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“You see where I’m going with this? These little dudes—they were from a Catholic school, all boys—they weren’t real ‘with it.’ Didn’t strike me as a bunch of masterminds. And I thought—seven. I was at Carogue at seven. Doing my own laundry. But that’s little. Seven’s just a little kid, Siren. Seven-year-olds never hurt anybody.”
She nods as more tears fall. I kiss her eyes, her cheeks and chin, and she kisses my mouth. Her tongue is warm and soft, her hand cool on my hot cheek. When I push my tongue into her mouth, I think of her pussy and wish I could be there. Pretty soon, my dick is hard, and I’m gritting my teeth.
She laughs, a soft, unsteady sound, and, to my surprise, pets it. “Quite opportunistic.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” She looks up and down the trail and then back at me. Her face is splotchy, but her mouth is bent into this dirty little smile.
* * *
Finley
I look up and down the path once more, and then down at the bit of it below us that’s within my range of vision. When I feel reasonably confident we’re in the clear, I lay my hand over his bulge and squeeze a bit.
“You came here uninvited, didn’t you?”
He laughs, but it comes out a groan. “Finley…” His hand circles my wrist, but still I pet him, smoothing fingertips over the outline of his long, stiff sex until it’s straining at his pants.
“You came here of your own accord, and I tried to dislike you, remember?” I catch his head in my fingers and rub my palm against it. “I didn’t want to be your friend. I didn’t want to be your lover, either, but we were trapped, and you were very, very easy on the eyes and quite a bit too kind for me to freeze out, weren’t you?”
I can see him try to focus on me as I speak, but I’m making it difficult for him with my hand.
“Then we arrived back at the village, and the choices were impossible for me.”
His chest pumps as I work his sex with my hands. His head is leaned a bit back, so I can see him swallow. Even his neck is a thing of beauty.
“I felt that I should tend to you. I wanted to be near you quite against my will, you see. I tried to stay away, but that’s not how it went, and now I’m telling you my secrets—all the things I sought to lock away and just…forget. And you’re touching my hair as if we’re lovers. Making me feel as if we’re lovers.”
I look around again before unfastening the button of his pants. I delve inside until I find him, hard and hot and ready, and I begin stroking.
“I don’t know how you know that women adore having their hair touched, but I’ve got a fair idea, Carnegie. I don’t think you realize it’s pure torture being near you.” I clasp my hand about the base of him and tug my way back up his thick sex, loving how he looks in this moment, with his eyes narrowed in confusion and his head tilted back.
He looks like a fallen demigod upon the rock, and that thought fuels my raging heart.
“I’d like you better if you were a bit less handsome or a bit more mean, but you’re neither, and it’s too much for me. It’s too much for someone like me. Because you’re leaving, see?” I work the head of him until he groans. “And I’ll be here without you. And I know how that works out, you see. It doesn’t work out pretty.”
Suddenly, I want to slap his face—for teasing me this way. For dangling himself in front of me like a carrot I can’t help but bite, except the carrot is his warmth and kindness. It’s his hands and that hot mouth that makes me shiver, makes my lose my sanity.
I stimulate him as b
est as I know how—which likely isn’t very well, in fact—but I give it my all, and I assault him with my words and hands until he seems quite lost, until he’s at my behest.
I can tell he wants to speak—he puts his hand over mine to halt me so he can—but I won’t let up. As my fury builds, my hands feel smarter and more skilled. I’m a bit rough, perhaps, but he’s so hard he could cut marble, and he’s wet there at the tip, as if he’s very close to losing control. So I suppose I’m doing something correctly.
I ease up a bit, and when he opens his eyes, I look into them. I try to tell him the things I cannot say. I try to say them with my eyes, because now that we’re here, and I’ve said that, and he’s kissed my tears, I realize I can’t speak to him—ever again.
As he moans, I work him faster. I drink up his moans, his lovely grunts…the way he stiffens further, groaning. Then the moment comes when his hips jerk and his warmth overspills my hand.
I cried in his arms…but he spent in my hands.
I want to wipe it up and laugh and lay my cheek against his chest. I want to feel his fingers pushed where I feel soft and wet. But I can’t.
“I can’t do this with you.”
I jump up and grab my bag and race off down the path toward the village. Where I live. And suddenly I understand my mother more.
Part II
