My Heart's Bliss (Hard Love & Dark Rock #3) (4 page)

And then he lifted each little cup, and gulped them down one after the other.

Chapter 6

Anne

When the Political Science class finally ended, I went straight to the Student Health Center.  I had to take a number and wait for forty-five minutes, but eventually a woman came into the waiting area and called on me.  She was tall, dark-skinned, with long dread locks that hung down over the shoulders of her white lab coat.  She leaned her weight on the door handle as she watched me stand up and come toward her.

"You seventy seven?"

I nodded, holding my hands tight together in front of my waist.

"Okay, honey," she said.  "Follow me."

In the room she had me take a seat, and then she sat down on rolling stool, and wheeled it up in front of me so that we were face to face.

"So," she said.  "What'd you come in here for?"

My throat went so tight I almost couldn’t answer.  I looked down at her name tag: Dr. Jackson.

"I'm scared I've got an STI," I whispered.

"Have you noticed any unusual vaginal discharge, any open sores or lesions?"

I shook my head no, feeling my face blazing with embarrassment.

"No unusual pain or discomfort when you urinate?  No itching or stinging in your genital area?"

"No."

"Any fever or loss of appetite?"

I shook my head.

"Why do you think you might have an STI?"

"I had unprotected sex with a guy."

"Vaginal or anal?"

"Neither."

"Neither?"

"Neither."

She gave me a look I couldn't read.  "What did you do?"

"Um, oral sex.  And we used our hands."

"Did he perform oral sex on you, or you on him?"

"Both.  Him on me and me on him."

"And did he have any sores or lesions, any unusual growths on his genitals?"

"No."

"No?  What makes you think he might have been infected with something?  Did he tell you he was?"

"No.  He said he was clean.  He said he'd been tested recently.  And a year ago, too.  And that he hadn't had sex since that first test."

"Do you believe him?"

I thought about that for a moment.  "I'm not sure.  I think so."

I thought of the internet gossip articles I'd seen, about him being in a mental health center and corresponding through the mail with Milton Joyce.

"I mean, I haven't heard anything about him being with anybody," I said.  "And I don't think he's a liar."

"But you're still worried?"

I looked up at her, feeling my eyes start to sting, my chest going tight.  I nodded my head.

I saw her eyes soften.

"Listen, honey," she said.  "Lemme level with you.  We're supposed to push the safe sex thing pretty hard here—it's school policy.  And we do push it hard, because an STI can be a real pain in the ass.  It can be a bother for the rest of your life.  You follow me?"

I nodded.

"And while it is true, technically, that you can get an STI from unprotected oral sex—even from one single, isolated incident, so you should always use protection."  Her eyebrows came down over the bridge of her nose for a second, glowering, before her face returned to its more neutral expression.  "It's also true that it's not especially likely."

I realized I'd been holding my breath.  I let it out.

She rolled her stool over to a computer, clicked the mouse and typed something on the keyboard.

"For example, a recent UCSF study found an HIV infection rate of point zero four percent in unprotected oral sex.  That's about four infections out of ten thousand acts.  Pretty small."

"Oh," I said.  And then I was leaning forward and catching my head in my hands.  "Oh," I said again, fighting back tears of relief.

The doctor turned back to me.  "That doesn't mean you shouldn't be careful in the future, especially if you aren't sure about your partner's sexual history.  I'm going to give you some condoms before you leave, and I strongly suggest that you use them during any future sexual activity."

I nodded my head, wiping my eyes quickly.

"Good.  In the meantime, try not to worry too much about it.  If you develop any symptoms in the next few days, make an appointment to see me and we'll test you.  But, in my professional opinion, a test at this point isn't really necessary."

She stood up from her chair, turning to a cabinet on the wall.  I stood up too, almost dizzy from the relief.  She turned back to me, holding out a handful of condoms.  I took them, shoving them into my sweater pocket.

She smiled.  "Try not to worry, honey.  Sex is a normal, natural activity.  It can even be good for your health, in certain ways.  Just be careful.  That's all."

I nodded again.  For a moment I had a nearly overwhelming urge to hug her, but before I could, she patted me on the shoulder and then walked out the door.

