Chapter 34 Fear #2
And she’s in charge, but she grants my wishes with a dignity that blows me away.
When I feel her tongue exploring my cock, I’m tempted to close my eyes, stroke her skin, and let go, but I have to look at her.
God…she’s fucking incredible. Her eyelashes flutter as she sucks, fills her mouth, moans, and the vibration gives me goose bumps.
Her tongue runs over the tip, down the shaft…
I have to twist the sheets in my fists when she licks my balls and jerks me off.
“Is this slutty enough to start off with?”
“Fuck, yes.”
“Ready to take it up a notch?”
She asks me to choke her with my cock, to fuck her mouth, to be rough with her.
And, her wish is my command. I was born to do whatever this girl with long legs, thick black eyelashes, and cherry lips asks, no matter how crazy it is.
If she asked, I would get married, have six kids, quit music, and move to a fucking townhouse in the suburbs.
If she wants, I’ll reinvent myself entirely, for fuck’s sake.
And the most fucked-up part is that, even though I’m as horny as a dog, I know this isn’t about the sex, as good as it is.
“Come on,” she purrs. “Leave me breathless.”
I push her head down when she puts it back in her mouth.
I make her stay there, with my cock so deep in her throat that her chest swells, searching for air.
Her spit slides down my skin; she uses it as a lubricant to pump faster, harder.
I’m close to coming two hundred times. I have to multiply long numbers with decimals in my head to stop myself.
I push into her from behind, looking at her back.
She says into my ear that I should do it, mount her “not carefully, affectionately—like animals,” she purrs.
And I grab her hair in my fist, wrap the ponytail around my wrist, and yank it gently as I push into her without asking for permission.
I call her a slut and ask her if she likes it.
She moans so thick and warm that I can’t help it.
“I want you to show me what a whore you are. My little whore. Make me yours forever.”
“You’re not going to be able to think about anything else for the rest of your life,” she promises.
We do it so hard that I’m scared reception will call to ask us to stop screaming and pushing furniture around. The bed has shifted at least half a foot from its original spot, and she’s still asking for more.
“Harder. Harder, fuck.”
The skin smacking against her every time I thrust is starting to sting, but I would rip it off if she asked. Right now, I belong more to her than myself.
Her on top. Me on top. On our sides. On all fours. Face down. We’ve raced through all these positions in twenty minutes.
She comes on my fingers for the first time.
She comes wetter than I’ve ever seen a woman come, screaming, arching, and wild.
If I like her being cuddly on Sundays, if I adore her trying to figure out how the hell to record a show, if I swell with pride when she tells me how she helped value a Juan Gristhen, I want her forever when she’s wild.
I ask her if she still wants more. She nods, panting, and I slide the fingers I used to make her come into her mouth. When she licks them, I almost come on her leg.
I eat her again, but this time I keep going until she explodes.
I know she’s about to when her breath catches in her throat as she says she wants me to use her, to fuck her like I don’t give a shit about her.
She comes in my fucking mouth, and, fuck, I feel like I’ll never get enough of this shit.
What have I done falling in love with her?
Have I condemned myself for life, or was I just wasting time by not doing it sooner?
I haven’t fucked that many girls, but I’ve gotten around enough.
I’ve spent a wild night in the bathroom of some club with a stranger whom I had no inhibitions with.
Once a girl that I had just met in a concert hall whispered into my ear that she wanted me to put it in every hole before the night ended.
And I did it. I had to ask her name as I was getting dressed because I wasn’t sure we had even introduced ourselves.
With Aroa I did everything we wanted to, but never—not with her or the stranger or any of the others—did I ever feel like this.
I’m frantic. All the filthy things I want to do, say, promise are piling up on my tongue, but none come out.
All I can whisper in her ear is that I want her really slutty.
I come like a beast. I don’t understand how my body can keep creating so much semen. I cover her chest, and some even splatters into her mouth. And I’m never going to forget the way she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and said, “We’re going to break from all this sex, you know?”
And I do know.
* * *
When Gus opens the door to the room, the spectacle must be pretty mind-blowing. She’s on top and she’s riding me for the third time. I can’t take anymore, but I’m not going to beg for mercy.
