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Huan’s pace tortures me, each inch notching gradual fire across my skin, making my muscles quiver. When this ends, I’ve got no idea what will happen, but it feels like my very heartbeat won’t be the same. And the longer this goes on for, the more it shifts everything.
“Please,” I say.
His body jerks at the word.
“I’m your brat. Fuck me like I’m your brat.”
For a moment, I wonder if he will relent or whether Huan will smirk and continue torturing me with this slow fucking. I’m not sure. I clench my inner muscles around his cock.
His face contorts again.
“Don't do that.”
I do it again.
“Komal.”
It's a warning, but I don't care. Huan is safe. Whatever happens, I want it. All of it.
I squeeze his cock again, and he swears.
Pulling one of my legs up with his arm, he asks, “Is this what you want?” as he pushes into me harder, deeper, rougher.
My noises are his answer.
Before long, he really is fucking me into the mattress. The sounds we are making are between growls and whines. Every time he thrusts hard forward, I push my hips upwards to meet him. We're both savages now, picking up the pace until all I feel is the length of him everywhere inside, as if I'm being split in half and born anew. He's driving into me with such primal hunger that somewhere along the way I climax, sobbing his name, and it’s because ofeverything. All the foreplay, and how we talk to each other, and how his pelvis grinds into my clit—all of it breaksme so I explode because otherwise I’ve never come like this before.
As if determined to make this last, he doesn't relent. He keeps pounding into me for so long that I lose sense of time. It's one pussy clench around him, and the way I keep kissing his shoulder that finally makes Huan's stroking go erratic. His pupils are swallowed when he spills inside me, his head dropping softly onto my shoulder when the last, desperate spurt finishes.
We’re both trembling, but I recover first. I kiss his temple. “Perfect. If you ever think any different, don’t. You are perfect.”
He doesn’t respond for so long. I think he won’t, until he does.
“Komal, you don’t understand how much you own me.”
TWENTY-FOUR
The next morning isn’t awkward, and I believe it’s because of our resilient little London bubble. Even though Huan and I crossed a line—a wonderful one—it doesn’t feel like we have to deal with the consequences, because no one knows we did.
We can simply pretend to be together, so we do.
T-minus one week and a bit to go.
For the next few days, I smile when I brush my teeth, or get a sandwich fromSainsbury’s, or even when I wear the same comfy sweater three times in a row. And it’s not that my trip is finally fun and working for me—itwasfun and working before—but now I’m not squeezing the life out of an itinerary out of FOMO desperation.
Instead, I’m just… I don’t know… experiencing?
We go to the London dungeon, gawk at Kensington Palace, catch a show at Shakespeare’s Globe… and…
We fuck.
That’s the word I’m going to use. Even though every time he slides into me, it feels like sheer relief, and it feels like we keep reading each other in those moments under the covers. It's not a surface reading, but meanings we otherwise keep from the world.
Conversations and laughter are easy. Silliness is stoked.
I don’t know. With Huan I’m not secretly detail-oriented, but openly? Like we spend an afternoon researching comedians playing at The Comedy Show (the one between Piccadilly and Leicester Square), so I can pick the best show to see, only to decide on a midnight slot because one internet forum said late-night-when-everyone-is-wasted-comedy is like nothing else.
Not that Huan goes along with everything I decide.
