Chapter 34 House of Vice — Side A #3
He turns her ‘til her boobs scrape the wall, then his breath hits the back of her shoulder. The sensation shoots through her, and Lord, help her, it drops to her clit.
“Mmm… mmf—okay—” A half-bitten moan like she ain’t got no control left.
“Mhmm—” Andrew teases back, guidin' her legs open wider with his knee, one hand tracin’ her spine.
Other dippin’ low between her thighs.
Then from behind, strokes her with two fingers.
The touch is so gentle it makes somethin’ inside her chest tremble.
The shake that comes right before cryin’.
A gasp stumbles out of her mouth.
“This alright?” He keeps his fingers skimmin’ soft, the pads grazin’ lazy over her lips and through the hair. She nods, heart gone—somewhere in this closet. Then he sinks in the middle, his finger sliding up through the heat.
“And what about this?” he asks, rollin’ two fingers over her clit, slow and heavy. Her whole body’s shakin’, thighs tight, mouth spillin’ embarrassin' sounds. Then her hips grind against his hand, needin’ more.
“You can… put your fingers in me if you want,” she breathes. “It’s okay.”
“Yeah? You lettin’ me in?” He smirks, his hand slidin’ down, two fingers draggin’ through her slit until they stop right at her entrance. Then he circles heavy where she’s hot, opening her up, fingers tracing the wet rim. “Right here, huh? This where you need me?” His words are warm in her ear.
And there’s a tremor in her thighs that won’t stop.
Every breath leavin’ her leaves broken.
Then he eases his thumb inside her.
“Oh—oh Lord…” She barely breathes it, spreadin’ her thighs wider.
Heat pours through her, neck to knees, belly to brain, floodin’ every corner.
His thumb strokes inside, his fingers massagin’ her clit until it heats the nerves. “Your pussy’s beggin’ me to stay right fuckin’ here.”
She’s noddin’ so fast, her neck’s a spring as she presses herself down onto his knuckles, rockin’ against his touch.
He chuckles, thrusting his thumb to the knuckle, curlin’ slowly, his voice droppin’ low to a groan, “You’re so fuckin’ wet.” Over her shoulder, his smile’s painted erotic, keepin’ two fingers movin’ filthy on her clit. “You’re soakin’ my fuckin’ hand—damn, sweetheart.”
Her thighs clench, embarrassed. “Oh Lord, I’m sorry—”
But he palms her ass, squeezin' and spreadin' her cheek, draggin’ her back into him. “Nah. Don’t apologize. You keep makin’ a mess for me, I’ll keep goin’.”
He pumps in a torturing rhythm, his breath hitchin’ at the wet sound.
“Jesus…” he breathes. “You always get this wet, or this ‘cause’a me?”
“You,” she whines, fuckin’ down on his fingers, sloppy and shameless. “Just ‘cause’a you, Andrew Harding. Oh my God—” breath breaking, “I’m with Andrew Harding…”
He breathes against her, stirrin’ her open wider, his hand slidin' up her belly and grabbin' her hip. “And your pussy feels so fuckin’ good in his hand.” Somethin’ warm leaks out, and he coats her up the middle, smears it over her clit.
She gasps, forehead droppin’ down on the wall as he paints her heat with her own mess.
“Look at you—filthy as hell. All this?” He shakes his head. “It’s fuckin’ lethal.”
She’d never believe those words from anyone’s mouth, especially not his. But the way he’s lookin’ at her when he says it? The way he’s touchin’ her? She almost does.
And for the first time in her whole damn life, she don’t wanna hide.
He reaches up and grabs a handful of breast, squeezing soft.
“Yes. Oh my—” She can’t stop the way her hips buck back against him. “Oh—feels so good.”
She should be humiliated, exposed, dirty, but she don’t.
Not when a daytime galaxy’s floatin’ through her veins.
She sinks chest-first into the wall with a smile.
Skin flushed, she's soakin’ warmth everywhere.
“There you go, sweetheart.” His thumb's stuffed inside her while his heavy fingers keep a dizzy rhythm on her clit. And his lips fallin’ open again, breath spillin’ hot steam on her neck. “All'a you's sexy as fuck.”
The orgasm’s summer heat climbin’ through her, like the sun’s beatin’ down on her. She can’t catch a breath that don't fight back. And it feels like she’s floatin’. And Lord, she ain’t never floated before.
“I’m fixin’ to…” she whimpers, voice cracked and gone, blood bloomin’ heat. “I’m gonna—”
“You're gettin' there, huh? Hold it for me. I ain't done with you yet."
He slips two fingers between her slit, splits it open and drags down, sinkin' his long fingers inside, then grinds slow, makin’ her slick seep out and slide down her thighs.
His other hand slides down the front of her, catching her clit.
