Page 38

He doesn’t break eye contact, not even as I ghost my hand lower, mapping heat and tension and a pulse that jumps under my palm. This part of his life has been scripted; it's obvious. Well, until now. Tonight it's like he tore it up just to see if I would write something better. What he doesn't know is that I have been alone long enough to have pages and pages of fantasies in my mind's eye, and, as luck would have it, a Chicago storm has given me the chance to show, not tell, my story.

It's clear he does not expect capitulation, bravado, a show for his ego. He yields control to me, not because he's lazy, but out of curiosity and trust, the kind of trust that is calculated; he wants to see what I'll do.

I move forward, knees straddling his thighs, I feel the tension in his quadriceps, the muscle flexing in anticipation, and I do all that I can not to rub against it, dry hump his leg just to get off, because it is not in my experience that men as pretty as he stay risen to the challenge, as if it's a bloody challenge, to get a woman off before he comes. I digress.

His pupils dilate a notch; I see it, and he knows I see it and doesn't try to hide his desire for me. I run my hands up the outside of his arms, feeling the play of tendon and muscle, then let my palms settle on his jaw and guide his mouth to mine. He lets me, his hands tightening at my hips; the only sign of impatience is the way his fingertips dig in, then gentle again. We kiss, and it’s astonishing—how soft, how exploratory, how he doesn’t lead but follows, letting me set the rhythm, the pressure, the duration. Each time I pull away, he waits, steady, wordless.

It’s only when I glance down that I see his cock peering out of the waistband of his sweats, now below his hips, hard against his stomach. It’s beautifully flushed dark, a bead of moisture gathering at the tip. The veins along the shaft bulge, throbbing under his soft skin. I adjust my position before leaning forward and dragging my tongue flat slowly from base to tip, tasting the salt of him that immediately makes my pussy clench. Now it is me who has to force restraint as I close my lips around the head and glide down, down, down until the tip is lodged against the back of my throat, threatening to gag me. Giving head was never something I enjoyed; the taste of cum was never pleasurable, until now. This man smells delectable and is groomed perfectly. The space between my lips and the base of his cock is vast enough for me to grip him, but the breadth of his girth does not allow me to close my hand completely around him. Saliva spilling from the corner of my mouth makes it easy to slide up and down and stroke him hard, stroke his magnificent cock. I only hope that this is giving him as much pleasure as it is me. Later I will try to understand how it is that my pussy is fluttering, my insides getting wetter and wetter as I suck, lick him, and stroke him. One thing is for certain… I have never been more turned on in my fucking life.

His body tenses as he grips the side of my head and pulls me up kissing me as he rolls me to my back.

Lips still on me, he groans, then breaks our seal and presses his damn forehead against mine.

His jaw, his nose flaring, his tongue between his teeth. He says, “I am not ready for this to end like this, not this time anyway. I want to feel your pussy strangling my cock.”

Any sound that escapes me would be embarrassing if I had any shame left, but right now I have none. Just that sound, with a slight nod, has him hovering over me.

“Tell me Anna, do you want my mouth on your pussy?”

My eyes widen, and I swallow the tsunami that just hit inside my mouth as I nod.

He moves down the bed, and I shift up onto the pillows while he settles between my thighs. He starts with his lips against the inside of my knee, then moves up slowly, and by the time his mouth reaches me, I'm already tensed in anticipation.

He doesn't tease. He opens his mouth against me and licks a slow, firm stripe upward, and I feel the immediate bloom of heat from it. He does it again. Then again, finding the rhythm before he's even fully started, like he's reading something in how my breath changes. When he closes his lips around my clit and sucks gently, my hips lift off the bed without my permission, and he follows the movement, doesn't lose contact.

I make another sound I didn't mean to make.

He stays exactly there. Same pressure. Same pace. His hands are flat on the inside of my thighs, not holding me down, just resting there, and I can feel the warmth of his palms against my skin while his tongue moves in slow, deliberate circles. When I inhale sharply and my fingers find his hair, he doesn't speed up, doesn't change anything, just keeps going with that same unhurried attention until my thighs are trembling against his shoulders, and I've stopped caring about anything but this… feeling.

