The Weight of Him by Nora #2
I tasted sleep and black coffee and the faint salt of rain that had dried on his upper lip.
His tongue was slow and sure. I made a sound I didn’t plan and he swallowed it, then made one of his own, low in his chest, almost angry at how easy it was.
Clothes stayed on too long and not long enough.
His flannel was still buttoned. I worked the first one with fingers that weren’t steady.
He let me. When I got four open I put my mouth on the skin at his throat and felt him swallow hard against my lips.
He smelled like stove smoke and clean sweat and the pine that lived in everything up here.
I bit the tendon there, light, and his hand slid from my wrist into my hair and tightened until my scalp lit up.
“Say it again,” he said against my mouth. “While you can still talk.”
“I want this. I want your mouth. I don’t want you to stop unless I tell you.”
He kissed me harder for that. Then he stood, bringing me with him, and the height of him changed the whole room.
I had to tip my head back. His thigh pressed between mine through damp fabric and I felt how hard he already was, a thick, obvious line behind the fly of his jeans, and he still didn’t grind, didn’t rush, just let me feel the fact of it.
He stripped me like he was afraid of ripping what little I had left and also like he couldn’t stand another second of cotton between his hands and my skin.
Blouse first. The wet cloth peeled off my shoulders and hit the chair.
My bra was a simple thing, city-practical, and he stared at my tits like they were a problem he intended to solve with his mouth.
He thumbed both nipples until they pulled tight and dark, then bent and sucked one, slow, wet, noisy.
The sound of it — that filthy little pull — went straight down.
I held the back of his head and watched his jaw work and felt myself get slick without being touched below the waist.
“Fuck,” I whispered.
He switched breasts. Teeth this time, just enough to sting, then the flat of his tongue to take it back. My knees tried to go. He felt it. He walked me backward until the edge of the table met the backs of my thighs.
Jeans next. The button. The zipper. He went to his knees to get them down and the sight of 36 year old Cal Brennan on his knees in a line cabin, hat still on the nail, rain hammering the roof, his mouth level with my cunt, almost undid me before he touched me.
He dragged my panties down last. They were already wet. He looked at that, at the dark patch, and his throat moved.
“Sit,” he said.
I sat on the table. The wood was cold under my bare ass. He pulled my hips to the edge, hooked my knees over his shoulders, and put his face between my thighs like he’d been given an order he’d been waiting to obey.
He didn’t dive. He breathed first.
Hot air against wet skin. I could smell myself, sharp and slick, mixed with the woodsmoke. He dragged the flat of his tongue up the length of my pussy in one long, unhurried stripe that ended on my clit and stayed there, not flicking, just pressing, tasting, learning.
I jerked. A sound came out of me that the storm didn’t cover.
“That’s it,” he muttered against me, voice gone rough. “Let me hear it. This cabin’s already going to smell like you.”
He licked me open.
Slow. Filthy. He spread me with his thumbs and looked for a second like a man memorizing a map, then he settled in and ate my pussy like he had all day and the mountain owed him the time.
His tongue was broad, then pointed, then broad again.
He sucked my clit between his lips and hummed and the vibration punched a cry out of my throat.
I grabbed the edge of the table hard enough that the legs stuttered on the floor.
Wet sounds filled the small room. Slick. Soft. Obscene. My own breathing gone ragged on top of it. The occasional low noise from him, like the taste was making him angry in the best way.
He pushed two fingers into me while his mouth stayed on my clit. I was soaked. They slid in easy and he curled them and found the spot that made my hips try to leave the table. He didn’t let them. His other arm banded across my belly and held me down so I had to take the pace he set.
“Cal — fuck — I’m—”
“I know.” He lifted his mouth just enough to speak against my cunt. “Give it to my tongue. I want it dripping down my chin before I even get my cock out.”
That did it.
The orgasm hit from low in my spine and tore upward.
My thighs clamped on his head. I came on his tongue in hard, helpless pulses, pussy squeezing his fingers, clit throbbing against his mouth, a broken sound ripping out of me that didn’t sound like the girl who’d sat polite at Grant’s table.
Cal didn’t stop. He licked me through it, slower, greedier, swallowing what I gave him, making a mess of his own mouth on purpose.
I shook. I pulled his hair. He growled into my pussy and kept going until I twitched too hard and had to push at his forehead.
He eased back.
His mouth was wet. Shiny. My slick on his lips and chin. He looked wrecked and focused at the same time, pupils blown, breathing like he’d run the ridge.
