Authors: Gloria Foxx
“I don’t need practice.” My growing irritation makes me snap
at his jest.
Boston shakes his head, backtracking. “Of course not.”
“That’s not what I mean. I’ve had practice and I’m not good
at this. I want to be, but what if I can’t do this? What do we do then?”
“Maybe you haven’t practiced with the right guy.” His
eyebrow lifts half mocking, half questioning. “You’re going to get good at
this. We’ll get good at it together.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“Don’t make it sound like it’s nothing. I’m serious.”
“You can do this too Sterling.”
“What if I can’t?” I turn to Boston, the red still flashing
before us.
“You can. We’ll figure it out.”
Taking a deep breath, I sigh feeling my shoulders relax and
lower. Dropping my head forward, I press a thumb and finger into my eyes,
pushing hard to release the tension. I can’t argue anymore. I’m tired. Besides,
I don’t want to argue. I want to grab hold and never let go.
I pull through the flashing light. “My dad left before I was
born and my mom left over and over and over again. Hell, even her husbands
left.”
“Where’d that leave you?”
“I lived with Lyla most of my life because my mother couldn’t
stop drinking and driving.”
“You know my parents didn’t really want me?”
“Yeah, the past sucks. It’s like being chased by a giant
black bear and we can’t get away because we keep looking back over our
shoulder.”
“Either that or we’re running from something that’s not
chasing us, ending up so far away that we can never go back.”
“Good thing we don’t live there anymore,” I say into the
dark world beyond my windshield, only shiny bits of wet blacktop reflecting my
headlights as blocks roll away like time passing to the hum of my tires.
“Parents suck, but you know when I said I’ve had practice I
meant with guys, right?”
“Right. Guys can be assholes. You don’t need to be specific.”
“I caught my first boyfriend in bed with my mother. She was
drunk. He wasn’t.”
“Everyone sucks. Logan, right?”
“Yeah. I caught him, bare ass in the air and pants around
his ankles with my mother.”
“I’m sorry Sterling. We’re not all like that.”
“She didn’t remember.”
“Maybe it’s better that way.”
“Maybe. Then there’s Brock. He’s …
“Abusive?” Boston interrupts.
Shocked that he guessed when I’d never said anything, I
finish parking in my lot before turning to him, surprise in my voice. “How did
you know?”
“You were afraid of someone and lashed out that first day we
met.”
“Oh.” I nod, relieved as I remember my attempt to clobber
him with my book bag. “At least I never found him in bed with anyone,” I jest
while thinking that what he did to Emma is nothing to joke about.
I turn the key, lost in the memory, the pain of betrayal
sharp in the sudden stillness that comes with the absence of sound. I’m not
ready to talk about Emma yet.
“So what happened to him? How did you get away from him?”
“The cops arrested him and I got a restraining order.”
“What did he do?”
I wonder if Boston can tell I’m hiding something. Ducking my
head, making sure he can’t see my expression, I reply “They arrested him for
drunk driving.” I can’t tell him the rest, but he doesn’t let me off easy.
“Just like your mother.”
“Worse.”
“He hurt someone?”
“He killed someone.” The words come out in a whisper of
shock, barely a breath of air. Please, please, please don’t ask anymore. I
pray.
“Were you in the car with him?”
“No.”
“So he broke your wrist, you didn’t break it in the crash?”
I like that he said crash. People often say accident, but
there’s nothing accidental about it. “He came back here after the crash and
blamed me, knocking me around, breaking my wrist.”
“It’s a good thing he’s gone.” Boston squeezes my hand and
draws me toward him with his free hand cupping my jaw. “Come here.” I don’t
resist, leaning against the console, resting my head on his shoulder.
He rubs his cheek against my hair as I squeeze my eyelids
shut. I will not cry. I will not cry. I tell myself, feeling the liquid
emotions seeping from my eyes, falling to my cheeks.
My chest tightens at the thought of telling him about Emma.
Oh God, I’m not ready to talk about Emma yet.
He must have felt my tension saying, “It’s okay. You can
tell me when you’re ready.
I smile a grim tremulous twitch of my lips at the reprieve.
I don’t know how long we stayed like that, taking comfort from one another. I’m
still scared and holding on tight because I have more to confess and Boston
knows it.
