Chapter 25 #4
“I’ve never done that,” I confess, and he pauses at his work, his eyes lifting to my face. He looks shocked and faintly horrified, like I’ve just told him I’ve never eaten ice cream or seen the work of Michelangelo, like I’ve been living in a desert with only locusts to eat.
“You’ve never made yourself come? Ever?”
I shake my head on the pillow. “It always seemed wrong.” Which is a ridiculous thing to say, given what’s happening this very minute, but it’s true.
“I have dreams where it happens, but whenever I’ve been awake, I’ve never been able to bring myself to try.
The things I’d think about when I even considered trying seemed like confirmation that I shouldn’t—confirmation that something was sinful in me. ”
He moves then, sliding so he’s no longer braced on his hands but down on his elbows, our stomachs touching, his chest brushing against my breasts as he dips his face to mine.
“What things did you think about, little bird?” he asks in a murmur, his hips moving again, idly, lazily.
“Did you think about me? About what I did to you in the studio at Evelyn?”
I close my eyes, miserable, and nod.
His hips pick up speed. He likes this. “Did you think about what would have happened if we hadn’t been interrupted? What would have happened if I’d found you again later that night?”
“Yes. And…”
“And?”
I’ll never be able to open my eyes again.
It’s so awful to admit this, and yet it comes with a devastating kind of relief too, because I’m letting him fuck my numbed body right now—I’m letting him and I don’t hate it.
I’m even moving underneath him to catch more friction against my clitoris as he indulges himself, so what can I tell him that he will be surprised by?
That he might not have already guessed for himself?
“I think about what would have happened if you hadn’t stopped when I told you to stop.”
He pauses. I think he’s looking at me, but I can’t tell for certain because I still won’t open my eyes.
Even with the relief that comes from telling someone, even if the only someone I have is the very person who was so close to hurting me, I don’t know if I can stand to see his face right now.
To know if it’s smug or concerned or gluttonous—or all three.
It doesn’t matter. He bends his head so his lips are near my ear and says, “That’s really messed up, Birdie.
To think about that.” His hips start moving again—hard thrusts, punishing thrusts.
“It’s not right. It’s probably a good thing that you didn’t learn how to make yourself come because if you’d given yourself an orgasm while thinking about that, well… ”
A low noise leaves me. It could be misery stoked by his words or it could be the tension knotting itself in my hips as his body rubs against my clitoris.
“Truthfully, it might be as bad as letting someone fuck you like I’m fucking you now.
” He tuts between thrusts, kissing my jaw with what feels like pity.
“I hope you don’t come like this. That would be so fucked up, wouldn’t it?
If you came while I was using your numbed-up cunt like a toy, if you came thinking about what a bad, bad man I almost was. And I was already being so bad to you…”
He moves and suddenly I’m flipped onto my stomach, his hand underneath me and rubbing with firm, clever strokes, and then he’s got his chest on my back, coming back into me with long, rolling movements that only feel like pressure from inside.
But those fingers on my clit—I’m going to…
to finish. He’s right. I’m going to have an orgasm while I’m being treated like an object, something disposable, a warm hole.
I’m going to have an orgasm while the memory of the studio is vivid in my mind.
“I don’t want to come,” I breathe as I get closer to the edge. “I don’t want to be like this.”
“But I’m so glad you are” comes the low voice near my ear. “Otherwise, I’d be all alone.”
I come. I come after being numbed, I come while being taunted, and I come hard, the tidal contractions literally driving the air from my body, the overwhelming pleasure drowning me in raw, muscular bliss.
Tears drop onto the sheets below me, nothing to do with pain but everything to do with the insuperable crush of euphoria, and the climax bears on and on, less a tide than a flood, lasting longer than forty days—lasting until eternity.
Bell pets my clit until the very last wave, and then he flips me back over and rams into me without so much as a pause.
Our bodies slap together, and I’m more than numb.
I’m utterly limp, completely drained. Even my thoughts have vanished.
I’ve become an object for real, and he fucks me like one, like my cunt is a silicone thing kept in a drawer to be used and then tossed into a sink.
He plunges fast and he plunges cruel, and at the very end, he goes so far inside that his thighs shake with the effort of keeping him sheathed so deep.
He fills the condom with several long, hard throbs that I can feel even with the lidocaine.
“There,” he whispers when it’s over, his lips to my hair and his organ still buried inside my body. “Now we’re fucked up together.”