When I really come awake again, I hear sounds of…battle?
I crack my eyes open and find Am leaning back against my pillows, staring wide-eyed at her phone. My burgundy duvet is pulled up to her hips, and she’s got on some kind of giant, saggy t-shirt. At first I think it must be mine, but then I notice that it’s mint green with Greek letters on the front.
I blink a few times, testing out my pain level as I watch her. I’m pleased to find I feel a lot better. More so as I watch her mouth flicker from horror to smiles to surprise. I don’t know for sure, but based on the dialogue I’m hearing, I think she’s watching Game of Thrones. I’ve only ever read the books.
She jumps, and I realize she’s seen me watching her.
She laughs and mutes the show, her gaze growing more serious as she levels it at me. “I hope I didn’t wake you up. I thought I had the volume pretty low.”
“You did. Didn’t. Wake me up. Jesus.” I rub a hand over my warm face. “You didn’t wake me up,” I manage in a voice that sounds like gravel. I squint around the room, noting the light around the windows. “What time is it?”
“Ten.”
I frown, and Am reaches for my face, smoothing her long fingers over my hair. “It’s Tuesday, Dash.”
“It is?”
She smiles. “Yep.”
“How… What did you tell Imagine?”
“I told them we were both sick. Probable food poisoning.”
I sink back down against my pillow, put my arm over my face. Not because my head hurts much, but because I don’t know what to say to her—and I don’t trust myself.
I feel her settle beside me, lying down like I am, feel her little feet against my shins.
“You okay? Need something?”
She rubs her toes against my ankle, and I can’t help smiling on the other side of my arm as my cock twitches.
Amelia Frank. This girl is my poison and my cure. I’m not sure why it’s like that—why it’s her. The world is full of women, all of them but her within my reach. I guess we crave what we can’t have. That or this is just my fate: to want, to ache. And then, as if to argue—or confirm—I feel her foot creep up my calf.
Fifteen
Amelia
It’s terrible, teasing him like this. I know it is. But he looks so damn good with sleepy eyes, with his cheeks flushed from being under the covers—and I know he isn’t wearing any shirt or pants, because when he was sleeping, he mumbled something about being hot and pulled the pants off.
Meaning, as I drag my foot up his warm, hair-dusted leg, the only things between me and his package are his boxer-briefs.
The muscles of his legs are taut and thick. When I tickle my foot over him, he shuts his eyes and sinks onto his pillow.
“Am I hurting you?” I whisper.
“Fuck no.”
His hands catch my foot and gently knead the bottom.
“Mmmmm.”
Then he tugs me by the ankle, bringing my foot down so I can feel how hard he is. He rubs himself against my sole, and I giggle. How weird—and how sexy.
I wriggle away from him, then duck under the covers. I start licking near this ankle and drag my tongue slowly up his calf and knee. By the time I reach his thigh, Dash’s hands are clenching my shoulders.
I lick my way up toward his boxer-briefs, then tease my fingertips inside the shorts, reaching toward his cock, which I feel tenting the cotton. But I don’t touch him.
I can feel his need—it’s echoed between my own legs—but I take my time, licking all around, until at last he loses self-control and grabs me by the neck, then by the hair.
He moans, “Please…”
I peek at him from under the duvet. “Have you been a good boy?”
“No,” he groans.
“Then I don’t know…” I resume my careful licking, teasing all around his balls before I lick along the seam, giving them each a turn in my mouth while his body tautens and trembles. His fingers in my hair are hurting, but it’s so damn hot to see what I can do to him. Not what he can do to me; what I can do to him.
I finish with his now-taut balls and cup them in one palm and lick around the base of his shaft. I can feel it pulsing, feel how aching hard he is. His balls have drawn up, too, even more so as I lick around his shaft, up toward his head. When I get there, I taste the warm, slick, salty taste of his desire. His need for me. I twirl my tongue around his tip, under his head, and am rewarded with another tiny stream of saltiness.
“Oh God. Amelia…”
I lavish my tongue on his tiny slit, then travel back around his rim, taking some time at the soft indention on the bottom of his head—which makes his hips tremble.
“Amelia, Jesus. Fuck.” His body stiffens as he thrusts himself at me, his thick head pressed against my cheek.
“What’s the magic word, Dash?”
“Please…”
I close my mouth around the head of him, and Dash cries out, hoarse.
“Mmmmmm.” I do that just to drive him crazy—the vibration. And it does. I know because I taste it in the back of my throat.
I can feel him shaking. I can feel his hands on my shoulders, how hard they’re clutching. And I know he has to want to push me down… But he resists. Because he knows he fucked me over? Because he feels guilty?
I tell myself his tolerance is proof he feels bad. That he knows how he hurt me—and he’s sorry. He said he was sorry.
I feel how sweaty his hands are and decide to take more of him down my throat. I’m not the most experienced at this, but in the last week and a half, I’ve gotten pretty good at deep-throating. Dash is so long and thick, I can’t take all of him, but I can try my best—and it must be pretty good, because his hand on my nape tightens, and he loses it: thrusting too hard into my throat; I choke and gag.
“Damn you,” I hear him snarl, and then he’s fucking my throat, so forceful, for a second I’m afraid that I might actually choke—but then I coordinate my breaths with Dash’s thrusts and I can take it.
I relax and let him use me.
I want him in between my legs, but I don’t ask, and couldn’t anyway because I can’t speak as I drool and tears stream down my cheeks.
With what little coordination I can muster, I caress his balls, roll them around. Dash’s fingers clench in my hair… His hands press my face from each side, and he thrusts like he was fucking my pussy. I think he’s come before he has, because there’s so much precum. He’s so hard, so awfully hard, I’ve never felt a man this hard, not in my mouth. I wonder dimly what it will be like when he comes—and then he’s gone.
He’s pulled out, coming somewhere out of view. Into a sheet, I find. My mouth and jaw are throbbing when he grabs me, tosses me down on the bed, and moves between my legs. He snatches my thin, cotton night-shorts down and lowers his face between my legs, where he uses his tongue to torture me until I’m so desperate, I am actually crying.