Boston (14 page)

He pulls back and looks at me, and his lips are wet with our spit and I want him back immediately and I make a moan of disapproval, but still, I love fucking looking at him, too—those cheekbones, those eyes, the long lashes, his smile. I could look at him for hours, I think and it blows me away that it’s okay: Right now I can look my fill, I don’t have to sneak little glances to try to memorize the planes and angles to enjoy later on, a secret illicit pleasure. No, he’s mine right now, all fucking mine, and I can stare and feast on him with my gaze and let my eyes soak up every single detail. Because he’s looking at me the same fucking way.

He reaches out both hands and puts them on my waist, and I gasp. “You got out of the scarf?”

He lazily unbuttons the top button on my shirt, then another, and flicks the fabric open to expose my bra. “Please, Abs. You were over my lap for quite a while. I had plenty of time to undo the knot.” He smirks. “Besides, you know you’d rather have me be in charge, right?”

He is right. I just don’t want to say it.

He looks into my eyes. “And I’m tired of one-handed pleasure, Abby. I’ve been doing one-handed pleasure ever since I fucking met you, just waiting for the chance to do… this. Tonight I’m putting both hands on you, baby, everywhere and anywhere I want.”

He opens another button, then another, and separates the fabric, revealing my bra. “Take the shirt off,” he says, and nods at the side of the bed. Wordlessly I slide the blouse from my shoulders and toss it.

“Now you’re the one who’s going to have her hands tied up,” he murmurs, dangling the scarf from one finger. “Once I’m done unwrapping you, that is.”

He reaches behind me and unsnaps my bra. “Off,” he commands, and I toss it aside, then look him in the eye as I show him my bare breasts. He sucks in a breath, and his gaze turns predatory. “Oh, Abs, you’ve got the prettiest tits,” he breathes at me, and then he pulls me toward him and leans down his dark head and his mouth is on my nipple.

I cry out at the touch; my nipples are already pebbled in the air under his gaze, and he’s licking softly with his tongue, sucking a little harder, biting down until there’s a small pop of perfect pain. I wail and grab at his hair, tugging hard, pulling, treating him roughly as he teases me with his mouth. I wiggle on his lap, finding his erection between my thighs and trying to adjust myself to just the right spot. He lets me do it, but just as I’m finding a rhythm, he puts both hands on my hips and stops my motion. He bites my bottom lip and slides my panties down to just under the swell of my ass, as far as they can go while I’m in this position.

“You want me to touch you here?” he asks softly, tapping one finger on my mound.

“Yes,” I moan, pushing into his hand.

“Ask nicely,” he says.

“Please,” I say. “Please, Boston, touch me.”

“Touch you where?”

“Touch my—pussy. My clit. Please rub my clit.”

“Aw, baby, I love to hear you talk dirty to me,” he murmurs. “Tell me exactly how to stroke you, Abby. Do you want me to rub like this?” and he draws one finger down over the top of my clit to my pussy, dipping in and arching his finger up to stroke inside. He does it again and again, until I’m shaking in his hands, then he switches the motion and rubs on either side of my clit. Left, right, again. “Or like this?”

I lean in and bite his neck, hard, making him groan in surprise. I suck where I bit and order, “The first way. Do that again. Please!” My voice trembles and my thighs tremble, too. I’m on my knees straddling his thighs, spread open, and his touch is making me weak.

“This?” He repeats the draw and glide inside.

I sob out in need. “Yes, please, Boston, if you keep doing that, I’m going to—”

“You’re going to come?” he asks, a smile in his voice. He stops touching me. “But remember what I said about making you wait? There’s still the matter of your spanking,” he reminds me, and then I’m back over his lap. “You did ask for it,” he teases me.

My body clenches with the unexpected stop of pleasure; the orgasm was on the way and now it retreats, and it’s almost painful, and I kick my feet at the covers. “Boston! Asshole. Don’t make me wait!”

He laughs and slaps my ass. “Take off your panties, Abby, and ask me to finish the spanking.”

I reach back and tug and wiggle to get them down to my knees, then he helps, takes them off the rest of the way. Then he grabs the scarf and dangles it in front of me. “Give me your hands,” he says, and I do, trembling. He ties me up softly, gently, my wrists in front of me. I could get out if I wanted to—but I don’t want to. I love this. He kisses me softly on the lips, then says, “Back over my lap, babe.”