He’s like the wind, pushing hard enough to make me sway, but
not so hard that I break. He makes me stronger. It’s reassuring and scary as
hell.
I trust him and I’ll tell him about Emma, when I’m ready.
I come awake by degrees, like any other day, but today I
know who I am and where I am in life. I know that Emma’s gone and I don’t feel
the need to hide in stupor, my mind pretending that nothing’s changed.
Everything has changed, including me and it’s not all bad.
Sun streams through the window, playing over Boston’s bare
shoulder, giving his tattoo light and shadow and dimension before splashing
across his chest. We made it back to my place and he slept here with me. We
just slept a peaceful sleep without sex, yet close and intimate and
rejuvenating. It’s as if opening up and trusting him has made all the
difference.
The sun is bright where it kisses his skin,
I marvel at the man sleeping almost childlike beside me, his
strength defined by the shadows the sun doesn’t touch. It’s more than the
valley created where the deltoid meets the bicep or the curve where his chest
dissolves into ripples along his ribs. I see strength in the resilience of a
young boy created to provide spare parts for his older brother and the man he’s
become, a man who protects others and is who’s willing to give me a second
chance. His strength conceals the loneliness that lurks just beneath the
surface and the lingering uncertainty and inability to judge whether he’s
wanted for the man he is or for something he has to offer.
I trace my fingers through the shadows, exploring the ridges
before bumping over the bulges and skidding across the plane created by the
flat slabs of muscle on his chest.
“What are you doing?”
“Exploring. I thought you were asleep.” I grin as I say it,
perfectly happy to find him awake.
“Who can sleep when you torture me like this?”
“Torture? It’s pure torture to watch you sleep when I’m wide
awake.”
“That’s not my problem.” He pulls me down to his chest,
dragging me higher and pulling my close to meet his lips, all without lifting
his head or opening his eyes.
I don’t remember how we did it, but we made it into the
apartment last night and into my bed. Oh, not my real bed. I’m still sleeping
on the futon.
Thoughts about last night fade away as Boston’s hand cupping
my nape tilts my head for better access to my lips. He’s consuming and I match
his ardor, flames licking from low in my belly, pressure building in my chest.
“Mmmm.” I feel his erection pressing against me, fueling the
flames building there.
Sliding my hands from over his shoulders to under his arms,
I trace my fingers down his sides skimming his ribs until I reach hip bones.
Boston’s groan vibrates against my lips and tongue as my thumbs trace his lower
abdominals, sliding along the ridge of muscle that ends at his cock.
His hands begin to roam, no longer needing to hold me close.
I’m not going anywhere. My breath catches in my throat, trapped in anticipation
as his fingers tickle toward my breasts pressed flat against his chest. Then he
veers to the side, palms cupping my shoulders and skimming down my arms.
I thought he might stop my roving fingers, but instead his
hands slick down my back to the hem on my tee. Hot dry palms stroke upward
against my bare back holding me close before coming back down and pressing hard
against my lower back. I can feel his erection growing as his hips pulse toward
me. It’s bulging against my belly where it’s trapped between our bodies.
Then our mouths tear free as his hands move down, inside my
yoga pants, cupping the lower curve of my ass and dragging me upward until his
cock is nestled where my thighs meet.
My hands pull free from his body when he drags me upward. I
brace them against his chest and tilt my hips, taunting him with a grin as I
rock back and forth, sliding along the ridge of his cock.
My breath rushes out in a whoosh as Boston lifts his hips,
grinding against me.
“Who the hell decided women should wear pants?” The words
rush out on a breathless wave as he pulls my pants down my hips where they
stop, trapped by my legs splayed around his body.
I laugh, breathless too as I lift one leg, helping. His
hands span my hips, naked under my pants, thumbs meeting low on my belly and
teasing my pubic hair. My breath lodges in my throat as I wait for his thumbs
to move lower, but they don’t. His hands skim upward under my tee, lifting it
as he goes, muscles in my belly jump and quiver forcing ragged respiration from
my throat.
“Let me help.” Not sure whether I’m helping him or myself, I
grasp the hem on my shirt and drag it over my head, giving him access.