-

The sense of relief was so strong that I stumbled out of the health center feeling almost like I was a little drunk.  I'd worked myself into such a state of worry that I'd nearly had a panic attack, and there wasn't really any logical reason for it.  And as I weaved through the crowded campus, heading back to the dorms, I started to think about why.

Why had I been so panicked?  Well, a lifetime of scare-tactic sex-ed probably had something to do with it.  Still, I didn't think that was the whole reason for my nearly overwhelming anxiety.

Was it because Trace was famous?  That was probably part of it, too.  But at the same time, I didn’t think that was all of it.  I mean, it's not like I'd had a lot of action with anyone else before Trace.  I was less experienced than most of the girls I'd met since starting college.

Was I afraid of sex?

Maybe.  A little.  But why?

The conversation I'd had with Becca the night before, in the bathroom at the band's party suite, came back to me.  I'd said I was afraid that I'd fall in love with Trace, afraid that I'd get hurt.

Afraid to take a risk.

The girl at the front desk of the dorms was talking on her cell phone, so excited that she nearly seemed hysterical.  I walked past her without bothering to show my I.D., my mind still turning over what I'd said to Becca, trying to understand why I felt the way I felt.  The elevator dinged open, and as I stepped into it something the front-desk girl said caught my ear.

"No, by himself.  Yes it was him!  Yes I'm sure!  A little older than I thought, but in a good way.  Yeah, he looked better than in the pictures.  He said he knew some girl here.  I dunno, but he gave me a hundred dollars, and he said he'd give me a hundred more when he left, if I kept it quiet."

The doors closed, and the elevator lurched and started to climb.  My mind was chewing over what the front desk girl had been saying, but when the elevator doors opened and I saw the Safe Sex display again, with the horrific picture of the diseased woman, I forgot all about what I'd overheard.

Jesus.  With scare-tactic stuff like this, it's no wonder that sex made me frightened.

I turned down the hall and walked toward my door.  I slipped my key inside, unlocked it, and stepped through.

My eyes were looking down, so the first thing I saw was a pair of black boots, attached to a pair of legs covered by a pair of black jeans, standing in the middle of the room.

I froze, completely stunned.

It was Trace LeBeau, standing in the middle of my dorm-room.

"Holy shit," I said.

Chapter 7

Anne

He turned toward me.

"Anne!" he said, his eyes lighting up.

He took a step toward me, and then stopped himself.

"Sorry to come into your dorm without your permission," he said.  "I just… people were starting to notice me downstairs.  I got worried that a crowd would build up, and then campus security would come, and I'd have to leave before I ever got a chance to see you."

I hadn't moved yet.  I was still frozen in the doorway, my hand holding the door open.  The sight of Trace, in black jeans and a black sweater—like a pool of darkness in the middle of the sterile and dim dorm-room, more vivid and powerful than the mundane surroundings—it was so jarring that for a moment I just had to pause and process it.

My eye flicked up toward the Belletrists poster I had on the wall.  He followed my gaze.

"Handsome devil," he said, his voice making it playful.  "Don't know about that eyeliner, though."

He looked back at me.  I still hadn't moved.  I saw a hint of worry come into his eyes, and thought of how different it was to look into those eyes in real life, instead of in a poster or on a video screen.  How much deeper his eyes seemed when they were looking back into yours.

"Anne," he said.  "Was I wrong to come?  Should I leave?"

Finally, my feet seemed to come unstuck from the floor.  I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me.

And then—before I'd even realized I'd made a decision—I was striding across the room, closing the distance between us.

His arms came up, inviting me in.  I crashed against his firm chest, my mouth meeting his, grateful for a solid place to land.

In that moment, all the worry and the panic and the fear, it all seemed to drop away.  There was nothing in the world but the feel of his mouth on mine, the taste of his lips, the wet heat of his tongue dipping and sliding against my own.

His arms wrapped around me, embracing me, holding me in strength and shelter.  And a part of me marveled that such a sensitive soul could come packaged in such a sturdy, powerful body.

That body.  Suddenly, I needed to see it.  I needed to feel it against mine.

My hands slipped beneath his sweater, my fingertips tracing along the taut skin covering the muscles of his abdomen, his sides, his back.  My hands followed that muscular back upwards, fanning out wide toward his shoulders, feeling the dense and thick flesh like a layer of armor, the warmth of a body that sometimes seemed so lonely and cold.

