Page 40 of Poetry On Ice
I don’t want to hurt you.
The heavy feeling in my chest sinks down to my belly as the last of the angry fog dissipates. Despite the whiskey, the extent of my overreaction sobers me, and the longer I’m at the bar, the more it dawns on me that I need to get back to our room.
I owe Decker an apology.
I order a water and keep Bodie company, trying not to rush him as he finishes his drink. We chat about the game tomorrow, and Bodie asks after my family—my mom and dad and, like always, Beth in particular. Conversation is a little stilted as I’m finding it really hard to act normal. After every sip he takes, Bodie throws me a furtive little look. I can tell he’s doing an assessment of my mental state, and he’s not happy with what he’s seeing.
“I better go,” I say when he finishes his drink and sets his glass down.
“Are you sure? ’Cause I’m serious, Robbie, you can take my bed. I’ll hit the sofa. You know me. I can sleep anywhere.”
“Nah, it’s all good. I’ll be okay. I took something Decker said the wrong way, that’s all.”
The curtains are drawn and the lights are out. It’s dark in the room. Almost pitch black. Decker’s breathing is long and even. So quiet, I have to hold my own breath to hear it. I brush my teeth and wash my face, taking care to close the bathroom door before I switch the light on so I don’t disturb him. I undress in the bathroom and tiptoe to my bed in my boxers.
I get into bed and pull the covers over my shoulders, turning on my side, away from Decker. I lie as still as possible because God knows I’ve disturbed this man way more than I should have for one day. I try to relax and let sleep take me, but I’m still just as tense as I was earlier when I was waiting for him and the low thrum of unsated arousal still flows through my veins. Even though I’m almost positive Decker’s fast asleep, his presence is hot and loud and the silence in the room is unbearable.
“Sorry,” I whisper. The first time I say it, I do it so softly it’s little more than a breath. It’s still a relief to hear myself say it. Such a relief that I say again. This time with meaning. “Ant, I’m sorry.”
A sigh and a strangled hum lets me know he heard me.
I close my eyes and will myself to sleep, feeling a little better now that I’ve apologized, but still not great.
After several long minutes, Decker’s sheets rustle and two heavy feet land on the carpet. I don’t move. I don’t even breathe.Chill, I tell myself,he’s probably going to take a piss. Not everything is about you. I’m so still and alert that when I feel the first hint of a tug on my covers, I think I imagined it.
“W-what are you doing?” I ask.
“Giving you what you want.”
My mouth dries and I’m left repeatedly swallowing and trying to catch my breath as Decker stands at the foot of my bed and pulls my bedding off me painstakingly slowly. My shoulders are exposed first, then my side, then my boxer-clad ass, and finally my legs and feet. There’s a light caress of fabric, a kiss of cotton on skin, followed by a cool breeze that reaches its icy claws inside me, takes hold of my insides, and squeezes until I can’t tell ice from fire.
He tosses something onto the bed beside me, and I know from the weight and the way it lands that it’s a bottle of lube. I don’t move a muscle. Not my head or my eyes. I just lie on my side, frozen, as he tucks himself behind me. Hope starts to beat against my rib cage. His chest makes contact with my back. The heat of his skinwarms me and makes me forget everything except where we’re touching. He’s big, even bigger than I am, muscular and hard, and bulky enough to wrap himself around me, and while it’s not a feeling I’m used to, it is a feeling I like.
It’s so dark that I can’t see anything other than the tiny red light on the bottom of the TV and the barely-there outline of the doorway that leads to the bathroom. I blink to get my eyes to adjust, but it doesn’t help. I can’t see, so I have no idea how or where Decker will touch me next, and he uses that to his advantage. He touches me lightly. A big hand on my upper arm. The back of his fingers trailing down my arm, then up again. The next touch is harder. He grips my bicep, feeling me up and moving downward. He confuses my mind and senses, alternating soft touches with hard ones. Fingertips dance on my side, following the lines of my ribs and counting them one by one, gradually curling around my body and traveling up my chest. He finds a handful of pectoral muscle and gropes it roughly. Stroking and groping, hard and soft. When I’m so turned on I can’t feel my legs, he takes a pebbled nipple between his forefinger and thumb and rolls it gently. A sharp jolt of pleasure blooms in my chest and spreads into my core. It makes me moan. I can’t help it. He’s sohot and so close to me, and I can’t remember ever wanting anyone as much as I want Decker.
I can’t remember ever wanting anything as much as I want this.
It’s an ache more than a want. An ache to be filled, to be taken. An ache for the unknown. An ache for something more. An ache for the man at my back.
His hand moves down, trailing over my navel, dusting my cock in a way that’s hardly a touch, more like a disturbance of air, and quickly moving away. He’s not touching me anywhere now except for where his chest is pressed against my back, and that makes me ache worse. I have no idea where he’s going to touch me next, and the anticipation that builds is hard to describe.
My breathing becomes ragged. Hard and fast. In and out.
I consider shifting and wriggling my hips backward so I can rub my ass on his dick, but I’m so scared to do the wrong thing that I don’t move. When he touches me again, it’s on my outer thigh. The pressure is firm and grounding as he tucks his hand into the bend of my knee and folds my leg up against my chest.
I know what he’s doing. I’ve done it to women before. Lots of times. He’s getting me ready for penetration. He’s arranging my limbs to ease his access to my body.
It turns me on hard.
He plays with my ass, sliding his hand under the waistband of my boxers, pushing them down and kneading my cheeks when I’m free of them. He strokes every inch of my ass until I’m on fire. There are blunt nails on my skin, barely there, barely there, and then they’re there hard. When it’s hard, big handfuls of me are manhandled and opened, pulled this way and that. Spread wide before reverting back to a soft caress that makes me see stars.
He teases me like that until I can’t think. Until I’m so blind, I can’t see the red light on the TV or the outline of the bathroom door. It’s as black when my eyes are open as when they’re closed. I have both hands fisted, clamped against my mouth to keep from begging for more. When I’m like that, moaning and reaching back, trying to grab any part of him I can lay my hands on, he reaches over me and feels around for the lube.
There’s a hollow click as he opens it, followed quickly by a slick digit at my backdoor. Even though I’m fully expecting it, the shock makes me draw a short breath. The lube is cold and his finger is thick. It makes me feel interfered with in the best possible way. He takes his time, coating my opening, circling it slowly, massaging me until my ring softens and I can make senseof what I’m feeling. Good. It feels good. Really, really good. Sensitive in a way I wasn’t expecting. Sensitive in a way I didn’t know I’d like. He waits until my bones turn to liquid and my blood starts to boil before nudging a fingertip into me.
My eyes fly open. I can’t see a thing. I’m surrounded by darkness, swallowed whole by it. All I can do is feel. A nudge and a rub. A nudge that becomes a little more. A fingertip worms its way into me. In, then out. More. Less. Each time, he works it into me a little deeper than before. I feel it intensely. Deeply. It’s a strange invasion, an unfamiliar feeling that delivers a slight burn that makes the seam of whatever has been holding me together all these years disintegrate.
He pulls out of me completely and then replaces one finger with two.