let Dolly up at last, she goes to shower without a word.
I wonder if she’s crying in there, the way Mom did in her closet.
I hope she’s not, but I decide it doesn’t matter.
If I get her in the end, like Dad got Mom, why would it?
She’s on this trip with me for another two days.
We’re in the middle of the country, nowhere near her home in LA or her family in Faulkner.
She’s mine now. I want to keep driving, to never get home, so that I can keep her to myself forever.
But I know I can’t.
She comes out of the bathroom and gives me a hard look. “I’d like you to take me to get a morning after pill,” she says. “Since you decided not to be responsible.”
“No,” I say simply. “But I got us room service.”
The easy, fun companionship is over. We eat mostly in silence, though I keep checking from the corner of my eye, wondering what she’s thinking.
We drive in silence that day, though she’s on her phone enough to concern me.
Is she texting her parents, telling them I have her?
Or her manager, that asshole she’s been fucking?
Or worse, ordering a morning after pill to keep an egg from implanting?
That night, I make sure to get a hotel that’s not within walking distance to any pharmacy where she might sneak out and try to get something to prevent pregnancy.
She comes to bed in long-sleeved pajamas buttoned to the neck, turns her back, and goes to sleep.
The other nights, we’ve flirted all evening until bed, when she’s feigned reluctance as she waits for me to seduce her into giving in to what she really wants.
Today, she’s been cold and so distant that I don’t even try. The next night, we arrive in Faulkner.
The honeymoon is over. I wish I hadn’t given it away so soon, that we could’ve had four whole days of bliss, of make-believe. But maybe it’s for the best, so I don’t get drawn into the fantasy the way she did.
It was never real to begin with.
You can’t have a honeymoon if she never says yes.