He stood.
The bulge in his jeans was obscene now, thick and straining the denim.
He popped the button with one hand. The zipper sounded too loud.
He shoved the jeans down just enough to get his cock out and I saw him for the first time in the storm light: heavy, dark at the head, a bead of wet already at the slit, the vein along the underside standing up.
He wrapped his fist around it once, not stroking, just holding, like he had to remind the thing who was in charge.
He was hard enough to hurt. I could see it in the way his stomach jumped.
He did not step between my thighs.
He stood there shaking once, a fine tremor through his arms, and looked at my pussy still spread on the edge of his table, still twitching, still shiny from his mouth.
“Not yet,” he said, voice wrecked. “You asked for ruined. I’m not putting this in you until you can still look at me and say it with my taste in your mouth.”
Thunder rolled over the cabin like the mountain agreeing.
I was naked from the waist down on his table, ringing from the first orgasm he’d given me, staring at a cock he refused to give me yet, and the only road off this ridge was still a river.
I didn’t stay on the table.
My legs were still unsteady when I slid off.
The plank floor bit my bare soles, grit and old cold living in the grain.
I went to my knees in front of him because that was the next true thing, and because his cock was right there in the gray light, thick and wet at the tip, and I was done talking around it.
Cal’s hand hovered at my hair and didn’t grab yet.
He looked down at me like the sight of a 26 year old woman on his cabin floor, mouth already open, was a line he could still unsay.
Then I leaned in and dragged the flat of my tongue up the underside of his cock, slow, from the base where the hair was dark and coarse to the head, and the sound he made ended that argument.
Salt. Skin. A faint soap that hadn’t survived the storm. Under it, him — hotter than I expected, the taste already turning my mouth wet.
“Fuck, Nora.”
My name. Not Miss Ellis. It landed in my stomach and twisted.
I wrapped my hand around him. My fingers didn’t meet. I hadn’t let myself imagine the exact heft of it, the way it would fill a fist and still ask for more. I stroked once, watching the head push shiny through my grip, then I took him onto my tongue.
He was heavy. That was the first honest fact.
Not just thick — heavy, a living weight that made my jaw work from the start.
I sucked the head and let spit run. It striped his shaft and my knuckles and dripped to the floor between my knees.
The smell of him was stronger this close, musk and rain-damp denim and the leftover slick of my own pussy still on his mouth when he breathed.
His hand finally settled in my hair.
Not cruel. Firm. He didn’t shove. He held, guiding the angle so I didn’t choke on the first try, and his thumb rubbed once behind my ear like he couldn’t help being careful even while I had his cock stretching my lips.
“Easy,” he said. Voice scraped. “You don’t have to take it all. You just have to mean it.”
I meant it.
I pushed forward until he bumped the back of my throat and my eyes watered.
I gagged, a wet ugly sound that filled the little room under the roar of rain.
Spit surged. I pulled off, gasping, a string of it still connecting my lower lip to his cock, and I went right back because the sound he made when I gagged was worth the burn.
“That’s — Christ.” His hips twitched and he locked them down, thighs like stone under my free hand. “Don’t you rush me. I’ve waited too long to blow in two minutes because your mouth feels like that.”
I looked up. His face was tight, mouth open, the muscle in his jaw jumping. Storm light put a dull shine on the wet of his cock and on my chin. I felt filthy and exact. I felt like the version of myself Grant had never met.
I sucked him deeper on the next pass. Hollowed my cheeks. Used my tongue along the vein the way I’d felt it jump in my grip. When I gagged again I didn’t pull all the way off. I stayed there, throat working, tears slipping hot into my hairline, and let him feel the squeeze.
Cal’s head dropped back. The tendons in his neck stood out.
His hand tightened in my hair hard enough to sting and I moaned around him, the vibration running up his cock.
He cursed, low and wrecked, and still didn’t fuck my face.
He let me work. He let me learn the weight, the way the head flared when I pulled to the tip, the way his balls drew up when I rolled them in my palm, warm and tight and dusted with that same dark hair.
The floor chewed my knees. I didn’t care. Heat from the stove painted one side of my bare back. My tits hung heavy, nipples still tender from his mouth, and every time I bobbed, they moved, and I knew he was watching that too.
“Look at you,” he said. It wasn’t pretty talk. It was stunned and dirty. “On your knees in my cabin with a ring on your hand and my cock stretching your pretty mouth. You wanted ruined. This is what it looks like from up here.”