He raised his arms, letting me slip the sweater over him, stripping him bare from the waist up.  For a moment I paused, drinking in the beauty of his form—the muscles long and lean like a swimmer's, but covered with more tattoos than any swimmer I'd ever seen.

And then need took hold of me again, the need to feel his bare skin against me, against my bare skin.  I reached down and caught hold of the bottom of my sweater and my shirt, and pulled them both up over my head at once.

His hands were on me before my head popped through the collar of my sweater, and the feel of his touch was like fire in the darkness, lighting me up.  I pulled in a gasp of air as he unclasped my bra, the sudden removal of that restricting garment making me feel free and wild.

As the cups of the bra fell away, and the tender tips of my breasts met the cold air of the room, my nipples drew hard like little pebbles.  A moment later, his hands were on me again, cupping and squeezing my breasts, rubbing his broad palms over those tender peaks.  Tingling pleasure sparked from either nipple, echoing between my legs.

Finally, I got my head free from the tangled bundle of my sweater and shirt.  I opened my eyes and looked down just in time to see Trace's face dropping toward my chest.  He pressed his full lips into the softness of my breasts, planting wet kisses across them, until finally he closed those lips around my nipple and sucked it in, his tongue washing back and forth.

"Ohhh," I sighed, feeling my pussy growing moist.

He moved to my other breast, his tongue thick and flat, lapping at my pointed tip.  His hand came up to catch the nipple he'd just left—slick, now, from his saliva—and to roll it between his thumb and forefinger.  The pleasure was bright and breathtaking, arcing into my chest, making my pussy tingle even more.

"Oh, Trace," I moaned.  "Oh."

I brought my hands to either side of his head, raising his face back to mine, and kissed him again.  I leaned into him, pressing him back toward my bed.  Twice now I'd lain with him, been intimate with him, and yet I hadn't felt his manhood inside of me.  This time I would, I told myself.  The hunger for it burned inside of me, making me determined.

He felt the edge of my bed against the back of his legs, and he sat down on it.  I moved forward, standing with my legs between his knees, and reached down to stroke the hard bulge at the front of his jeans.  It made my heart race, made me want him even more.

His hands caught hold of my face, his fingers threading through my hair, as we kissed each other passionately.  My fingers went to his fly, working feverishly to undo the button and to pull down the zipper.

As soon as I had his fly undone, I pressed him down onto his back on the mattress, and then tugged at his jeans with both hands.  He lifted his hips up, and I pulled his jeans down, all the way down, stripping them free from his ankles.

There it was, his beautiful cock.  I couldn't help giving it a loving lick, starting near that velvet ball sack and dragging my tongue up the entire length.  He let out a groan, and his dick throbbed.  I felt my own pussy clenching tight with desire.  Any anxiety I'd been struggling with, any fear of infection or disease, evaporated in the roaring blaze of hunger that I felt.  Now I had to struggle not to take that dick right back into my mouth, to suck him off again.

But no, this time I wouldn't be distracted by those peripheral pleasures.  This time I wanted the main event.

I stood up in front of him, my hands going to my own fly, unbuttoning the button.  He propped himself up on his elbows, his hungry eyes roaming over my bountiful chest, and I reveled in the lust I saw in his face.  I squeezed my breasts together with my arms as my hands struggled with the button of my jeans.  And when that button finally popped loose, the force made my heavy boobs jiggle.

"Anne, you are gorgeous," he said.  His dick throbbed again.

And the way he looked at me, I believed him.  In fact, he made me feel bolder than I'd ever felt.  His eyes drank me in, and a sudden wild urge caught hold of me.  If he loved my curves, I'd flaunt them for him.  I'd give him a little show.

I turned my back to him, tossing my hair as I unzipped the fly of my jeans.  And then I looked back at him over my shoulder, biting my lip, hooking my thumb under the waistband at either hip.  Slowly, I bent forward and shimmied the tight jeans off of my hips, showing him my ass.  I bent all the way down, pushing the jeans to my ankles, feeling my ass cheeks spread a little as my hands reached the floor, feeling the cool air of the room tingling against my soaking pussy.

