10 Everleigh You Again—Jonah Kagen
Everleigh
You Again—Jonah Kagen
Turning over for what feels like the fifteenth time, I stuff the pillow and attempt to get comfortable. My little sanctuary above Cassidy’s pub feels lonely tonight. The solitude that’s long brought me comfort now feels like a tight jacket that doesn’t quite fit.
Flipping to spreadeagle flat on my back, I let my fingers trail over my mouth. It still tingles. The feeling comes roaring back to the surface each time I think about Leo opening a whole new world of sensation to me with his commanding mouth.
It’s not like I haven’t been kissed before. In the early days of my marriage, I even slept with Christopher a couple of times. It was perfunctory and awkward. He soon gave up trying and was content to trot me out as his prized trophy wife while maintaining his disgust for me behind the scenes.
Touch became a distant memory.
A sharp hunger pain in an inaccessible place.
My mind wanders to the tattooed goof with more love in his heart than some will experience in a whole lifetime. He didn’t just bring me in out of the cold and claw me back from dissociation’s sharp precipice—he gave me something I’ve never found beyond self-inflicted pain.
He made me feel again.
That kiss awoke something deep within me that I didn’t know existed. The uncertainty was inconsequential once his lips found mine and I dared to let that feeling sneak inside. Then I couldn’t get enough.
Mouth still tingling, my fingers trail lower, teasing my throat and collarbones. I’m sleeping in the oversized Hawkthorpe Masonry T-shirt and underwear, letting the rough fabric offer a constant reminder of the other morning.
My eyes squeeze shut, blotting the dim moonlight out. Desire never factored into the equation in my marriage. Christopher’s abuse came in other forms, but he still punished me. I was simply starved of touch instead of receiving it unwanted.
Fireworks explode underneath my fingertips, lifting the T-shirt enough to splay across my belly. That ache . . . it’s warm. Scalding even. Excruciatingly painful in its unrepentance. Hand coasting higher, I gasp when my nipples tighten into hard diamonds under the friction.
You continually disappoint me, dear wife.
I know I don’t deserve pleasure or love. Not when I haven’t earned it. But despite Christopher’s bark echoing through my mind, threatening to dull each new sensation, I roll a firm bud between my fingers and moan at the rush it creates.
You’re disgusting. A failure. Worthless.
Squeezing my breast to the point of pain, that sick voice is forced into a far corner.
All my focus is on the slick heat gathering beneath my panties, making my thighs press together.
I don’t want to think about my husband. Not when Leo’s frantic kiss and how it felt to take control is still so fresh.
Tweaking my nipple again, my other hand dares to chase a path south. It dances at the apex of my thighs, plucking the edge of my underwear, giving me time to wrestle my doubts back into their mental lockbox.
Leo called me beautiful.
He showed me that touch can be exquisite.
I want that. I want him.
His face fills my mind as I seek beneath my panties. Those generous lips capable of performing miracles, eyes perpetually full of hope and humour, glinting piercings adding an edge to his playful personality. Dark, swirling ink that entices me to see how much of his muscular body it covers.
My quiet moan rebounds around the bedroom when I locate my clit and press down on the tingling nub. It tightens and puckers under the onslaught, singing with each circling motion. Wetness coats my finger, easing the slow, exploratory strokes.
Head thrown back, I moan again when my middle finger travels lower still to find my entrance. I’m soaked to the core, folds slippery with desire, thighs trembling with the need to find a release. The feeling intensifies when I push a digit inside myself.
“Oh . . . God,” I softly whine.
My pussy clamps around my finger, soaking it in moisture. Easing back, then thrusting deeper inside myself is agonising pleasure. I’m tight from lack of experience, but the burn only spurs me on. I need to know what I’ve been missing for all these years.
You’re breathtaking.
Yes. I want to be haunted by Leo’s voice instead. His praise. His adoration. It turns my blood to treacle and makes my core spasm in frenzy. Feeling brave, I urge a second finger into my slit, feeling myself stretch around the digit.
“Leo,” I pant out. “Yes.”
Spine curving, I let my imagination run wild. The fantasy of what it would feel like to have Leo here—kissing me, touching me, exploring my body—is an intense fuel. I want to feel his hands on me, his heat inside me, playing my body in the role of a masterful musician.
The image changes when another strides into the imaginary room to assert his place. Shoving Leo aside to drink his fill of my writhing body, standing shoulder to shoulder with his adoptive brother, united in their mutual thirst.
