Chapter Thirty
Dancing with Ellie is surreal. The only thing that would make it better is if I could feel what she’s feeling. The vibrations of the music. The pounding of the baritone. But no matter how hard I try to feel the music instead of hear it, I fail.
I don’t want to be deaf. I just want to understand it better. And I fear I’ll never be able to. Not really. Even people who aren’t born deaf, but lose their hearing later, have some sense of sound. When they ‘feel’ the music, they can recall what it sounded like. When they see a bird, they know what sound it makes. When their lovers mouth the words ‘I love you,’ they can imagine what it sounds like.
To have been born deaf, however—profoundly deaf—with no exposure to sound whatsoever, there’s just no way for a hearing person to truly understand what it’s like.
I can’t say how often I’ve thought about the time Ellie asked how I would describe sound to someone who can’t hear. Obviously she’s well educated. She knows the concept of sound. But she’ll never know if what she thinks of as sound is actually sound at all.
One thing is true. Ellie is proving you don’t have to hear to dance. Because, holy shit, the way she presses against me during slow songs. Watching her sexy moves during fast ones. Letting her take the lead and following her sway. All in silence, while the music blares around me. And when we’re close—like we are right now—my arms around her, with no use of our hands for speaking, it’s like this entire last hour has been nothing but intense foreplay.
When I can’t take it any longer, and my entire being screams for the unspoken promises she’s all but guaranteed me with the movements of her body against mine, I lean back, reluctantly letting her go so I can use my hands to talk. I swipe a thumb down her jawline then sign, “Should we drive home?”
Her face cracks into a grin, then she covers her mouth and full-on laughs.
I furrow my brow and hold out my hands, palms up.
“You said ride mustache,” she signs, slowly fingerspelling the last words. I can see the blush overtake her face even in the dim light. Then she proceeds to show me the difference between ride and drive, and then home and mustache.
I see where I went wrong. But can you blame me? I’m hornier than a three-peckered Billy goat. In the state I’m in, it would be difficult to speak my first language let alone sign.
Now I’m the one laughing. I wink and sign, “Happy to grow a mustache.” I have to fingerspell grow because I have no idea how to sign it.
She shows me of course, and damn, my erection is what’s growing now as we stand here and talk about this. “Leave now,” I sign, then take her hand and pull her behind me to the door.
A short while later, having driven faster than usual back to her place because of the situation in my pants, I pull into her lot, park, then turn off the car. But despite what happened a few minutes ago, I don’t get out. I don’t want to presume anything no matter how much I want to follow her upstairs, strip off her clothes, and have a repeat of three weeks ago.
Three weeks of knowing what it’s like to be with her and not being able to has been pure torture.
Three weeks of dreaming, fantasizing, and masturbating. A whole lot of masturbating.
Three weeks of being incapable of getting this silent beauty out of my head.
I sit back, look at her, and stretch an arm across her headrest. Ask me.
Dr. Stone is intelligent. She’s driven. She’s always taking the upper hand. Except when it comes to me. When it comes to me, or more specifically, sex, she’s as shy as grapevines in winter. Sometimes I wonder, though, is it really shyness, or is it something else? She once said she had dated a lot of guys, but never really had relationships. It makes me wonder if she’s just shy with me, or is it all men? Or am I mistaking shyness for apprehension? It must really do a number on a person to find out they’re unwanted by another human.
Maybe what I perceive as shyness is really armor. Walls she’s erected to keep from getting close to anyone.
I stare into eyes that I know are blue even though it’s dark and I can’t see them clearly. I stare into them knowing I want to break down those walls. Remove that armor.
“Good job tonight,” she signs by the light of a streetlamp.
I hold out my hands and bow my head in pride even though I know my signing is still very rudimentary.
She’s waiting for me to ask her. Ask me.
She chews her lip, a sure sign of nervousness. If I’ve learned anything from Ellie, it’s how to pick up on non-verbal cues. I’m glued to my seat watching her teeth work her lower lip, the twitch in my pants proof of how much I’m enjoying the show.
She huffs out a breath and I try not to smile.
“Did you have fun?” she asks.
“Always fun with you,” I sign. Or at least I think I do. I’m a bit unsure of the word always. Ask me.
She swallows, glances out her window, and then back. “You want to”—she hesitates—“ask me something?”