“Beautiful.” The word comes out on an exhale, a breath of a
sound, and I believe it, coming from Boston in such an unguarded moment. “Come
here.”
I lean down, his hands stroking and sizzling up and down my
back, pulling me inexorably closer.
Our lips meet with a jolt of sensation, my nipples hard as
they scrape against his chest. His arms under my arms drag me even higher. I
mumble an incoherent protest as our clinging lips are dragged apart. My words
dissolve into a gasp as his lips latch onto a nipple, drawing it hard and deep
into his mouth.
The suction creates an inferno low in my belly. My hips flex
and tilt of their own volition, my fingers flexing and gripping into the skin
of his shoulders. Letting one nipple free, he moves to the other, flicking and
laving it while rolling the abandoned peak between his fingers.
As the fire in my belly begins to ebb, Boston draws the
second nipple deep into his mouth, fanning the flames to life all over again.
I need more. Releasing my nipples and pressing my breasts
together, his tongue slips from one to the other before planting a reverent
kiss on each nipple. I’m disappointed and aching for more when he releases my
breasts. Sliding his arms under my thighs, I’m confused, until his hands under
my ass lift me. “Come here.”
Scooting forward, every fiber in my being begins to sizzle
as my legs span his shoulders, pulling me apart and spreading me wide. I watch
him, looking nearly straight down my body to see him underneath me. I’m
exposed, yet he meets my gaze, his lids heavy, pupils dilated, liquid swirling
in his eyes. He’s not doing anything but holding my ass yet I can’t catch my
breath as his eyes drop and the air is trapped in my lungs.
I’m close, but not quite close enough. I’m on the outside of
everything amazing, waiting at the precipice. Boston pulls my hips forward, his
tongue slipping between my outer lips flicking my clit. I jerk, falling
forward, my hands landing on the armrest above his head while Boston holds
tight, his fingers spread wide across my ass, pressing me against his mouth.
My hips jerk in time to the movements, his lips nibbling at
my clit, his tongue stabbing into my slit, his hands at my ass holding me still
or moving me to his will.
He stops, yet my hips keep moving, coaxing him to continue
until his fingers pinching into the flesh of my ass catch my attention. He
moves me slightly as I quiver, close to orgasm, but denied.
“Hold still.” It’s a command, but when he moves his hands, I
move too. His fingers pinch into me again as he moves me back. “Stay right there.”
With my knees spread wide, I clench the muscles in my thighs
to hold the awkward position as his fingers gradually release, transferring my
weight from his hands to my legs.
His touch is light as his hands come back, much lower,
nearly between my thighs. His fingertips trace the backs of my thighs, coming
to rest as his thumbs slide against my outer lips slick with oozing moisture.
I’m quivering, my weight on my hands and knees as I hover
above his mouth, waiting. He draws out the moment until I almost can’t bear it.
A sound comes from deep in my throat, not quite squeak, and barely groan. I can’t
take it anymore and my hips begin to move almost imperceptibly.
“Hold still!” He doesn’t shout, but it’s as effective,
stilling me on the spot.
Just as I resign myself to wait, his thumbs plunge into me,
both of them. I jerk, but only slightly, not quite pulling away because his
mouth is at my clit, drawing hard, holding me down on his mouth. He draws on my
clit like he did with my nipples, pulling it deep into his mouth, as if pulling
a thick milkshake through a straw.
It takes only a moment before I explode, the force of it
tearing me apart from within. My entire body is rigid, my mind lost to reality.
I’m aware of nothing but the energy zinging through me, sharp and dull, bright
and dark, hard and soft, all at the same time.
I drift back to reality, pulsing waves washing over me. I
feel Boston moving my body around, rolling me over. Opening my eyes, I see him
above me now, his lips red and swollen, eyes heavy with lust, tension in his
jaw. He sees me watching. My limbs are loose and relaxed. I’m satiated, trying
to relax, and he’s not, but he’s poised to do something about it.
His eyes hold mine as he begins to move, sliding slowly into
me. There’s no resistance. I’m slick, liquid and soft as if melted. Although
well satisfied, I want more. I want to do the same for Boston that’s he’s done
for me. I want to see him melted, boneless, unable to move.
