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It was not the first time he had waited with bated breath for her to make the first move. They had had several near misses already, each one feeling slightly more desperate, and for that, at least, he knew why. It amused him that she seemed to be similarly affected by his decision, one that should have technically impacted him and him alone, but with each week that passed — each dinner and lunch date, each afternoon outing to the park or museum or evening at the observatory — she grew tetchier, clingier, and he was once more reminded of his feline neighbor. Rourke had wondered if Violet, too, would wind up mewling in desperation, rubbing herself against him, begging for him to relieve the burning ache between her thighs.Well, now you know the answer. A resounding yes.
Upon his return from the unexpected business trip, he had suspended his visits to the milking farm. He had a feeling he'd likely been a tyrant that entire weekend, the persistent itch of unslaked arousal gnawing at him like a dog with a bone as he went from meeting to meeting. The three nights he spent in hotel rooms were occupied by thoughts of her — the seductive little photo she had sent him obliterating the rational part of his brain.
By the second night on the road, he found himself pulling up a map of the area on his phone and searching out the closest milking joint. He didn't even care about being paid, only needed the machine suction to help him feel back on an even keel, to encourage some of the blood pooling in the purple head of his cock to return to his brain. Going to the old style of milking facility — now that he was used to coming with her help, her stroking hands and seeking fingers, coming as she gripped his testicles — seemed laughable now. Laughable — but better than his hand.
The room was the size of an old-fashioned phone booth, the hose still wet with the saline used to flush them, cleaning the residual semen of the bull who had used the stall before him, just like his would be flushed out once he was finished. He had to give the place in Starling Heights a bit of credit, he had chuckled to himself — they were at least a bit more high-tech than this. The hose fed through a hole in the wall, attached to a cylinder that was similarly still wet from its cleaning. Unlike Morning Glory, there was no lube used in facilities like this; it was expressly prohibited. Slowed down the cleaning of the equipment, degraded plastic over time. It also made for a somewhat uncomfortable insertion, but then again, places like this didn't care about his pleasure.
Rourke winced as he worked himself into the sung cylinder, holding it against his base with one hand while he pressed the button on the wall for the machine to start. The suction was immediate. It was tantamount to jerking off with the vacuum at home, if the vacuum would have accommodated his girth, for that’s all this was — a sucking vacuum hose. It wasn't ideal and it was barely pleasurable, but it was better than chafing himself. He held the cylinder pressed to his groin, head dropping back as his hips began to cant.
He thought about her, which had been the only thing he had been thinking about since he left home. Her wide eyes, the seductive look in the photo she had sent him, the crestfallen expression on her face when he put her in her car the night before he left, the way her hand had found his when they walked, slipping to hold his arm seamlessly as breathing. He thought about her fingers tightening around his swollen shaft, pumping him as his hips thrust, thought about the weight of his balls against her palms, and the feeling of her fingers slipping into his foreskin, the way she held him when he came, milking him through it.
When he'd come at last with a strangled groan, spurts of thick white cream that were sucked away in the vacuum hose, it hadn't been especially enjoyable, but it had at least been deep enough to allow him to focus on his meetings. He bought her a luxury candle with the money a bored-looking attendant handed through the small window when he’d left the milking facility, one that smelled of rain and her namesake flower, making her squeal in happiness when she opened it upon his return.
He returned to Cambric Creek firm in his decision to cease his appointments at the milking farm for the duration of their courtship. He would go back to the place in Starling Heights, if necessary, but they needed that distance, a break in the branch of artificial intimacy on the tree of their relationship if ever they wanted a new branch to blossom. He was annoyed with himself that he was even starting tothinkin Khash-isms now.
Since then, he had been almost cross-eyed with pent up lust, and Rourke was positive Violet was going out of her way to make it harder for him to be a gentleman.
The afternoon he had taken her to the Applethorpe Manor and Gardens, she had been beside herself with excitement. She explained to him, one night over dinner a week or so prior, what exactly her specific area of degree study had been, and as she described her love of interior architecture and textiles from the turn-of-the-century, the gears of his mind had begun to turn.
Cambric Creek was a nineteenth century town, after all. The original founding families had settled here long before the town had been incorporated, at first creating their own hamlet for werewolves and other shifters, making the town fully multi-species once they became official, welcoming to all. Oldtowne was full of grand old Victorians from the 1800s, different architectural styles with names he didn't know, culminating with Slade Manor at the end of Magnolia Drive. There was no way for Violet to see the inside of the town's most haunted house, being a private residence, but the Applethorpe home and its expansive gardens, clear across town on the edge of the forest, had been given to the Cambric Creek historic district and was now a museum, open to the public.