I lie there, naked except for the scarf, the anticipation driving me insane. I can’t wait for what comes next.

“So let’s see how good I did my research,” he said, and I hear pleasure in his voice, and then his hand slaps down. Crack, crack. Once on each side. “I’ll start you out light, Abby, but trust me, I’m going to make you dance on my lap, baby, before I let you come.”

The next spanks are a little harder. He takes a break to rub my skin, and murmurs, “Now that I have you here? I fucking get how hot this is. It’s so sexy to have you here, laid open for me, your ass here for my hand. I can do what I want, and you’re trusting me to do this, and it’s fucking insane.”

He slaps again, and again. I moan and raise my hips up: More. He smiles. “You like that?”

I nod into the bedcovers and he admonishes me, “Words, Abby. Tell me.”

“Yes. More, Boston. Please.”

“Good girl,” he says, and whispers, “I love hearing you beg.”

Then he starts spanking in earnest, medium hard slaps at a steady pace. After a minute my ass is burning in the most sexy, thrilling way, and I start to wiggle on his lap. My clit is so engorged and swollen that the smallest pressure sends sparks of pleasure through my abdomen. I moan and wriggle; he notices, and lectures me, “Abby. You’re going to wait for it. Do you understand?”

“No,” I cry out. “It’s too hard to wait.”

“Too hard?” He rubs his hand over my ass. “You know what was hard, Abs?”

I moan and cry out. “What?”

“It was hard,” and he punctuates his words with little spanks, “to watch you every day while I was doing my work. It was hard to watch you prance around and show me your pretty bouncy ass all day and not be able to fucking touch you. It was hard to want to touch you and think you weren’t interested.”

“Ow,” I whimper, even though it doesn’t hurt. My exclamation is for the time we wasted, not being together. He rubs my skin with his fingertips and I push up into his touch.

“It was hard, Abby,” he continues, running his fingers down the cleft of my ass, between my thighs, “to have you tell me you didn’t want to sleep with me, when I could see your whole body craving it just like I did. It was hard to watch you watching me every day and then leave without following through. Tell me you’re sorry for that, Abby.”

“I’m sorry!” I cry out, and it’s true, so true, I’m more than sorry—and the apology is more to myself than to him, I suppose. Because what we’re doing now is so fucking fantastic, and if we could have been doing this all along, what the hell was I thinking by pushing him away?

“Yeah, I’m sorry, too,” he whispers, his voice a sensuous murmur. “But this is how I’ll forgive you. How do you like it?”

The only thing I can do is moan, because he touches me so softly that I might explode.

“You’re so wet,” he says, “and I’m glad it’s for me.” Then he smacks my ass again. “I’m going to get you even wetter before we move on.” Now his fingers are back between my thighs, working me until I’m dying for release.

His words make butterflies dance violently in my stomach, and that tickly sexy feeling I get—you know the feeling when a hot guy breathes on your neck?—it’s that feeling, but it’s coursing through my entire body. And in my pelvis, the delicious ache of an orgasm is growing. And the fantastic stinging on my ass makes it harder to hold out. I realize that I’m contorting, twisting left and right, trying to get my clit where I need it, but he holds me down, making me take each spank and touch and stroke exactly where he wants to put it.

Finally I cry out “Boston!” and I don’t need to say any more. Instantly his hand is rubbing me, up and down, over my ass, and his other hand is caressing my hair.

“Aw, baby, do you need something?” he teases me, but my breath is coming too gaspy and hard to answer back. Finally I choke out, “Boston, please, fuck me,” because that’s what I need, and it’s all I can say.

He slides out from under me and lies beside me, then pulls my body to his, stroking me. His eyes are flaming. “Tell me thank you for the spanking,” he half croons, half murmurs into my ear. He unties me and tosses the scarf aside.

I feel a new surge of need between my legs. “God, Boston, I need you now,” I demand, rubbing the front of his jeans with my hand. He’s so hard—so hard! And big. He sucks in his breath at my touch and pushes his pelvis into my grasp, and I rub up and down, tracing his outline. My other hand is on his chest, stroking his muscles. I can’t get enough of him, how he feels to my fingers. I’ve wanted this for so long.