He pumps steady at first, then faster, until her legs shake hard, the pleasure stretchin’ out, reachin’ for the climax.
Then she breaks, her whole body jerkin’ when it ropes her right up.
Blood burnin’, breath stuck, bones rattlin’, it bursts out of her, warmth spillin’ through her like her soul’s been holdin’ back for years.
It breaks her into pieces, mouth hung open with a moan, throat raw, eyes wide.
It's a lasso wrapped tight around every limb, every muscle, the orgasm tyin’ her up where she can’t move. All she can do is take it.
Then her whole body goes slack, chest rising and fallin’ fast.
Her spine sinks into the heat of him, legs useless, arms heavy.
Her mouth parts with a moan— “Oh my Lord…”
She melts against the wall, her whole body buzzin’ and ruined.
She stares at the brick, wonderin’ what that girl in the tub woulda said if she knew this was waitin’ for her on the other side of her tears.
Ain’t no way this’ll happen twice. This feelin’ don’t come back.
She knows it ‘fore his hand leaves her. This might be the best she’ll ever feel in her skin.
And it ain’t ‘cause of what he did. It’s how he did it.
With desire. With how he touched her body like he’d been waitin’ on her for years, and how he’s holdin’ her like she’s the best thing that ever happened to him.
And she knows it in her chest, in her gut that this?
This ain’t just the first time bein’ touched like this.
It might be the only time.
“That do it for you, sweetheart?”
She nods, starin’ at the wall, and she’s cryin’ and she don’t know why.
“Good,” he says, kissin’ the back of her shoulder. He gathers her clothes up off the floor and hands ‘em to her, helpin' her hook her bra back on. “Hate leavin’ you here like this, but I gotta get back before Matty fucks up the solo.”
Her chest stutters, her fingers shakin’ now that it’s over.
He fixes her shirt, offerin’ a grin. “I’ll look for you after, aight?”
But she can’t speak.
She’s afraid to meet his eyes, knowin' it’ll break her heart.
All she can do is nod.
Then Andrew Harding leaves her behind, same as the rest of them—grateful and grieving and gone, thinking he’ll find her after the show, but he won’t.
We’ve heard the whispers.
We know he never looks back.
And we follow.
Through the narrow backstage turns.
Past the flyers taped to the wall.
Then he slips into the bathroom.
The door closes behind him, shutting us out.
When it swings open again, two girls are waiting,
shoving him right back inside.
Door’s pulled shut, lock flipping with a click.
Another ten or fifteen minutes pass.
The girls exit, legs shaking, leaving Andrew inside.
A few more minutes later, the door opens for the third time,
and he’s finally on the move.
He cuts across the floor.
Through the smoke and sweat and drunk-haze of the crowd.
He jumps on stage right at the front.
The lights hit him.
His hand finds the strings.
And he’s back, late as hell.
The room exhales after waitin’ for him all night.
We know that sound. We’ve made it. Because the basement breathes differently when he’s up there. Just like we do.
The can lights burn a halo around his silhouette.
The stage soaks up his sweat.
The mic reaches for his mouth.
The air carries his sound.
Vice knows him. Opens for him. Moans under him. Holds him every time he scans the room like someone’s missin’.
It’s the same at the end of every night he’s here. An empty stretch of silence between songs, tryin’ to remember someone he never knew.
A face he hasn’t seen yet.
A name he can’t form in his mouth yet.
And it guts him, the not-havin’ of it. Whatever or whoever it is.
Sometimes he sings sideways into the mic, trying to reach her beyond the ceiling and walls, holding the mic close, sweat sliding down the blue vein pulsing in his throat, staring into the dark knowing not ever having her is worse than losing her.
And he plays like he’s searching, hoping if he bends the string the right way, holds the note long enough in his mouth, she’ll finally show. Appear right there in the back. Not that he knows who she is, only that he knows she’s not here. And this hole inside him’s been there a long time.
But it never lasts.
Not the look, or the ache on his face, or the hope.
He always reels it back in, always been good at pretending.
He breathes once, licks his lips, returns to the music to help him forget again. And right before the final track ends, his eyes wander the room, choosing the last girl to settle into.
We all hold our breath. We all want to be the one.
But tonight, it’s her.
Dead center, three feet away. Been there since the doors opened, wearing a mini skirt and a leather jacket.
Her stare’s too wide, with eyes sayin’ starve me, feed me, kill me.
He grabs the mic like it’s got her name on it, the music trailing behind him. He holds her gaze, holds her in the music with him, the guitar breathing her in, like he’s gonna make her feel something.
And for thirty seconds, she does.
For those thirty seconds, he belongs to her.
Then he tears his eyes away, ripping Talia wide open.
Her breath pours out like he’d been holdin’ her fuckin’ lungs hostage.