I throw her signs right back at her. “You want to ask me something?”
It’s funny how I’ve learned to put emphasis on a single word merely by changing my expression. Yeah—she’s a good teacher.
Another audible huff.
Why her uncomfortable awkwardness makes me even hornier, I have no clue. Fucking ask me.
I’m about to give in to this standoff when she bites her lip once more and signs, “Come up?”
“Show me never,” I fingerspell the last word, not knowing the sign.
She looks taken aback for a moment, then goes in full-on teacher mode and shows me the sign, doing a half circle in the air with her flat palm then ending in somewhat of a karate chop. The sign resembles something like a question mark.
Finally I smile. I smile big. Because I just tricked her. “Thought you’d never ask,” I sign.
She’s an expressive person, and I see relief cross her face right before she playfully slaps my thigh. I trap her hand and hold it against me. She goes to sign with the other, but I reach out and stop her.
“No words,” I sign. “Not with mouth or hands. Nothing.”
She stares into me with dark, revealing eyes. She gets me. She forbade me from speaking. Now I’m forbidding her from signing. There will be no talking at all. What on earth will we ever do?
Surprising me, she climbs over the console and onto my lap, lowering her head to crush her lips against mine. Holy shit, I’m a fucking genius.
Having her in my lap brings back all the feelings I got on the dance floor and more. I’d unzip my fly and push her panties aside right here if we weren’t parked underneath a streetlamp. Or maybe if I were five years younger. But Ellie Stone is not someone you bang in the front seat of a car. She’s someone you take your time with. Someone you worship. Someone you make love to, not fuck.
And for the first time in my life, a girl is sitting on me and making my dick hard, and I’m thinking of her, not me. Not my needs. Because this woman needs a man who isn’t like her birth father. She needs a man who accepts her for everything she is. A man who won’t leave her. One who will always tell her how special she is. Not because she’s deaf, but because she’s amazing.
I open the door and carefully slip out, keeping her in my arms. She looks up at the light and wriggles out of my hold. I let her go, but only because I know in sixty seconds, she’ll be right back where she was. Where she belongs.
She may have removed herself from my arms, but I still grab her hand. I grab it tightly even when she tries to pull away. She looks at me. I challenge her with my silent stare. She shakes her head, relaxes her hand in mine, and pulls me along. Quickly. Because she doesn’t want anyone to see the handholding? Or because she can’t wait to be straddling me again?
My question is answered when we enter her apartment and she throws down her purse, unaware it came open sending its contents dancing across the floor. Then, she’s back in my arms, staring into my eyes, conveying everything she wants me to do to her without a single word, motion, or sign.
On the way to her bedroom, she taps on my shoulder, pulls out her phone and nods to the kitchen counter. I set her down, take my phone out of my pocket, and hand it over. She leaves both of them in the kitchen.
When we enter her bedroom, she leaves the light off and shuts the door. We’re in total darkness with the exception of a small glow coming from a streetlamp outside her window. Wow, she’s really going all in with this. Dark and quiet.
My cock hardens knowing this night is going to be all about touch. Touch without signs or words. Touch without anything else. I wish I had earplugs with me. Something to mute the ambient sounds of faraway traffic. Of the occasional voice coming from the sidewalk. Of dogs barking in the distance. I want to be immersed in only her.
We carefully navigate our way to the bed. She leads the way as there’s not even enough light to see the outline of furniture. The box spring squeaks as she sits on the bed. I extend a hand, searching for her face. I cup her chin and lower my mouth to hers, capturing her lips with mine as I press her back against the mattress.
I’m so completely aware of every little noise. Our clothes rustling. Her breath hitching. Hell, I can almost hear my heart pounding. But Ellie isn’t aware of any of that. She’s surrounded by both darkness and silence, a circumstance that would scare most people. But not her. Or maybe she is scared but trusts me enough to be okay with it. The thought has me reeling. I want her to trust me. I need it.
“El—” I start to say when I pull back to catch my breath.
I freeze, my voice echoing in my head. I hope she didn’t feel me speak.
Hungry hands running down my back tell me she may have been too preoccupied to notice. I vow to remain silent. To immerse myself in this experience that is already unlike any I’ve ever had.
