Chapter 19 Impedance #6
He gives me a dirty look. For a second I’m giggling on the high of teasing him, then there’s his belt clinking undone, the catch of a zipper, brushes of fabric as he takes himself out, and the smile dies on my lips.
I am looking, and he isn’t. He doesn’t watch for my reaction.
Just takes himself in hand, pumping up and down.
His cock is hard, long and thick in a way I didn’t think possible.
I glance at the way he’s stroking himself, then away to the couch, then at him again, and ask, “Doesn’t it . . . get in the way?”
It’s a mortifying question, and I want to air-fry myself out of this plane of existence the second it’s out of my mouth, but Jack’s not listening.
His eyes move rapidly all over my body, like I haven’t been almost naked in front of him for the past ten minutes.
“You really are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs.
“You said you don’t care. That you barely notice. That there are lots of beautiful women.”
“I don’t know.” He’s usually so confident, but right now he sounds as disoriented as I feel. “With you, I notice.” He nips wet kisses down my jaw. “You think you can come again?”
Impossible to tell. I haven’t come with another person before, and an improvement rate of 200 percent seems steep, but maybe? I’d rather be present for this, though. Study him. Know what Jack looks like when he’s not fully in control. “I think I don’t want to.”
He nods, and what happens next is not really for me.
He steps between my thighs and angles the underside of his cock so that it hits my clit.
It has us both gasping, but it’s about what he wants.
As is the way he slots the head against my opening, and the long moment he leaves it there, grunting, a turning point in the multiverse, where two futures exist: one in which he pushes in and fucks me, the other in which he follows those inflexible rules of his.
Unfortunately, Jack Smith-Turner is a stickler.
It occurs to me that I could be doing this for him. I could be more than just a warm body and slender arms looped around his neck. “Should I—”
“Not tonight.” His movements are picking up, knuckles brushing rhythmically against my slit.
“I just want to look at you. Know you’re here.
” He uses my slick to make himself wet, hard, fast pulls, and after just a handful of seconds I see the tension in his arms, the muted tremors in his fingers, how close he already is.
“Shit, Elsie.” His voice is urgent. A little desperate.
His forehead presses against mine. “There were days, these last few months, when you were all I could think about. Even if I didn’t really want to.
” Then a choked “Fuck” that feels like a rush of breath against my lips, and I know he’s there.
I think he’ll finish with a growl, make a mess out of me, maybe admire his handiwork, but that’s not what happens at all.
Instead he pulls back so that his eyes can hold my own till the very last moment, glassy and nearly all black.
His free hand searches blindly, frantically.
It grabs mine when he finds it, twining our fingers together in a tight grip, and that’s when I know.
When I realize deep in my belly that for Jack this is not about friction or about fucking.
It’s not even about coming, or about anything else I might have stupidly suspected.
This is about him and me. And the possibility of something that goes far beyond the both of us.
“Elsie,” he mouths when he comes. He seems to retreat into himself, to dig deep into his head to deal with the shocking pleasure of it and avoid losing his mind, and all I need to do is hold him tight to remind him that yes. I’m here. With him.
I’m here.
It’s downright terrifying, what this could be.
What I want it to be. It makes me tear up, and then it makes me sob, and then it makes me clutch at Jack for dear life, the splotch of his semen sticking to his shirt and my stomach, pooling in my belly button.
To his credit, he doesn’t ask me what’s wrong.
He doesn’t beg for explanations. He just holds me close, both arms wrapped around me, even when my tears morph into giggles, like I’m some crazy, unstable girl who doesn’t know what to be or what to feel.
Wait. That’s exactly who I am.
I laugh. Then I laugh some more. Then I cannot stop. The movie is over, “15 Step” by Radiohead bafflingly plays during the black-and-white end credits, and I’m laughing again.
“You’re ruining the moment.” His lips curve into my throat, winded like he just finished an Olympic race.
“I’m so sorry. I just—”
“What?”
“Just wondering if you still think it’s ‘too soon.’ ”
He slaps my butt. I yelp and then keep on laughing.
“Yes.” He maneuvers back and angles my head so that I’m looking at him. “It’s really soon. But the only person who can slow us down is you, so . . .”
“So what?”
He pushes a strand of sweaty hair behind my ear. His eyes are worried, and warm, and empty of everything that’s not us. “Be gentle with me, Elsie. That’s all I ask.”