I turned and headed back toward the kitchen, trying to pretend like I didn’t have a knife protruding from my back. It didn’t matter that his words hurt. Didn’t matter that seeing that woman touching him, reaching for him like he was the only thing that mattered to her, made my soul feel like it had been exposed to heat for too long, like it’d become this shriveled, useless mess. He was just a case. This was just a case.
But then he was grabbing my arm, forcing me against the wall, his mouth hunting for mine. The taste of vodka on his lips, the feel of his hands on my hips as he lifted me up, raising me to his level, desperation bruising my lips. My hands tangled themselves in his lapels, holding on for dear life. I responded to his kiss for a moment, wrapped myself around him in the seconds it took before the hurt reminded me that this was not right.
I pushed at his shoulder, his jaw.
“Stop.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against my chin, his lips sliding down over my throat. “I’m sorry,” he said again as he pressed his face against my breasts.
I hit his shoulder, and it felt so good I did it again.
“You’re an asshole.”
“I know.”
And then he carried me upstairs, and I let him, my body wrapping itself around him, my head resting against his shoulder, my lips sliding over his throat.
He laid me on the edge of his bed and stepped back, kicking off his shoes and sliding out of his sport coat. The shirt came next, lifted over his head despite the buttons that ran down the front, exposing that Hollywood-worthy chest and perfect abs. The devices that kept him healthy came out of his pockets, the clip of his insulin pump unhooked and wrapped around the device, abandoned on the side table. And then his hands moved to the thin button that kept those dark trousers around his waist.
I went to him then, pushing him back into a convenient chair that happened to be behind him, covered, in true bachelor fashion, in abandoned clothes. He fell back, his eyes tight on me as I knelt in front of him and tugged at that button. I pulled it open, pressing my lips to the bare flesh it exposed just below his navel. He groaned, his hands coming to mess up the simple hair clip that had taken me fifteen minutes to perfect in my hair.
I pushed his hands away and looked up at him.
“Trust me,” I said.
He nodded, laying his hands quietly on the arms of the chair.
I slid my fingers under the flap of material that hid his zipper. Slowly, one tooth at a time, I pulled the tab down, my lips again grazing the tender skin under his navel. I could feel him watching, could feel the hitch of his breath when my fingers brushed his erection. The zipper separated easily, a hot knife in butter. And then my fingers were under the band of his briefs, my nails scraping across the hair that grew at the base of his shaft.
I glanced at him, watched as he closed his eyes and settled back for the ride.
I took him in my hands, touched him the way I imagined he might have touched himself as a young boy just learning the miracles of pleasure. I found myself wanting to know what he was like then, an awkward boy without the confidence that would come with manhood. I found myself wanting to know so much more about him than simple curiosity might desire. I wanted to know all the experiences that had made him the man he was now. I wanted to know who’d broken his heart, who’d made him smile, who’d taught him the dangers of love and who’d taught him the pleasure of trust.
But right now I just wanted to see pleasure in his eyes and know I was the one who gave it to him.
He tried to touch me again as I offered him that pleasure, as I tasted him in the same way he’d tasted me the night before. I pushed his hand away as I ran my fingers over his balls, as I listened to the low growl that slipped from deep in his belly all the way to the tip of his tongue. He moved his hips, encouraging me to touch him where he needed to be touched. I tried to obey, but there was so much of him and only so much of me. But he seemed happy enough with what I had to offer.
As I knelt there, I reached under my own skirt and pulled my panties away. As they slid down my thighs, I let him go and moved slowly up the length of his body, brushing my lips over his belly, running my tongue briefly around the rim of his navel. Slowly I climbed on top of him, working my panties out of the way until they caught around one ankle as our lips met.
“Fuck me,” he whispered as he stared up at me with wonder in his eyes.
“I plan on it.”