The thought of Sterling even considering me like that makes my inner walls clench. He let me snuggle into him in a vulnerable moment, shielding me from the world and its horrors. Seeing my brokenness in all its glory didn’t scare him off like it would others.
Sterling stayed.
He . . . helped.
In the safety of the bedroom, I can contemplate what it would be like to graze his stubble and seek out those narrow but beckoning lips. Would he kiss me roughly? With passion and abandon? Or coax my heart into the palm of his hand with a soothing, reverent touch?
It should be wrong to fantasise about them both. I know that. But the forbidden dream is oh-so-potent, I can’t help exploring the thought. They’re night and day. A deadly combo of ice and fire that would surely ruin me.
If only.
Another flick over my solid nipple and I feel my body tensing up, preparing to come undone. Wetness sluices over my fingers and hand while my stomach flip-flops, overrun by drunken butterflies.
My eyes fling open as the orgasm hits all at once. A battering ram punches into me at the moment my limbs turn to satisfied jelly. My entrance pulses, hugging my fingers, until the seismic shift melts into delicious aftershocks.
I slump on the mattress, wet hand slipping from between my thighs. Little pants fill the silence of the empty pub. In the darkness, I can ignore the guilt that wants to arise. I’m longing for men who don’t even know my real name. They’ll never truly know me.
But for once, the sadness can’t take root. I’m relishing in the freedom of embracing everything my body craves. Being touched and toyed with. Given pleasure without the promise of later anguish. Leo wasn’t kissing me for show in front of a crowd to maintain his perfect image.
He kissed me in private. Completely alone, hidden from the world. He kissed me because he wanted to. That knowledge is even more potent than his drugging lips and warm tongue. I never thought it possible until now.
Drifting on a cloud, I’ve almost slipped into a satiated sleep when fear bolts through me.
Smash.
The sound of shattering glass is akin to a thunderclap breaking dead silence. In the aftermath, all I can hear is my own heartbeat.
Smash.
Another blast, emanating from the pub a floor below me. I bolt upright in bed and clutch my chest, a noose cinching tight around my throat. I’m alone. Cassidy, Maverick, and all the customers left hours ago when we closed up.
I’m flying fast on autopilot while shoving dirty jeans on and frantically debating my options. I don’t have a phone or any way to contact Cassidy without going into the tavern’s small office downstairs. As it’s the off season, she doesn’t have a 24/7 receptionist.
Barefoot and panicking, I peer through a gap in the curtains. The winter’s night is deathly quiet. Then there’s another crash from downstairs, and the fog is suddenly illuminated, an orange glow flickering across slick cobblestones.
The glow rapidly intensifies, my heart leaping out of my chest when a screech erupts overhead. The fire alarm commences wailing loud enough to wake the dead.
“Shit,” I gasp in shock.
Screaming and banging my fists on the window, it takes a few stupefied seconds until I realise how futile it is. I’m alone but for the squealing alarms around me. Even if it calls the emergency services, I still can’t wait for them to come.
Fight or flight kicks in faster than my mind can catch up. I race over to the door, tossing back the old lock to bolt into the corridor. The stench of rising smoke hits me squarely in the face.
Already the flames are curling up the stairs, carrying the scent of accelerant. Ancient carpet surrenders, adding fuel to a fast-building inferno. With the age of the building, it’s ripe prey for the fire to spread.
Panic disintegrates into pure, primal horror. With smoke slithering into my nose and throat, causing my eyes to stream, I search for the fire escape signs and stop dead.
All pointing downstairs.
The pub’s only exit.
Possibilities crowd my thinking, sending me into a frenzy. Someone will hear the alarm. We’re in the centre of town. The question is whether I’ll still be alive when they come to help or melted into ash.
Heat scorches my face, climbing higher and higher with every second. Fuel, burning carpet, and heady black smoke form an anaesthetising haze. I can hardly see through tears boiling on my cheeks.
There’s no other way out. The realisation is harrowing. My only option is to flee downstairs and out. Retreating into the bedroom, I desperately search around, willing an idea to come forwards.
“Help!” I scream uselessly. “Someone help me!”
Like I haven’t spent my entire life screaming for help and being ignored. No. I’m not going to die here, and if I wait to be saved, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.
Another glance outside and still no sign of approaching blue lights. It’s too high to consider jumping. Spitting a curse, I search around the room on a swivel, begging for a saviour.