Everything becomes languid heat. The bed sheets rustle as he turns onto his back and I crawl over him, my lips traveling along the blooming bruises upon his rock-hard belly. I trace the grooves between his muscles with my tongue, and he makes little noises of contentment. And I do too. God, he’s beautiful, his skin taut, his body so honed it looks like it’s been cast from bronze.
The silken heat of his cock, now hard and erect, brushes my cheek, and I still. He’s watching me beneath half-closed lids, his breath light and quick. I stare up at him as my lips graze the tender head, and he croaks a weak “Yes.”
Yes. I’ve wanted to taste Drew’s cock since the moment I saw it. He’s glorious here, thick and long and straight. He smells of musk and warmth, and he’s trembling as if he’s trying to hold himself still.
The round, swollen head is satin smooth and hot against the roof of my mouth as I draw him in and give a soft suck.
Drew groans loud, his hips bucking, which shoves him in deeper. I wrap my hand around him and suck again.
“Yes,” he groans. His trembling fingers thread through my hair. He holds me there, making helpless little sounds as he lightly pumps in and out of my mouth. The sight of him, his head thrown back, his lips parted and his brows furrowed as if in pain, the way his muscles stand out in sharp relief because they’re clenched so tight, all of it, makes me so hot that I begin to sweat. My thighs tremble and my sex pulses as I flick my tongue over his head, suck him hard then light, take as much of him as I can into my mouth before pulling back out in a slow glide.
I want to drive him insane. The way he does me.
I love it when he fists my hair harder, drives himself into my mouth, his free hand clutching the bedspread like he might soon become unmoored.
“Anna...” My name is a plea on his lips as he writhes. “Baby…Please, I’m going to...”
I run my palm along the amour-plate of muscle that is his belly, and he releases with a sharp cry.
It’s warm and viscous and salty-sweet. I’ve never done this before, staying with a guy to the very end. But with Drew, I drink him down. Until he goes soft and helpless in my mouth. And I know that I am in deep, dark waters. Because I want to do it all over again. All of it. Again and again.
I NEED PERSPECTIVE. I need to remember why keeping my resolve is a good plan. I need to go home, and Mom’s off on Mondays. Fuck it. I’m skipping class. I give her a call to let her know I’m coming.
It’s a perfect autumn morning when I climb on my Vespa and head toward my mother’s house. The scooter isn’t very practical; I can’t use the highway, so I stick to back roads. And I know I’ll catch hell from my mom yet again for driving it to her house. But I love the feel of air rushing over me, and the ability to weave in and out of traffic. Even so, it would be smart to trade my scooter in and buy a car. I don’t like driving the Vespa in rain, and the winter months flat out suck. I have some savings—hell, my mom would buy a car for me, she hates the scooter so much.
Indecision regarding my scooter fills my thoughts, and I’m happy about that. It keeps me from thinking about other things, other people. Soon enough, I’m pulling up in front of the house I grew up in. It’s a 1920s colonial made of Georgia red brick.
I love this house, with its five windows along the top floor and four windows, two each flanking the red center door, on the ground floor. I love that somehow it managed to escape the dreaded Tara style front porch that so many Southern homes try to emulate. It’s a simple, unpretentious house. And though the front walk has always been clean and inviting, I’ve never really used it, choosing to go in through the side door instead.