Kissing her again, my hands snake across her body, feeling every curve over the silky material of her dress. After palming her breasts and pinching her stiff nipples, I work my way down, push the fabric aside, and find her pussy drenched. I moan, then realize my mistake and go still. She puts a hand on mine and presses it firmly as if begging for more. Okay, so moaning is allowed then. Encouraged, perhaps.
When I touch her clit, she moans herself. It’s a soft, muted, high-pitched mewl that makes me feel all-powerful. I glide a finger inside her and she arches against me.
I can’t take it anymore. I need skin against skin.
When my hand pulls away, a pouty huff escapes her, making me smile. She’s as needy as I am. I feel around her back for buttons, or a tie. I find a zipper. I lower it and wait for her to remove her arms, sliding the dress down her legs and off completely, taking off her heels in the process. Then I kiss my way up her legs and remove her panties, inhaling her intoxicating scent as I go.
Before I can put my mouth on her, she’s all hands, trying to remove my belt, but it’s stuck. I undo it, then let her tug it out of my jeans. It snaps back and thwacks me in the head. She has no idea it did, and I don’t tell her.
In no time at all, I’m naked next to her, my clothes and shoes strewn somewhere across her floor.
My hands waste no time getting back on her. First, the curve of her neck. Then her collarbones. Then her breasts. My mouth joins the party and I tongue an erect nipple, the taste of her skin nearly sending me tumbling over the edge. And her scent, the one that tells me she wants this, is overpowering.
It’s surreal how not using your other senses seems to amplify the ones you are using. We’re not hearing. We’re not seeing. So suddenly, touch, taste, and smell are ten times more powerful.
Her hand grips my cock and I groan in pleasure. I know she felt it. She works her hand up and down, increasing the pace. I’m at a total loss here. I’m about to come like a thirteen-year-old with a nudie magazine. If I push her away, she might get the wrong idea.
A finger gets pressed against my lips. Did I make another sound? No. Then why did she…
Jesus. I lose all train of thought when her finger leaves my lips and reappears down by my balls. She’s pumping me with one hand and the other is lightly teasing my ball sack.
Maybe she knew I wanted to say something. Something like last time when I told her I’d come too soon if she touched me. That was her way of letting me know she knew what I was thinking, but she was going to get me off anyway. Her putting a finger to my lips was her taking control.
Fuck, that’s sexy.
Either way, I’m too far gone now, so I commit myself to the task and lie back to enjoy the impending detonation.
All I hear is the sound of her breathing and the noise her hands make as they bring me closer to God.
My butt cheeks clench tightly, and I stifle a prolonged groan right before I feel my hot, wet cum spilling across my lower abs.
My head falls back hard against the bed, my body languid as I recover. The need to talk to her, to thank her for one hell of a hand job, almost has me turning on the light. But I don’t. Instead, I revel in the feeling of her snuggling next to me, waiting patiently for her turn. And what a turn I plan to give her.
Waiting for my energy to return, I’m disappointed when she pulls away. Then a moment later, I feel something swiping against my lower abs. She’s cleaning up my mess. I take the tissues from her and finish the job. Then I toss them… somewhere… and get to work, vowing to make her scream my name even if she doesn’t want to.
Palming her soft, silky skin has my dick twitching even though I just came. Still, I’m not about to sink myself inside her until, one: I’ve given her an orgasm she’ll never forget, and two: I’m hard as a rock and ready to fuck like Superman.
I don’t go right for the kill. I trail wet kisses across her breasts, down her rib cage, and along her right hip, bypassing her core altogether. She squirms under me as I tease her inner thighs with my five o’clock shadow. As I tongue the inside of her knees. As I kiss all the way down to her bare feet.
Working my way back up, still ignoring her wet center, she grabs my head and puts it where she wants it to be.
That-a-girl.
I work my tongue in and out of her, making love to her with my mouth as I taste the sweet tang of her arousal. I pull away, fearing I might sprain my tongue in my enthusiasm, and replace it with a finger. Then I add another. I feel her arch into me as I rub the inside of her, crooking my fingers to find the spot that will drive her wild.
I know the moment I find it. Her walls tighten slightly, and another faint sound escapes her. I smile, knowing she’s mine until I extract every last quiver. Adding my tongue back into the mix, I tease her clit. I run it in circles. Then side to side. Up and down. I lightly suck it into my mouth and she explodes under me. My fingers get tightly squeezed, her orgasm pulsating against them. My tongue continues to work her clit until she urges me away, too sensitive to receive any more.
