Chapter Twenty-Six - KATYA
I look at him. My lips gently sliding over the tip of his cock. My tongue licking seductively before I take him deeper into my mouth. His hands in my hair urge me on, but I pull back and say, “I want you naked.”
He smiles first, then laughs as he reaches behind his head and lifts his shirt. I stare at his stomach as more skin appears.
The tattoo across the full length of his abdomen is a lone man on a motorcycle ringed by scripted words. They are hard to read but I don’t need to read them. I know them by heart.
Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.
When I gaze up at him again he’s shirtless. Full attention on me. “I choose you,” he says. His fingertips gently brush against my cheek. “It felt like you were gone forever and now it feels like you never left.”
“It’s funny how that works,” I say.
But he shakes his head slowly as he plays with my hair. “There’s nothing funny about it. It’s just chemistry, Katya. There are so many open roads and we ended up walking this one together. If you think it’s an accident, then you hurt me. There’s no greater purpose for this life than to find the partner who understands your soul.”
I want to close my eyes and fall into his tenderness. It’s the one thing I could always count on with Oliver. He always knows just what to say. He always knows how to make me feel special.
“You understand my soul.”
It’s true. The first day we met, it felt like a reunion. “You always did have a way with words.”
His fingertips pull my hair back and expose my neck and my ear. He plays with the thin white line and then begins to trace the letters he put there four years ago as he bends down to kiss my lips.
“Don’t go,” he whispers into my mouth. “Don’t leave again. No matter what happens, you have to stay.”
“I won’t leave,” I say back. “I promise. This is where I make my stand, Mr. Match. Right here with you.”
He smiles as he kisses me again. Soft, small, fluttery kisses. His lips barely touching mine. “I don’t feel right,” he says. “Things are going to spin out of control.”
My hand comes up to his scratchy cheek and I place my palm flat against his face. “It’s OK,” I breathe back. “You’ve been in control long enough. I got this, Mr. Match.”
His laugh breaks the moment. And when I stare into those thunderstorm eyes they are bright and happy. “You got this?”
I nod. “I do. You have nothing to worry about. I came back to make things right and I don’t care what it takes, I will make things right.”
“Promises,” he says in a low voice, “can always be broken. So if it comes down to me saving you or you saving me, I’ll expect you to step aside.”
“Deal,” I say, my eyes locked on his.
And with that promise, every secret we have, shared and unshared, is laid bare and no confidences are broken.
“You are the sweetest part of my day,” Oliver says, standing back up again. And then his hands are on the back of my head, urging my lips towards his cock once more. It’s like we’re part of a script or a movie, or a dream that was paused for this one very simple conversation and we are ready to resume once more.
I take him fully inside my mouth. Pressing my head forward, even without his urging. His cock presses against the soft palate of my throat and his urging is back. He grips my hair in his fists, forcing me to lean forward, open wider, and breathe deliberately through my nose.
His hips begin to rock against me, making his balls hit my chin with each thrust. I don’t consider myself any kind of sexual expert. I’ve spent the better part of my time away from Oliver trying to forget great sex ever existed. But because he is who he is, I try hard for him. I give it everything. I close up my mind and concentrate on his pleasure. I do this willingly because I know when it’s my turn, he will do the same for me.
I tilt my head up, letting him slide even further into my throat. A small gagging noise escapes and the saliva pools in my mouth and drips out, coating his cock with slick wetness.
Oliver hisses through his teeth, gripping my hair tightly as he lifts his head towards the ceiling and closes his eyes with a moan. “Katya,” he whispers.
I seal my lips around his shaft, sucking in as I wrap my hand tightly around his length. Now both hands, twisting lightly in opposite directions. I want to make him come first. Right now, before we do anything else, I need him to be satisfied. Seconds later his whole body tenses. His hands move from my hair to my shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to leave red marks as evidence.
I know he’s close. I want him inside me when it happens, but just as I think he’s about to make my wish come true, he pulls out of my mouth, pushes me so I fall back on my haunches.
“Close your eyes,” Oliver says, his hand fisting his cock. Sliding up and down. Fully covering his tip, then all the way down to his balls.
I close my eyes and his hot semen sprays across my face in spurts. Hits my cheek, then my lips. My tongue darts out to lick it off, and his cock is there once more. Still spilling the white liquid into my eager mouth.
“Fuck,” he says, leaning back against the counter to steady himself. “I want more of you. I never stop wanting more of you.” He reaches down for me, urging me to stand and tipping up the handle of the tap on the sink faucet next to him at the same time.
I feel such relief just being here with him.
Oliver grabs a dishtowel, holds it under the running water, then half-heartedly wrings it out single-handedly and applies the soft, warm cloth to my face.
“Sorry about that,” he says. Small lopsided smile along with a deep sigh as he cleans me up.