“You want that? Oh, you’re gonna get it. But you’re gonna thank me first,” he warns.

I bite his earlobe hard and whisper, “Thank you for spanking my ass, Boston. It felt so fucking dirty and it hurts so good.”

And somehow those words make me insane with need. I cry out and arch my body into his, grabbing him hard again and digging in. I want to leave those scratches on his back. I want to bite him and mark his neck with my teeth. I want to have him so deeply inside of me that I feel it for days. I feel like a wild animal, scrabbling and grabbing, and he’s the same way. His hands are nearly frantic, grabbing, tugging, squeezing.

Finally he gets up and strips his jeans off fast. He’s naked underneath (of course he is), and his erection is huge, hard. I’m mesmerized by the sight of his cock. And as he stands there, his entire body muscled and toned to perfection, that glorious cock hard for me—for me!—I catch my breath and almost tear up at the utter perfection of this rough, sweet moment. He’s mine! Boston is naked and turned on and crazy for sex with me.

When he comes back to the bed, our bodies meld together without any words at all. Somehow we know exactly how to move together without discussion. Or maybe it’s that our hands and mouths are doing the talking. When he runs his hand up my torso and plays with my nipple, I run my hand down to encircle his cock and squeeze. When he squeezes my nipple, making me gasp out, I lick my palm and begin to stroke him, softly at first, then harder. “Yeah, go harder,” he urges me, so I squeeze tightly and move my hand fast, up and down, learning his size and shape. I love his cock in my hand. It’s hot and velvet and steel and pulses with life, with arousal, with sex.

He leans back and sighs, and I continue, then I tell him, “Boston, put your hands behind your head for a minute.”

He looks down his body at me, and narrows his eyes. “Oh, fuck me, Abby, you’re going to drive me crazy!” But in a flash his arms are there and I know he wants this badly, so badly that his cock twitches in my hand. I straddle him and lean down. First I rub my cheek against his cock and he makes a little noise in his throat, then I flick my tongue just over the very tip, where a drop of pre-cum is leaking out; I relish the salty taste—his taste. Knowing that I have Boston in my own mouth makes my pussy clench in arousal. This brings a harsher noise from him and his legs clench. I rub his powerful thighs—not an extra ounce of fat, everything is cut and lean and defined—then lick more deliberately all around the head of his cock.

He moans and murmurs, “Yeah, fuck, oh, Abby.” He shifts restlessly on the bed, pushing his pelvis up to my mouth. And then it’s game on. I take him into my mouth, as much as I can, and suck. I release and lick him, teasing him like a lollipop, then go back in for another long suck, then I take him as deeply as I can, until I’m gagging at the back of my throat and have to pop him out with a cough. I wipe my eyes; they’re already tearing up the way they always do from the effort of a BJ.

His voice is harsh. “Fuck me, Abby, god damn, the sound of you choking on my cock has me about ready to come.” He grabs my head and pulls me back down, and it feels rough, but I can also feel the tense control in his strong hands. He pushes me down until I feel his cock in my throat again, and I hold him there until I gag, and he releases me for a breath, then he pushes me down again. It’s a rough, fierce game and after a few minutes I’m dizzy with his taste and the limited breathing and the whole fucking scene, and I’m dying for his touch. I want him between my legs now, I need him to touch me, to lick me, to pleasure me. So the next time I come up for air, I gasp out, “My turn, Boston.”

“Oh, baby, I’ll fucking give you a turn,” he growls, and flips me onto my back. “Open your legs,” he orders, and then he buries his head between them and I scream out at the touch of his tongue to my clit. He grabs the sides of my thighs and begins to lick along my clit, long licks on either side, and short tiny teasing strokes just on top of it. Damn, he’s good with his mouth… this isn’t the kind of thing you pick up from reading a few websites. For a split second I think about Annalise and imagine his head between her perfect legs, but then the image is gone, because she’s gone. She is gone and I’m here, and it’s me who he’s licking, it’s me who has him so hard he can’t see straight.