She had squealed in excitement when he disclosed the plans for the afternoon, breathing in awe when they pulled up to the meticulously restored Manor house, clinging to his hand as they crunched across the gravel drive, gripping a handful of his shirt and pulling him down for a kiss as they stood in line for tickets.
He'd made a mental note in the margins of the day's ROI tracking sheet in his head —appealing to her interests paid back dividends. They proceeded to spend the next two hours going from room to room. Rourke didn't rush her, graciously stepped aside and waved on other visitors, giving her as much time she needed to pore over every stick of furniture and scrap of upholstery, the wallpaper, the carved transoms above the doors, the elaborate newel post at the base of the grand staircase, and the crown molding in each and every room.
Afterward, as they strolled through the gardens, she pulled him down again, gripping fistfuls of his shirt until he stooped, giving her access to kiss him once more.
"Thank you so much for this," she murmured when they came up for air, still gripping him tightly. "This was honestly the most thoughtful thing I think anyone has ever done for me. Definitely the most thoughtful date," she’d laughed ruefully.
By the time he was depositing her back in her car that night, her lip had been trapped between her teeth, her eyes wide as she gazed up at him from beneath her dark lashes.
"Are you sure you don't want to keep your appointment this week?" As she spoke, her hands ghosted down his chest, hesitating once they reached his waist. “I'm sure it has to be a big adjustment for you, not having that on your schedule."
Her nails scraped, hooking into his navel before scratching the skin just below. If he were to adjust himself, the top several inches of his cock would be cresting over the edge of his waistband like a whale breaching the waves, just as corpulent and attention-seeking and right in the vicinity her hand currently rested. Her nails drifted a fraction lower, and then she was nearly at the meat of him, swollen and flush to his thigh, pulling to the left as if it were attempting to direct traffic.
He would've been happy to have allowed her to milk him right then and there, and if her hands had continued to scrape his groin, grazing the thickened shape of him, he would've let her pull his cock out and go to town. She didn't though. Her fingertips rested against him like butterflies, lightly hovering, and when she didn't move any further, Rourke cleared his throat. She wasn't going to tell him he'd planned the most thoughtful date of her life and then expect him to cash in on that goodwill by helping himself to her body.It’s not a down payment on your time, sweetheart.
"Oh, you don't have to worry about me. I'll live. And” he threaded his fingers with hers, taking half a step back, removing the breaching whale from temptation, “I'mveryglad you enjoyed yourself today, Violet. You were wholly in your element. You’re going to find a job working in a place like that and they’re not going to believe how lucky they are to have you, I promise. We'll have to keep an ear to the ground so that we don't miss next time they do open house tours through Oldetowne.”
She looked let down when he opened her car door, bowing at the waist, seeming only slightly mollified when he kissed her through the open window. “Sweet dreams, sweetheart. Text me when you get home."
As he lay in bed that night, Rourke wondered what her dating experience had been like. She'd not mentioned any serious past relationships, and he wondered if there hadn't been a serious college boyfriend or someone from home.Stupid, blind humans.He couldn't imagine sitting beside her in a lecture hall, smelling her creamy sweet smell and being the occasional recipient of her soft smiles without attempting to claim her as his own.The most thoughtful date she'd ever been on . . .
He was waiting for her message before he turned out the light, and as he waited, he lifted the phone, played with the angle for a moment, and clicked. It was a bit more brazen than the photo she had sent him. He was naked, not that she could see anything below the white sheets bunched around his waist, preventing the hasty composition from being obscene. It was, he thought, a promise. Just like her photo to him had been. She had been sitting on her bed, her back against the pillows, and he was reclining against his, an arm stretched over his head, hair falling into his face.Just as innocent, he told himself, knowing it was an absolute lie.
When the phone buzzed with her text a short while later, he was ready.
I never thanked you for the photo, which was rude.
I want to hear the story about that quilt on your bed.
Mine is boring, just like me.
One minute ticked by, and for a second. Rourke wondered if she was going to answer at all.Maybe she's already gone to bed. Or maybe this is too much like a dick pic and you just ruined everything.Finally, at long last, his phone buzzed with a message.
Well, well, well.
Is that what you call boring?