The first thing I think of is that I want Gus out of the room, the hotel, Andalusia, and maybe the whole country. I don’t want him to look at her, to see her on top of me, moving her hips with her perfect tits in view. Then I remember he held these perfect tits a thousand times before I did.
“Fuck, Gus, get out of here!” she yelps, covering herself.
“The fuck!” he yells, horrified, shoving his face into the wall. “What the hell are you doing?!”
What are we doing? Please…
“Get out,” I say.
“You’re fucking!”
“Get out,” I say, my tone steely.
His back is turned, and she winks at me, moving gently with me still inside her. I smile and shake my head. This fucking woman doesn’t want to stop even when Gus is in the room.
“What do you want?” I cover a moan with a cough.
“The car keys.”
“You don’t know how to drive.” Coco bites her lip and complains when I stop her and gently slide out from under her.
“Just for a second,” I whisper.
I get up and find my pajama pants. I try to arrange them over my boner so it’s not too uncomfortable, but…it’s definitely not going down.
“If I take a deep breath, I’ll get knocked up, you bastards. Do you have any idea what it smells like in here?”
“We’ve been fucking for three hours. What do you expect?” she pipes up, wrapped in a sheet.
“The keys, please. I don’t want to know any more.”
I stand in front of him, and he stares at me. “What the hell do you need car keys for when you don’t have a license?”
“I need to go somewhere. Someone else is driving.” He clears his throat.
“Someone else?”
“Give him the keys,” Coco says. “Tell Blanca to drive safe.”
Gus sighs. “It’s not what it looks like, okay?”
“Of course. And we were doing yoga,” she says disdainfully.
“I wanted to tell you a thousand times, but Blanca said…”
I go over to the dresser, grab the keys, and toss them to him.
He’s looking at her, and as much as I hate him seeing her like this, violating an intimacy that’s so new and so ours, I’m more bothered by the bitterness emanating from Coco.
She shouldn’t be this hurt, right? She doesn’t feel anything for him anymore. That’s dead. Even though last night…
Stop, Marín. You’re going to lose it.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he says very seriously.
“What do you mean, tomorrow?”
“We’re going to… Well, we might be back tonight, but…”
“Okay, I don’t wanna know, but try to clear this up today. You’re going to kill Blanca, Gus. You’re gonna kill her.”
“I didn’t know everyone knew,” he grumbles.
“Yeah, because you two are so discreet.”
“Just like you two, right?”
“Get out,” I repeat.
“Simmer down,” Gus says to me. “I’m still gonna punch you.”
“Hey, hey, hey, where’s all this coming from?” Coco complains.
This is a pang of jealousy that isn’t really my thing. “Are you leaving?” I insist to Gus.
“Hey…you don’t happen to have a…a condom?”
I can’t stop myself. I open the door, grab him by the shirt, and toss him out. There’s no time for him to even say a word before the door slamming echoes down the hallway.
“Come here…” She pats the bed she’s sprawled across.
“I can’t handle anymore,” I admit. “Of all these twists and turns in the gang or physically.”
“Well, it is what it is. But don’t worry. I’m going to go slowly, my king.”
* * *
There are a thousand songs running through my head right now. Songs I’ve been storing up in my memory because of a phrase, a melody, a word…pieces that make up the mosaic of what I understand about love.
They say that in the early years, kids learn through imitation.
That’s so dangerous…so much responsibility in the hands of people who sometimes don’t deserve that trust. When I was little, my house wasn’t exactly full of love.
I don’t remember my father, just like Gema doesn’t remember hers.
In both cases, Mama had the same “good” taste for choosing a mate.
At least they said that mine left me the inheritance of my rare green eyes.
Let’s not mention mother-son love either.
My mother is sick, and understanding that has saved me from hating her, but I needed it back then, and I needed outside help too.
My aunt and uncle are an amazing couple who are raising Gema the way she deserves, but they were never around when I was young.
What I do know is that my obsession with music started back then, back when I discovered that people in songs loved each other the way I wanted to love my mama. The way I saw people on television loving each other. The normal way, judging by everyone around me, but not mine.