And all I can focus on is that exquisite pleasure he’s bringing to life between my legs. Now he’s using a few fingers, too, driving into my pussy to rub and touch in between licks and strokes, and every once in a while he reaches out to rub my own juices over my breasts and tweak my nipple. And then he gives me a light slap on whatever part of my ass he can reach, and soon I’m insane, wriggling, moaning, bucking up into his mouth, his hand, anywhere that’s close to him. I have my eyes squeezed shut and my hands are fisting near my head and I’m just panting, begging him, “God, yes, keep doing that, yes, there, touch me there, fuck, oh, Boston, fuck, baby, that’s so sweet, yeah.”

I want to come so badly. I like waiting for it, because that feeling is magnificent, but I don’t think I can wait any longer. I open my eyes and he’s looking right at me, his face tender and passionate and fierce all at once, and I pull him down to kiss my lips. His body is hard and heavy on top of mine and I don’t care, I love it. I love feeling his weight and his crazy strength on me, his heat and his muscles, and I wind my legs up and around his to pull him closer.

He pulls his head back and holds my chin in his hand. “Abby, I want to make love to you right now,” he says urgently, and I almost cry to hear the word “love” on his lips. I love hearing him talk dirty, the sound of “fuck” in his East coast accent makes me burn, but “love” does something else to me, something deeper and more intricate.

“Okay,” I whisper, unable to look away. And although I want him inside me so badly, I almost don’t want this moment to end either, this moment where he’s looking at me with such tender passion and need. But at soon as I speak, he’s reaching for a condom, and then he’s back, his body hovering over mine. “You ready?” he whispers, and winks.

I’m about to say something smart-ass but then I feel his cock between my thighs. I’m so wet that my inner thighs are slick and shiny, and despite his size, he pushes in without any pain at all. I close my eyes again at the pleasure of being stretched and filled so well by his warm, pulsing cock—it feels so perfect, like he was made to fit me. As soon as he’s in, I wrap my legs around his back and squeeze, and he props himself up on one arm to thrust with more power.

“Does it feel good?” he asks. But he doesn’t wait for an answer before he thrusts again, pushing his cock in, then pulling out so slowly that it drives me wild.

“Go harder, go faster,” I urge him, pulling at his strong shoulders in supplication. But he doesn’t; instead he goes even slower, taking his time to pull out and then push in, and the sensation is such an exquisite tease that I can’t stand it.

“Boston!” I kick at his ass with one bare foot and he laughs and growls.

“You trying to spank me, Abby, with that delicate little foot of yours?” he asks.

I kick his ass cheek again, and he starts pumping harder, in a good deep rhythm. “This how you want it?” he growls, and I nod and gasp, “Yeah, like that, God.”

“Tell me what you like, Abby,” he demands as he fucks. “Tell me everything you want from me. I’m going to make every time for you so fucking good that you scream my name and forget than any other guy ever existed. Tell me!”

I reach up to bite at him, glancing my teeth off his shoulder, pulling ineffectively at his hair. “Boston, I want you to fuck me like this all the time.” There are more words, but they’re lost in the lightning pulsing behind my eyelids, and I let go and just enjoy the moment.

“Oh, Abby, you’ll feel my cock every day, baby, and my hand, and my mouth. I’m going to fuck your pretty pussy when I want to, and I’m going to fuck your mouth, too. And I’ll even fuck your ass, Abby. You like that?”

Yeah, I like that, and now the orgasm is coming up so hard and fast that I can’t hold it off.

“Boston!” I cry out. “I’m going to come.”

“I’m ready, too,” he pants. “Look at me while you come, Abby. Say my name. My real name.”

I look into his eyes and my words are pulled from me with the force of my passion. “Parker!” I wail, and my body explodes with such exquisite sensation that I can’t breathe for a few seconds. I’m frantic—I’m using my entire body strength to squeeze at his cock, to rub my clit along his edge, to twist him around inside of me to hit those spots that send sparks zinging along my spine and into my eyes and throughout my skin. It’s the most powerful feeling in the world, this burst of joy; nothing else matters but my body and his body and my burning need to squeeze every drop of sensation I can before the wave crashes.

It’s on him, too; he cries out and throws his body into mine hard, pulling at my hips with his hands, digging his fingers in hard, and he shudders and spasms in me as frantically as I’m grabbing at him. It’s so intimate to come together, both of us so wild and needy, and when the feeling finally peaks and subsides, I’m still so full of residual arousal that I lie beside him, panting, squeezing my thighs together again and again as each aftershock hits me and drives an electric spark of pleasure through my clit and pelvis. I moan out at each one, tossing my head around on the pillow, completely free and uninhibited as I milk my own body for all I can.

