Authors: Gloria Foxx
* * *
A nervous quiet settles over us in the car on the way to
Boston’s dorm. We don’t even have music, the hollow spot where the radio should
have been a yawning black void with wires reaching out like tentacles. An urban
campus offers all kinds of new experiences, including the quiet that comes from
the violated, broken dashboard on my car.
“Sorry about the music. I can’t imagine why anyone would
want the radio.”
Boston shrugs as if the quiet doesn’t matter. I continue. “This
beast is twenty years old and it sucks gas through a big straw. The only
amenity had been music.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “Quiet time is good thinking time.”
We’re quiet, my mind racing with possibilities, thinking
about what Lyla said and wondering.
“I’m not ready to call it a night. Can we go back to your
place?”
I shouldn’t. I know I’m not ready and I don’t know where
this might go. I only just told Lyla I need more time, but oh man I want to say
yes.
Boston turns toward me, his knees bumping the broken plastic
on the console, just below where the radio should have been. “Shit!”
“Careful. It’s sharp. You’ll tear a hole in your jeans.” I
thought about the suits he wore for work and wondered why he doesn’t have his
own car, but before I can ask, he begins talking again.
“Never mind. I’m hungry. Let’s pick up something and take it
to your place.”
“I don’t know. I’d have to drive you back when we’re done
eating and it’s already late.” I stop at a flashing red light and stay there,
wondering if my deliberate misunderstanding is a defense mechanism. There’s not
a car in sight, but I don’t go, waiting for his response. I look left and right
and then left again and I still don’t go. Agitation spews from my inner
struggle. It holds me captive as I slide one hand over the other and push down
to pop the pressure from my wrist.
Do I dare cross the line between friendship and intimacy? He
kissed me last week and I wanted more. Maybe we can keep it light, a hook-up,
nothing serious. We can enjoy each other and then go our separate ways. I’d
always counted on my relationships to fill a void in my life, but what if I don’t
do that. What if I go into it thinking it’s temporary? I’m living, enjoying
life, nothing major.
I can keep it casual, I know I can … I think I can. The
sparks are brighter than the shadows are dark and I’m not sure of anything with
Boston.
He doesn’t plead or cajole. “No pressure. You decide,” he
says in a low throaty tone that floods my lower belly and makes me want so much
more.
“My last two relationships didn’t work out so well.”
Now why the hell did I say that?
I bash myself with
disgust.
“Sometimes they do and sometimes they don’t. We just keep
looking until we find the right one.” He seems to see right into my weary soul,
his words so similar to Lyla’s.
I jump.
The light flashing red like a beacon calls out to me, but
whether beckoning or warning I can’t tell and I don’t care. I check again for nonexistent
traffic before rolling through, heading for home. Uncertainty wells like black
tar bubbling up from my belly producing dread and a sense of giddiness too,
maybe I’m excited to be spending more time with Boston. The contradiction feels
like whiplash within me so rather than trying to understand, rather than
working it out, I give up. I just let go. Sometimes, when the world is tilting
and swirling out of control it’s best to just let go and let life carry you
through.
The darkness we encounter walking across the parking lot to
my door hints at intimacy. The enticing scent of wet leather tickles my memory.
The events of that night we dashed across the parking lot in the rain somehow
foretold what would transpire this night. The weeks between were nothing more
than a dance of denial.
We never stopped to pick up something to eat. When I make a
decision I’m all in, no detours, no equivocation, no stalling. I unlock the
door with shaking hand, my fingers suddenly fumbling with keys that worked with
the practiced skill of daily use only this morning. Finally the key slides
home.
Pushing through the door with Boston on my heels, I struggle
to pull the key from the lock, finally disengaging. Closing the door, I lean
back into it, sliding my hands behind my butt, aching to move yet afraid.
Unlike past relationships, this time I learned about Boston
before diving in headlong. It makes no difference; I’m still nervous. Scratch
that. I’m worried about the impermanence of life.
Weak light dribbles from the small lamp on my desk, a touch
lamp that started dim and brightened a bit with each tap. Little more than a
night light, I usually find it comforting to have illumination when I enter.
Tonight it seems too scant, casting a halo behind Boston, but cloaking his
features in shadow. I can make out the breadth of his shoulders and nothing
else, adding tautness to the air around us.
Without sight, smell takes over: earthy leather, the sultry
citrus of bergamot, fresh brightness from shampoo or maybe detergent and the
warm smell that I can only describe as Boston. They all come together in a rush
warming my chest and sinking to my belly.
A creak from Boston’s leather jacket breaks the quiet
stillness as his fingers skim up my arms, light as a feather, yet heavy with
promise.
Cornered, nearly pinned against the door, I wish I’d moved
into the room. Flashes of past relationships gone wrong, horrible endings and second
guesses clamor within my head.
“Are you sure you want me to stay?” The light shining over
his shoulder glows dim and I’m not sure of anything except that it hints at my
expression. His knuckles kiss my cheek, scanning the contour with a tenderness
that makes me feel guilty. “I won’t do anything you don’t want.”
“I’m not afraid of intimacy,” I say on a whisper of air.