It crashes over me. Not a single spike, but a low, rolling detonation that empties my lungs and seizes every muscle at once. My hand knots into the sheets, clenching so hard my nails possibly just gouged little crescent moons into the cotton, and the other anchors itself in the dense, damp weight of his hair, holding his mouth exactly where I need it most. Reznik doesn't flinch, doesn't try to pull away; if anything, he doubles down, tongue moving with the same slow, ruthless rhythm, patient and merciless and steady until I can barely recognize the sounds tumbling out of my own mouth. I gasp and seize, the entire world narrows down to the one point of molten pressure and then expanding in concentric ripples that leave me wrung out, boneless, wild-eyed. When the pleasure pulls back, leaving me raw and over sensitized, he lets up at once: just a gentle brush of his lips, a single kiss, then the warmth of his breath as he lifts his head and looks at me.

I want to cover my face, to hide the mess I've become, but he moves up beside me so quietly I only realize it when his hand slides across my stomach—just a touch, light and reverent, like he's unsure if I'm breakable.

Reznik says nothing. He watches me recover, his own breathing slowed to match mine, and when I finally manage to look at him—really look—his eyes are wide, unguarded, and almost impossibly soft for a man built like a steel cable. There's a flush across his cheekbones, sweat stippling his forehead, and his cock is still hard, pressed between us, the head smearing a glossy streak onto my thigh.

I want to say thank you. I want to say, I didn't know it could be like that. I want to say, Do it again, right now. But none of those things fit, and he seems to know it, too; he waits for me to speak, and when I don't, he just smiles a little, lifts my hand from the sheets, and brings it to his mouth, kissing my knuckles one by one, before he asks, not in words but in a look, if I’m ready for him. I give him back a response the same way.

He moves, spreading my legs with his knee, one hand beside my head holding him up, the other fisting his cock, stroking as he says, “Spread wider for me; I want to give you every fucking inch.”

I shift my knees apart as far as they'll go. He takes himself in hand and drags the head of his cock through my folds, slow, deliberate, coating himself before pressing the tip against my entrance. The stretch begins immediately, a deep, insistent pressure that pulls the breath from my lungs. He doesn't rush. He rocks forward in small increments, letting me feel every inch as he works deeper, my body resisting, then yielding in turns until I feel completely, overwhelmingly, breathlessly full of Reznik’s cock.

He leans down and kisses me, as my body grows hot and soft, around him, and he lets me set the pace, then meets it.

He moves in slow, careful increments, pausing when I tense, stroking my thigh with his thumb until I relax again. His rhythm is patient, almost reverent. Every time I squeeze around him, his pupils widen, his jaw tight as he fights to stay in control. He keeps his weight braced on his forearms, lowering himself only when I loop my arms around his neck and drag him down for a kiss. His mouth is hot, open, desperate, a low groan vibrating through his chest as we move together. It takes a long time—long enough for my body to start winding up again, to chase after a tremor I'd thought was spent—and when another orgasm hits, his rhythm falters, and he pulls out and finally lets go. It's almost violent: a sharp gasp, then a groan so guttural my whole body hums with it. His thick, hot cum shoots out in streams that coat my thigh and then my belly.

He collapses onto his side, leaving me with a mess, the only disappointing moment in this whole exchange.

When he pulls me flush against him, our torsos connect, rubbing his own cum against his skin, unbothered. He lifts my leg, pulling my bottom so my soaked pussy slides against his thigh. Then he rolls onto his back, pulling me with him; my head rests on his chest, and I listen to the thunder of his heartbeat and the sound of his breath against my ear.

He finds my hand, interlaces our fingers, and just holds it there on his chest, anchored over a tattoo. I trace the three points of the trident with my fingertip, following the black lines where they curve inward and taper toward the base. The central point rises slightly higher than the others; the three little hooks at the end look sharp even though it is clear the ink has softened over time. My thumb brushes the space where some sort of berries grow in barbs. I wonder how old he was when he got it.

He eventually props himself up on one elbow and studies me, eyes landing on my wound. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I say, voice hoarse. "I'm really, really okay.”

He smiles again, and the image of him—so hard-edged, so impossible—softens further. Layers peeling away right in front of me.

We lie there until my limbs start to register as separate from the rest of me; his arm stays heavy across my stomach, pinning me in place, a promise or a challenge, I'm not sure which. When he finally rolls away, it's only to pull me with him, so we're both on our sides, facing each other, our legs tangled and the sheets a shambles beneath us