I heard him growl, low and deep in his chest like some kind of animal.  He scooted forward on the bed—his knees thrusting out on either side of my legs, his ass perching on the edge—and caught hold of me from behind.  His powerful arms wrapped across my belly, his strong hands came up to clutch at my breasts.

I laid my hands on top of his, clutching his hands harder against my boobs, wanting more of that feeling, more of that pressure.  He kissed my neck, my back.  I could feel his dick, incredibly hard and surprisingly hot, against the flesh of my thigh.

I spread my legs and reached down between them, catching hold of his throbbing length, feeling the slickness of his pre-cum smearing over my fingertips.  His dick was so long that the tip of it peeked out between the front of my thighs.

He planted a kiss on my lower back, groaning as I stroked his dick.  His hands went to the round curves of my ass, grabbing and squeezing me, spreading me open.  And then he scooted his hips back and dipped his head forward, painting a long, hot lick up the crack of my ass.  It made my eyes pop open in surprise even as the heady pleasure washed up through my pelvis.

I turned around, pushed him down on his back.  He swiveled his body, bringing his legs up on the mattress, his arms reaching up toward me, his eyes burning with lust.  I climbed on top of him, pressing my palms against his firm chest, straddling his hips with my legs.

His dick was laid flat against his belly, and I pressed my dripping pussy against the underside of his length.  It was so long that it stretched up across the flat lower section of his abdomen, the head reaching past his belly button.  I could feel it, hot and throbbing against my aching pussy.  I moved my hips forward, sliding along his length, my thickened folds spread over his dick like a saddle.

"Oh my god, Anne," he said.  "You're pussy is so wet.  It feels incredible."

I closed my eyes, the pleasure so thick and heady in my body that I almost felt dizzy.  I slid back down his length and up again, grinding my cunt along his rod.  My head hung forward, my boobs dangling between my arms.  I gasped in a deep breath, and sighed it back out.

"I want you inside of me, Trace," I said, my voice thick from desire.  "I need it."

He propped himself up on his elbow, his mouth meeting mine in a passionate kiss.

And then he broke this kiss, his lips so close to mine that I could feel the words he whispered.

"Do you have a condom?"

My eyes opened wide in surprise.  An hour ago I was terrified I'd get a disease from an unprotected blowjob, and now I was so horny I'd forgot all about safe sex.  What the fuck was wrong with me?

And then I remembered the condoms Dr. Jackson had given me.  They'd be in the pocket of my sweater, which was crumpled up on the floor.

"Yes," I said.  "I've got one."

I practically leaped off of him, diving for the sweater.  I jammed my hand in the pocket and yanked out a condom so forcefully that two other condoms came flying out as well.  And then I turned back to him, ripping the packet open, eager to get him bagged and back to action.

But once I had his hot, throbbing cock in one hand, and the condom in the other, I froze.  I realized I'd never actually put a condom on someone before.  I'd never even been one of the volunteers who'd rolled the condom down onto a banana in any of the sex-ed classes I'd had to take.

Trace must have seen my hesitation.  "Here," he said, reaching for the condom.  He pinched the tip between finger and thumb, using the other hand to roll the condom down his length in a move that looked well-practiced.  It hardly took a second, and then he was reaching for me again.

I crawled back onto the bad, swinging a leg over his hips.  But my heart was beating harder now, nervousness running in my blood.  A moment ago I'd wanted nothing more than to have that huge dick inside of me.  But now that I was about to do it, finally and for real, I suddenly felt almost afraid.

I remembered what I'd thought when I'd first seen his dick: how is that thing supposed to fit?

Well, only one way to find out.  Following the school of thought my dorm-mate Becca had often espoused, I decided to take matters in hand.

I raised myself up a little, reaching back to catch hold of Trace's cock, and positioned the tip at the entrance of my slick, aching tunnel.  And then I tried to cram it in, pressing back with my hips, gritting my teeth and squeezing my eyes shut.

I could feel the bulbous head of his dick jammed tight against the opening of my pussy—could feel the growing, stinging pain it caused, could feel my own desire and frustration boiling over, threatening to tip me into a fit of tears.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't seem to get it in.