It’s what comes after that terrifies me, the exposure, the
risk. I take a deep breath, honest with myself for the first time in weeks,
even though I just lied to Boston. I want everything. I’m just not sure I deserve
it.
I’m afraid of me. I’m afraid of making a bad decision; I’m
afraid of falling in love, I’m afraid of getting hurt when he leaves. I’m
afraid he’ll take parts of me along with him, leaving me like a discarded
puzzle, no good because I’m missing too many pieces.
His fingers slide below my ear, like a ghost.
Most of all, I’m afraid of living with even more
consequences than I do already, but he’s enthralling and what is life without
consequences? I lean into his palm and reach for his shoulders as he presses me
back against the door.
I can feel his erection straining through his pants, a thick
ridge against my thigh and we’ve only just touched, soft, hesitant, testing,
inquiring. His lips crash into mine, or maybe mine crash into his with demand
and assertion and need.
Worry and fear are gone in an inferno that knows no mind, no
conscious thought.
My fingers scramble for purchase at his shoulders, snapping
and dancing across the slick leather like water droplets on an overheated
skillet.
Boston pulls me away from the door, holding me close. I gasp
for breath as he releases my lips, his beating a trail across my jaw before
skidding to a stop below my ear where he feasts. I am no longer aware of the
low light. My apartment melts away, leaving only Boston and me. I can see him
with my eyes closed as I touch, taste and smell while working my hands under
his tee.
His lips are back on mine, his tongue tracing the seam, his
teeth worrying my lower lip. I can’t get enough, can’t stop kissing him. My
tongue ventures out searching for his and when they met my knees buckle and I
groan, giving into the sensation. He holds me up, not with his hands, but with
his body as he pins me against the door. I am snared and no longer capable of
thought, only sensation. His erection threatens, pressing against me with
promise, his lips sipping at mine before sliding to my throat. His hands cross
my chest to my breasts, kneading through my tee, plucking at nipples standing
proud and seeking.
My hands tangle in his tee, grasping at flesh. His under my
shirt, move. I don’t know how that happened. They skim across my belly making
my muscles contract and cavort, jumping and quivering in fitful anticipation.
He reaches his destination, thumbs and forefingers cupped below my breasts, plumping
them before sliding his palms over my nipples, rough calluses on his hands
snagging on the fabric of my bra.
Arching my back, I press myself into his hands, my internal
muscles clenching at nothing while wanting everything. Wriggling one of my hands
free, I slide over his straining cock. The denim from his jeans deadens my
grasping fingers and raking nails into needy caresses.
Boston’s lips return to mine, his hands unhooking my bra,
one eyelet at a time. I can’t slide the straps from my shoulders with my shirt
in place, but no matter. His hands move under the loose band, circling around
until they’re between my breasts and my bra, his fingers scraping my nipples.
I groan when his fingers come together tweaking my nipples
and then I gasp, sizzling as his teeth take a tip, teasing me through my shirt
before laving the fiery point and saturating the fabric. Then he draws the tip
into his mouth.
Holding his head to my breast, I wrap one leg around Boston’s
hip, pulling him close and sliding my moist heat along his thigh aiming for his
cock. “Pants,” I pant, sensations dulled with both his and my jeans in the way.
His mouth had moved to my other breast and he raises his
head seeming disoriented.
“Hold on.” He lifts me with one arm wrapped under my ass and
the other holding tight against my back. I jerk and let out a shriek, partly
because I’m suddenly moving and partly because his belt buckle scrapes across
my clit before wedging lower. It might have hurt, but my pants are in the way
making it more stimulation than pain. With my arms wrapped around his
shoulders, holding tight, I tilt my pelvis, sliding against his belt buckle and
moaning. I feel like I’m outside myself, embarrassed by my response, but there’s
nothing I can do to help myself.
“Bedroom.” His voice is a hoarse bark.
“Futon.” We’re not going into the bedroom and thankfully I’d
left in a hurry this morning so my futon is lying flat, my blankets still
strewn across the makeshift bed.
Dropping me before him and kneeling between my thighs, Boston’s
hands slick up my torso and under my shirt, pushing my clothing out of the way.
Raising my arms, my shirt and bra disappear into the dimness of the room. I
tackle his tee, struggling to peel the material away from shoulders that wouldn’t
budge and arms locked in place as his fingers return to my bared breasts.
“Hey,” I whine in frustration. His skin hot and smooth
covers ropes and ridges of muscle, delighting my seeking fingers, but I can’t
quite get to all of it with his shirt in the way.
“Sorry.” Boston pauses, yanking his shirt over his head
before settling between my thighs and squeezing a moan from my throat. His body
forces my legs wider, the flat plane of his belly hard against the moist denim
between my thighs. The rigid metal of his buckle taunts me while he worships my
breasts, consuming my nipples.
My breathing ragged, I give up on the heated sensation of
his skin as need roars within me. It surges in my chest like a giant balloon
inflating between my ribs, pressing against my lungs and stealing my breath
from the inside out. My fingers clamor at his waist, following his belt around
to the buckle. Pushing against the tightness of his stomach, I fumble to loosen
his pants, handicapped as he draws on my nipples.
