I asked myself if I trusted him. If I let him in and he hurt me again, the wounds would be in a different place. He’d open me where the hope lived—the hope that he’d come back, that we’d have a second chance, that what we had was meaningful and real. I couldn’t imagine the pain of it.
I sat up. He pushed me down. Kept his hand just above my sternum, leaning against it as he got his hand under my skirt. He hooked his finger around the crotch of my underwear and yanked them down and off. He was so dominant. So in charge. Every worry dropped off me and my defenses went with them, replaced by a vibrating desire. He folded his lips inside his teeth when I groaned.
“I don’t have anything.” I pointed at my dresser as if that meant anything. “No condoms.”
He pulled me up, turned me onto my stomach, and pulled my hips toward him.
“I’m taking care of it.” With that, he put two fingers in my soaking * and pressed against the place where pleasure lived.
I swallowed a scream.
“No, no, sweetapple,” he whispered. “There’s a full house.”
“Sorry, I’m just… it’s so good.”
His fingers left me, and I was disappointed for half a second, exhaling, getting myself together to have the quietest orgasm in history. Closing my eyes. Steeling myself.
Fabric against my lips. Pushing. Lace. The smell of my *.
I opened my mouth to complain, and what the heck?
He was shoving my underwear into my mouth. Holy what? I turned around to tell him this was my good underwear. The La Perla’s. Hundred fifty dollars. I didn’t want to eat a hundred fifty dollars’ worth of lace. French panties didn’t come halfway around the world to get ruined by my teeth.
Too late. Looked as if that was exactly why they’d made the trip.
He had the birthday ribbon around my head in the split second, and he was knotting it, securing the underwear in my mouth.
Didn’t he say something about being an Eagle Scout? Because the knot went in quick, and his fingers were back in my *, which found ten new reasons to be wet.
He leaned against me, the skin of his dick and the fluttering touch of his shirt on my ass. “Today. Now. You’re mine, you beautiful thing. No one else is going to have you.”
I made some vowel sound against the lace that was thirty percent complaint and seventy percent give-it-to-me.
He only heard the seventy percent, sliding his dick in as though he owned the joint and setting my * on fire. I was close before he entered me. Once he was buried inside, I went someplace else. A place with no words, only colors.
Heaviness on my back, between my shoulder blades, and I fell under it. He pushed me against the bed. I lost myself in his thrusts. Unable to speak or move, I was only made of vibrations. I didn’t think the promise of pleasure could expand further until I felt pressure against a place that had never been touched, and I squeaked.
“Hush,” he said, pressing a wet finger against my ass.
I had to obey. I wanted to. His thrusts shifted to a painfully slow pace. Every inch of his finger in my ass, every inch of his dick inside my *.
Gradually and deliberately, he filled me. I hadn’t known it would be good. I’d had no idea. It was too much. I couldn’t hold it. I was on the left side of an orgasm, pushing against the membrane to the other side, but he wouldn’t let it break.
Outside. Dishes. Laughter. The other side of the door. People.
“Where’s Vivian?” someone called from the hallway.
I was pushed closer to the edge, almost caught with my underpants in my mouth and a finger in my ass. Fear buzzed and amplified the pleasure.
“I’m going to fuck you hard,” he whispered, pressing me down. “Don’t make a sound.”
Pain shot through my ass and transformed into something else when he stuck two fingers in. Not pleasure necessarily. A presence. Another anchor.
I came with a sob. I felt my ass pulse against his fingers. My body tightened like a guitar string and broke. I cried. Just cried into my hundred fifty dollar panties. My ass was released, and he was above me, lips at my ear, breathing staccato as I felt a warm liquid on my lower back.
We breathed together.
Well, he breathed. I was still sobbing.
“Vivian? Are you in there?”
It was Aunt Bette. Dash fumbled with the ribbon, biting back a laugh. It wasn’t funny, but it was, and I couldn’t help but laugh myself.
“Vivian, are you all right?”
My underwear expanded, and Dash plucked it out, his lips on my cheek.
“I’m fine,” I said from under him then whispered, “You owe me a hundred fifty dollars, mister.”
“I owe you a cleanup back here too. Jesus, did someone jizz on you or something?”
I wished I had the underwear back because I had to cover my mouth I was laughing so hard.
“Are you coming?” Aunt Bette said from the other side of the door.
“No, I—”
Already came. I stopped myself mid-sentence before I blurted it out. As if he could read my mind, Dash bit back his own laughter.
I swallowed mine long enough to answer. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
I pushed up, but he wouldn’t let me go. “I want to make you come again. And again. And again. You’re magic, you know that?”
“I’m about to be a family spectacle.”
“Please tell me I can get to a sink without going through the hall.”