Page 61 of Poetry On Ice
The entire time he’s kissing me, his fingers move inside me.
I go somewhere else. Somewhere far away and unfamiliar. A place where it feels like I’m weightless and floating and about to rupture at the same time.
Any intention to play it cool leaves me. It’s not that I ask for more or even beg. I plead. There’s no other way of putting it. A torrent of expletives pours from my lips, all punctuated with a single pained word: “Please!”
I say it so much and with such meaning that I’m only dimly aware of Decker giving me a third finger. It hurts, but only a little. So little that my brain scrambles the signal and reads it as pleasure.
It’s too much.
I’m too close.
“Ant! I’m gonna—”
He stops moving immediately, going so still I can tell he isn’tbreathing.
My nervous system revolts from the sudden halt in stimuli. My balls ache, and my lower belly too. My brain nearly explodes from the shock, the wrongness, the injustice of being so close and stopping.
I roar and thrash, fighting for more, but I’m unable to find it.
When I’m back from the edge, or not back from it so much as clawing wildly at it and managing to find a shred of purchase, Decker pulls his fingers out of me. He does it slowly, carefully, making a concerted effort not to touch the hot spot inside me.
The roar from before turns into a wail as the loss of him leaves my hole clenching on nothing.
He pulls me to my feet. I sway but manage to remain upright.
“Bedroom,” he growls.
I take the first three of four stairs with an unnaturally stiff gait, all too aware that I’m naked and there’s a man at my back. I feel his presence like an open flame. Sparks crackle and flicker up my legs and down my back.
I don’t move as fast as he’d like. I know that because he feels it necessary to hurry me along. He does so by wrapping an arm around my chest, holding me securely under my arms, and using two fingers to prod me as I walk. He finds his target easily. Expertly. Slick, thickdigits penetrate me and fill me so deeply that I take the next three or four stairs on my toes. My knees start to buckle, but he holds me up, thrusting into me each time I raise my foot to climb a step.
My legs fail me before I get to the landing. I collapse to my knees, my fall ungraceful and broken only by the thick digits wedged up my ass. I don’t stop or slow. I keep moving. I need to get to my bedroom, even if it kills me. I crawl up the stairs, grunting like an animal each time Decker spurs me along.
I pull myself up on the banister when I reach the top.
“Which way?” he asks. I raise a limp arm and point to my bedroom door. “I swear to God, Princess, therebetterbe a bed in there.”
Thank fuck there is. I rented my New York apartment to a friend when I moved to Seattle, so I left most of my furniture for them, but I brought my bed, the art, and a few sentimental pieces with me.
My bed is neatly made and there isn't so much as a sock or errant pair of shoes on the floor. The curtains are drawn and the bedside light is on. I’ll neither confirm nor deny that I spent a considerable amount of time planning the seduction of an infamous Vipers player before leaving home this afternoon.
But you best believe my room wouldn’t look anything like this if I hadn’t.
“On your hands and knees,” he says, giving me a little shove toward the bed.
I wobble over to it on unsteady legs and drop onto all fours. I feel the weight of my body in my wrists and lower back. I’m on my hands and knees, legs open, balls heavy. My ass is fully exposed. I clench and relax to remind Decker what I’m here for. He sees and likes it. I can tell by the way he’s breathing at me. Hot, uneven blasts of air I feel on the back of my legs.
It makes me tingle.
It makes me needy. A burning, desperate mess that needs to be fucked more than I need water or air.
“Do it,” I garble, “just do it. I need it.”
The mattress dips behind me. Swaying me to the left and then the right. There’s a big hand on my back, a slow, steady sweep of his skin against mine, and then pressure on the back of my neck. He pushes me down, face-first into the mattress. My chest and arms are cushioned by my bedlinen. My ass is high in the air.
If I was still capable of feeling anything but rampant arousal, I’d probably be embarrassed by the position I’m in. Maybe even ashamed. It’s different this time. Last time, the lights were out, and the dark provided a cloak,a screen, something to shield me and keep some part of me for myself. That cloak is gone, stripped away by an afternoon of hushed tones and holding hands. Long, lazy hours spent looking into his eyes and seeing things he doesn’t show other people.
His hand moves down my back, following the line of my spine all the way down to my balls. He curls his fingers around them, gently running blunt nails over feverish skin.