I’m gushing wet. The sucking and plucking at my nipples send
pulsing tremors through me, building a fire in my belly that I can’t contain.
My internal muscles clench and relax in response as he engulfs my nipples and
then releases.
Boston shifts slightly to give me room as I loose the buckle
and work on the button and zipper, drawn tight by the force of his cock.
Urgency builds. It makes me fumble until finally he is free. My hands dive
inside, the brass from his zipper catching my knuckles. I ignore the scraping
that’s not quite painful, overwhelmed by temptation and greed as I push his
underwear out of the way, struggling to wrap my fingers around his mass.
Boston finally leaves my breasts, shoving his jeans away.
His breath from a distance tickles cold across the wetness of my tightening
nipples creating another kind of shiver. I don’t mind.
Sensations rule, fueling urgent need. There are no thoughts
or concerns, should or should not, only awareness and driving need for more as
I lose myself in the moment, with no conscious thought that I can never go
back.
My pants are finally open and I lift my ass from the futon
as Boston slides them down my legs. My eyes pop open when he stops at my
thighs. He lifts my legs, one at a time to remove my shoes and socks while
watching me closely. I drown in the depths of his eyes, floating instead of
struggling and waiting in limbo for his return.
My entire body jerks, my lips parting on a gasp. I didn’t
notice his hands returning to my body until his fingers startle me, sinking
into me at the same time his thumb slicks alongside my clit. I pull back, but
there’s no place to go, the futon firm at my back. He teases me; his thumb
sliding from below to one side and then back down before moving to the other
side. Back and forth, down and back up again he taunts me, my hips swinging
with the rhythm, sweat beading on my temples and upper lip, air gasping through
my throat.
Boston doesn’t move the fingers shoved deep within me.
Instead, I move, tilting my hips every time his thumb slides alongside my clit.
I’m thrusting his fingers inside of me, my hips fluttering with his every move
and I can’t help myself. I want more and faster, but Boston controls our pace,
drawing me out and making me wait.
I’d lost touch with his cock when he removed our jeans and
for the moment I don’t miss it. Grasping at his shoulders, I pull him toward me
as my hips pulse with his rhythm. My back arches, my head falls back, thrashing
from side to side. His fingers tease and rile as I buck and whimper. I tighten
around his fingers in a frenzy pushing back at the tremors building low in my
belly until they overwhelm me, detonating and sending me somewhere else with a
force that I relish.
My breath and my awareness are gone as I pant, floating
within myself, or maybe I’m outside of myself. Wherever I am, it’s dark with
flashes of electricity that look like lightning but with sizzle instead of
thunder. I jolt as my thighs tremble, remnants of orgasm pulsing. I’m riding
his fingers, jerking and ragged instead of fluid and rhythmic.
Awareness begins to return. Boston leaves me, his fingers no
longer inside of me, his skin no longer under my fingertips. My body sprawled
like a ragdoll, arms flung out, legs splayed. I am limp but still jerking from
the occasional sizzle, my clit still throbbing, my muscles clenching and
pulsing.
“Boston?” I ask with a trembling voice trying to lift
eyelids heavy as anvils.
“I’m here,” he says as I pry my eyes open to slits, just
wide enough to see him looming above me.
I needn’t have bothered because in the same moment I feel
his cock probing my entrance and then he slowly plunges, sliding deep within
me, battering my still clenching muscles. I groan at the fullness that makes me
feel like coughing. The nest of curls at the base of his cock teases and
abrades my still-throbbing clit until the need is back. It rises up from my
belly and crushes my lungs, expanding and filling my chest.
Boston pulls out slowly and then sinks back in, stretching
me to accept him, groaning low in his throat as I envelope him. His tempo is
slow and rolling as I lock my ankles behind his lower back, pulling myself up
to meet his every stroke. I try to push him faster, my breath caught on the
mass of him inside me. He won’t budge, rolling his hips to a measured song.
Fire licks in my belly again, liquid and raging hot and
spreading fast. I can feel every sensation. Smooth, cool fabric below me grows
warm and damp. Slick sweat on my belly cools as we part, but burns hot and
slippery when we come back together. The force of his cock parts me and then
pulls easily from my clenching grasp. The rhythmic bump of his pelvis taunts my
clit as he rams home. Hot smooth skin at his shoulders denies my grasping
fingers. Every sensation sends ecstasy thrilling through me.
Moving faster now, his cock swelling, I vigorously match
every delicious stroke, pulling him toward me, needful. There’s no denying.
Boston has something I need and I have something he needs too. Right now it’s
these moments of intimacy. On another day, it might be something else, but for
now I am content. No, I’m not content at all.
I am desperate, scaling the face of a rocky cliff Boston
urging me on, above me, within me, until I reach the precipice. There I
balance, but only for a moment before crossing the invisible line between torture
and ecstasy.
“Sterling.” His voice is gruff, grating on hypersensitive
nerve endings. “Sterling, oh God…” Guttural rasping sizzles my skin from the
soles of my feet to the tips of my fingers to the depths within me. He goes
deep, staying there as I quake, holding me together as the quake tries to rip
me in two.