I create resistance, involuntarily clenching my internal
muscles. It’s a jerky response, made erratic by the vibrations still coursing
through me. Pulling him close, I tilt my pelvis and lift my knees, giving him
the access he needs as we merge our bodies.
My vision blurs as his face comes close, our mouths meeting,
our lips not quite lining up as I gasp, dragging in a shredded breath. Our air mingles,
our lips and tongues seek, our bodies press together over and over. Boston
pumps into me and I rise to meet every demanding stroke.
Excitement rises quickly in the wake of my last orgasm and I
clench. I’m dripping wet, sweat on my forehead, slick where our skin touches,
drenched where our bodies join. I can hear the wet slapping as he pummels me
and I want it, demanding more.
Our speed increases, Boston slamming against me as I strain
toward him with every stroke. I’m stretching, expanding like a balloon, but I
can take it and I want more, pushing myself to the limit. I feel thin and
tight, heavy with need that’s intensifying, weighing me down as we push toward
the elusive together. I want more. I need more. I’m afraid I’ll never be
satisfied as I urge Boston on, pushing him to push me.
Splendor comes almost as quickly as we are moving, startling
me under the sudden onslaught. A bubble surrounding me bursts, unexpectedly driving
me into myself. I’m aware of how sensitive my skin is. I protest with jagged
groans, high pitched and uneven, my breathing matching the strange sounds
coming from me, yet I want more. I keep moving in time with Boston.
“Don’t stop.” I gasp, not quite realizing he’s still going.
We’re not in sync anymore.
Waves threaten. They’re overtaking me, rolling me as I
struggle, tense and clench while moving only by small degrees. Boston pummels
me as the waves crash and thunder through me.
I see him, as if through a tunnel, his head is thrown back,
lips drawn tight across his teeth. He looks fierce as I quiver and quake, my
world narrowed to this moment and nothing more. The new sensation makes all the
others pale. A pulsing and jerking erupts deep within me as he stills. It’s
somehow stronger than every thrill I’ve ever experienced and it hurtles me
forward while keeping me anchored to the point deep inside me where Boston is
planted, tethering us together.
A snarl tears from his throat. It’s primal and powerful and
satisfying at the same time.
I’m tense with the onslaught, holding myself together with
gritted teeth and a tight grip, tension coiled in every muscle. Boston remains
deep but he’s no longer still as his hips pulse toward me, his pubic hair
teasing my battered clit. It’s glorious and almost painful and I don’t want the
dissonance to end.
With a gasp and gentle discharge of strain, Boston drops his
forehead to mine. He’s slippery with sweat and melting tension. I luxuriate in
the intimacy, my body still humming. As his strength returns, he kisses my nose
and my eyelids before moving down to claim my lips.
* * *
For the first time in my life, at least that I can remember,
I don’t need to worry alone. I have help, a confidant, a partner. Leaving work
with Boston feels right. As soon as we clear the door, his arm reaches in my
direction, seeking until he captures my hand, his fingers lacing with mine.
“I missed spending this kind of time with you these past few
weeks.” It’s as close as I can come to a confession.
“You shouldn’t be alone on the streets late at night.”
“I’m not afraid. If something terrible is going to happen,
it’ll happen.” I thought of Emma when I said it. I had to tell Boston about my
sister and the trial scheduled to begin in little more than a week. “Can I tell
you something?”
“Sure.” He drags me into the doorway of a darkened shop,
pressing me against the wall. Low light from the street does little to
penetrate the alcove. His nose and cheek brush the side of my face, his lips
landing on my jaw and tracing toward my ear. “Tell me.”
I barely hear the words as his breath whispers across my
exposed neck and drifts toward my ear, his lips following. “Boston stop, someone
will see us.”
“There’s no one around.” His teeth capture my ear lobe, tugging
gently as his hands wrap around my thighs and squeeze. All thought deserts me
as he drags me against him, my hips meeting his, my shoulders wedged against
the wall behind me, my toes no longer grounded. He leans in, capturing my
mouth. Need slams through me fierce and greedy.
We consume each other. I’m no longer bothered by the
possibility of people passing by. Boston’s hands are under my skirt, the cool
air against my thighs barely registering. Cold has no impact as he pulls my
thong toward my knees. I lift my leg while he drags it free before bracing my
leg around his waist.