He’s panting beside me, and he puts one hand on my thigh and squeezes, and groans out a long sound of pleasure. When my sparks simmer down, I just lie there with my eyes closed, enjoying the after-burn thrumming in my belly, and reach my own hand out to drift around his chest and arm. It’s like touching my own warm Greek god, my very own Michelangelo sculpture, and I’ll never get tired of how he feels. He runs his hand over my belly, my breasts, my arm, too, as if he likes touching me as much as I do him.

I reach down to touch his cock in the condom; he’s semi-soft now, but still an impressive size. I stroke along his balls—I didn’t really play with those at all when I was sucking him. “Next time,” I think to myself with a smile, and run one finger along his inner thigh, then touch the place between his balls and anus. He starts a little and I push up on one arm. “Are you sensitive there?”

He nods. “A little, right now that I just came, everything there is sensitive.”

I move my hand back to his thigh. “Well, once you desensitize some, I’ll just have to play around over there to see if I can get you all hard again.”

He growls, pulls me to him, and bites my bottom lip. “I fucking can’t wait to have you play around down there, Abby.”

His mouth tastes of my sex and his own breath and I like the mixture. We kiss and I get lost in his mouth, and when we make love a second time, slow and sexy and passionate, I feel my heart slipping into his hands, and the really scary thing is that I want to give him all of myself. So I do. All that night, as we doze and then come together in each other’s arms time and time again, I give him everything I have.

***

We sleep in late—really late. So late, in fact, that we wake up to the doorbell. At first I’m confused—where am I? Why does the light feel so warm and slanted on my face? Then I realize and it comes back in a rush of emotion. I flush and he kisses me hard on the lips before jumping out of bed.

“That’s Lise,” he announces, “and Chelle. We’re supposed to be ready to shoot right now!”

He pulls on his jeans and starts for the bedroom door, then arrests himself; turns back. “Uh. Abby. You, um. Do you want me to let you… sleep in? Or you wanna get dressed, too?” His voice is uncertain. There’s a flush on his face.

I stiffen up. What does he mean? Is he trying to say he doesn’t want Annalise and Chelle to know that we slept together? “I’m fine,” I say, jumping up and grabbing for my clothes. “Just give me like five minutes, okay? I’ll be right out and nobody will have any idea.” I smile. “I need to head home anyway to get some… stuff. So, you know, I’ll get out of your way for the shoot. No worries.”

“No, I’m not worried,” he says. “I just, you know, don’t want to rush you, but we do have the shoot.” He sounds apologetic, then turns to the door, where someone is leaning on the bell.

I move like lightning, and I shove my feet into my sneakers and grab my hair in the ponytailer and run into the kitchen as he heads for the front door. I start coffee in the machine, hearing Chelle’s voice as she comes in: “Parker! You look like shit. Were you out whoring at the bar again?”

Her voice is teasing, but I stiffen up. I said I didn’t care about the morning after, but of course that was a lie. I do care. We never talked about anything, let alone exclusivity. I have no idea what he does or who he sees. I mean, I don’t think he’s dating anyone—wouldn’t I have known, with all the time I spent here? But hearing Chelle say that, like it’s a regular old thing for him, is like a knife through my lungs, and I say lungs because my breath comes in short, raspy bursts and I feel a pain in my chest.

“I’m gonna shower,” I hear him say. “I’ll just be five minutes. You wanna start setting up for today?”

The ground beans smell wonderful, and while the machine starts to grunt and burble, I remove my hair tie, smooth my curls, and rewrap the hair in a neater ponytail. I rub my eyes to get any eye goobers out and smooth down my shirt. I probably don’t look like someone who’s wearing two-day clothes, because the shirt really isn’t wrinkled, and I’m sure Chelle doesn’t have my clothing inventory memorized.

I hear random swishes and clanks and I know what she’s doing, because these sounds have meaning to me now; I can associate them with stands going up and umbrellas unfolding. It feels a little like I’m blind and reading my environment with the other senses. I should go say hi, but I need time to compose myself, so I stay in the kitchen, undoing and redoing my ponytail nervously, waiting for the slow percolation process to complete.