I roll to the side and wipe my mouth with my forearm. Then a hand lands on my chest as if a dead weight had dropped onto it. I chuckle and grab it, holding it in mine as I listen to her breathing become calm and slow, envisioning her limp body basking in afterglow.
I’m fully hard again and ready to roll. But I’m struck by the question… does she want more? Do I break character and ask her? I want to see her. I want to see her eyes. But she chose to have it this way for a reason, so I remain still and wait for a… sign.
Her hand disappears and her weight shifts on the bed. Then her hand is back in mine, a little square package nestled between our palms. I’m not sure if I’m happy or bothered by the fact that she has her own supply of condoms. I choose to believe she bought them recently in anticipation. But curiosity has me already composing a text in my head to tactfully ask her how many guys there have been. And then another text telling her that there won’t be any more. Not after me.
I search for her face, careful not to poke her in the eye, and put my hand to her lips to see if she’s smiling.She’s not. Then again, I don’t think I smile after a good orgasm either. I just lie back and savor the moment.
Her lips capture one of my fingers, sucking it into her mouth as if it’s another part of my anatomy.
That, paired with the condom, is all the permission I need. I hastily pull my hand away, rip open the package and slide it on. She reaches for my dick and gives it a few tugs. Is she making sure I’m hard? Or checking to make sure I put it on? I momentarily wonder if she trusts men at all after what her wife-beating father did to her.
Pushing the thought aside, I move to get on top of her, but she pushes me back down. I feel her climb on top of me and guide me inside her, slowly at first, as if testing the waters. Then she comes down harder, fully seating my cock until I can feel the end of her. As she rides me, I only have my imagination to guide me in what she might look like. Is her head angled back? Is her mouth slack? Are her breasts bouncing with every movement?
Her hands explore my chest as her thighs do all the work to keep her sliding up and down my shaft. I grip her hips, helping with the motion. It’s not enough. I need to feel more of her. I cup her breasts. I work her nipples between my fingers. I feather my thumb across her clit to find it engorged again. I want her to come with me inside her. I need to feel her orgasm clench my cock and milk it until we’re both completely and utterly drained.
She moves faster. So do I. I lightly pinch her clit between my thumb and forefinger and she drives down onto me even harder. So I do it again. And then again. And once more, until she stills and spasms on top of me. I pump up my hips three more times, her name echoing off the walls as I join her in ecstasy.
She collapses down onto my chest and I wrap her in my arms. We lay this way, only beads of sweat between us.
Is there even a way to tell her she’s the best I’ve ever had? Once could have been a fluke. It had been a while. But twice? And this time was even better. It was an out-of-body experience. More intense than anything I’ve ever felt.
Is it because it was just us in the silence and the darkness?
It’s because you love her.
Still lying on my chest, she takes my hand in hers, places her other hand against my open palm, and… spells something? When I don’t react, she does it again. I focus all my energy on the tactile sensation and try to feel the letters. There are only three of them. W-O-W.
Okay, yeah. I definitely fucking love her.
I swallow at the thought. It’s not the first time I’ve had it. But it is the first time I’ve known it to be unequivocally, undeniably, indisputably true. Something flows through me. A lava river reaches the end of every finger and toe. It weaves through my body, warming every nook and cranny. Like a hand, it works itself right around my heart and squeezes. It squeezes hard. Because for the first time in my life, I fear I’m in a position I never thought I’d be in. I’m in love with someone who may not love me back.
The vulnerability of that slams into me like a bullet from a gun. I gently roll her off me and go into the other room.
Fuck. The word rolls around in my head as I pad out to the kitchen, still completely naked. I find a glass, fill it, and stand still, silently chugging water, hoping to calm the voices in my head.
I spy the fortune cookie container on the counter and wonder if it has any wise words for me.
Couldn’t hurt to see.
Reaching in, I swirl my hand around as if picking the next tribute in The Hunger Games and pull one out. I open it.
Your heart knows the right answer.
I stare at it long and hard, because… damn. Then I almost throw it out, knowing Ellie’s aversion to fortunes. Instead, I decide to leave it right where it is. Because maybe it’s something Ellie needs to read too.