"I fucking love it."
So I tell him how I’ve touched myself, how I’ve fantasized about him, sliding my fingers inside me while I’ve thought about what I wanted him to do to me. He growls, spinning me around and lifting me up to impale me on his cock, my back against the shower wall. I wrap my arms and legs around him, clinging to him as he thrusts inside me.
And begging him to fuck me harder, whining for it. Desperate for it.
"I had to see the look on your face when you came,” he says. “I can't get enough of it."
"Shit, Luke, I'm so close.”
"Tell me what you thought about when you touched yourself," he says, his words punctuated by thrusts inside me.
"I thought about you," I moan. "I thought about your cock."
"Tell me what you thought about exactly, sweetheart. I want to know.”
"I thought about your cock in my mouth," I tell him. "I thought about sucking you."
"Oh shit," he groans, thrusting inside me, and I'm so close. "You thought about me coming in that sweet mouth of yours?"
"I thought about you fucking my mouth." He brings his mouth down on mine again.
"Shit, Red," he says when our lips part. "I can't get enough of fucking you. I can't get enough of this tight *."
"Oh, God." I'm slipping against the cold shower tile, water and shampoo running down my face, but all I can think about is how hard Luke’s cock is inside me, how swollen it feels, like it’s ready to explode.
He takes my lip between his teeth, biting down and sending a pang of pain through me, bringing me even closer to the edge of oblivion. "Oh, hell," he says. "Are you going to come on me? I want you to come on me, baby."
He doesn't even finish the sentence before I let go. My orgasm triggers his, and I can feel him explode into me, shuddering as I cling to him, consumed by my own pleasure.
"Fuck." He looks up at me. My heart is still pounding in my chest, my breath short. "Some friend you are."
18
Luke
I lie on my stomach in Autumn’s bed, recovering from the last round of sex with her. Her hand traces lazily along my back, fingertips brushing the scar. I don’t know why I even told her about it. It’s a part of myself I keep hidden away, locked up from anyone who knows me.
But Autumn… there's something odd about the way I’m so quickly comfortable with her. It’s easy being with her, which is fucking strange because she’s probably the most tightly wound chick I’ve ever met. But hell, I’ve never stayed in someone’s bed like this, fucking and hanging out and talking, without wanting to get the hell out the moment I got off.
"Did you always want to be a smoke jumper?" she asks, her voice soft.
“Not really,” I admit, looking at the small painting that hangs on the opposite wall, palm trees and water and bright colors. I wonder if she lies here at night, looking at it.
“Not really?”
“Nope.” How do I explain that I never imagined myself doing anything – being anything? The Saint family’s name was shit in this town, and we weren’t supposed to amount to anything. We were always outsiders here, and that was only worsened by my father’s shittiness. "I just needed a way out of this place. I like being outdoors, working with my hands. I like the land. And the rush. I always liked being on the edge.”
I leave the second half of that sentence unspoken – because when you’ve grown up the way I have, you never know if the next breath you take is going to be the last. There’s something about that fact that just sits with you. You get used to it. And that’s how you live.
I don't say that part, because I think that part is pretty fucked up, and Autumn isn't the kind of person who would understand my particular brand of fucked up.
“You were running away,” she says. When I roll over, she’s lying on her side, her head propped up on her hand.
I’m not sure if she’s talking about when I first left West Bend, or every day since then. “I guess.”
“I ran away, and found this place,” she says.
“Who runs away to West Bend?" I ask, shaking my head.
She shrugs. "It was an accident. I didn't go out looking for West Bend."
"You threw a dart at a map or something?"
"Almost." She laughs. "I ran out of gas."
"You ran out of gas, so you decided to stay?"
"I had kind of a meltdown."
"A mid-life crisis, you mean."
"Shut up," she says, punching me in the arm. "I'm not middle-aged."
"Hey, you're the one who keeps going on and on all the time about how old you are," I point out.
"I was having a shitty week. Not a mid-life crisis."
"Must have been some week to land you in West Bend."