I shrug. Uncaring about the mess that makes him want to take care of me. “I don’t mind.”
“I know,” he says, tossing the towel on the counter. “But I do.”
He leans in, holding my face with both hands, and kisses me lightly on the lips. There’s no tongue. No rush, or hardness to him now even though his whole body is hard from top to bottom.
Oliver Shrike is tender and caring. Deep and complicated. He is poetry incarnate. There is not one damn thing about him that requires adjustment or modification. Not his temperament. Not his body. Not his mind.
He is perfection.
“Sit here,” he says, patting the seat of one of the low-back, ultra-modern barstools lined up along the counter. “I have something to show you.”
I sit on the stool and his hands are instantly on my knees. They are warm and rough. The hands of a man who works for a living. Fixes things like motorcycles and the carburetor on his classic Camaro. Creates things. Like this place. This building someone abandoned and took the life it used to have with them. Oliver remade this pile of bricks and concrete into a home.
God, if I only had him like I used to have him. I would be complete.
His hand travels up my leg. Slides between them to caress my inner thighs. He leans into me, his head dipping down to my neck so his lips can find that spot he loves so much. My scar. The beginning and the end of everything I’m made of.
I lean into his embrace, just as his fingertips find the wet spot between my legs. He presses up against my underwear, pushing the soft cloth aside so my eagerness can coat his fingers with slick want.
“I thought you had something to show me,” I say.
“Stay here,” he says, taking his kisses to my mouth. “And I mean it this time.” He’s hinting at my disobedience this morning when I left this house and went to his sister’s.
But he doesn’t mean it in a bad way. It’s not about controlling me and he doesn’t want to hurt me with those words.
He just wants me to stay. It’s that simple. He’s always been that simple. He says what he means, even when his words are ambiguous poetry.
He backs away, tucking away his cock and zipping up his jeans just enough to keep his pants in place. His eyes only leave mine when he has to turn and walk towards the loft. I bite my lip as I watch him take the stairs two at a time and then I lose sight of everything but his head and shoulders between the iron rails that separate the loft from the open air of the tall ceiling.
He starts rummaging through a chest of drawers, whispering curse words as he searches for the thing he needs me to see.
He sighs up above me, his shoulders relaxing as he holds something small in front of his face. He turns and walks over to the railing where a small table holding some kind of electronic equipment sits.
“Did you make me a mix tape?” I ask, trying to imagine what he’s doing up there.
He grins over the railing. Thunderstorm eyes bright like the sun breaking through the clouds. And then he ducks his head and messes with the equipment.
A whirring noise, above and to my left, makes me turn a little to see what’s happening.
There’s a projector mounted on the ceiling. It powers up and then a movie starts to flicker on the massive twenty-foot white brick wall that separates the living space from the garages.
Music begins and I laugh. “It is a mix tape.”
Oliver is smiling so big as he leans forward on the railing in the loft. His forearms resting comfortably. Hands clasped together. His tattoos half-hidden in the shadows. One foot resting on the other. Those sexy fucking white strings hanging from the hem of his jeans.
I want to fucking eat him up.
“Don’t look at me,” he says. “Look at you.”
He nods to the white wall of brick and I turn.
“Jesus fuck,” I say, appalled. There is a ten-foot image of me on the wall. I am naked and on my back on the air mattress we pretended was a bed that summer four years ago. We had the tripod set up and we used it. Nightly.
“I’m so goddamned young,” I say, unable to take my eyes off the girl from back then. A girl I barely remember these days.
“Just old enough,” Oliver says.
Not quite, but close enough.
Oliver comes into the picture just as the music starts. A dark, deep, electronic thrum of organ, and bass, and slow tech synth beats. The vocals claim they want more. And I can relate.
“I want more,” Younger Oliver sings to Younger Katya in his low voice. He lowers his naked body over hers. “More… gimme more… gimme more.”
Then Older Oliver is walking down the stairs, hunger—nothing but complete and utter hunger—in his expression as he looks at Older Me.
“I want more,” he says, coming up to the stool. He lifts both of my legs, placing my ankles on his shoulders. He grips my white schoolgirl blouse and rips it open. Buttons fly off as he exposes me with a small grunt that sounds like lust. And then he pulls my panties down to my knees and presses his body into mine.
Fingertips on his zipper, Pulling him out. It takes me one whole slow-motion second to realize I’m the one doing that.
His hard cock bumps up against my wet pussy and he grinds me like that. His breath is hot like cinnamon when he kisses me. “More… gimme more… gimme more,” he sings into my mouth. “I’m gonna take more, Katya.”
I have no complaints. I don’t even bother wasting time forming words to let him know.
On the wall, Younger Katya is moaning as Younger Oliver slips his dick inside her pussy.
In front of me, this Oliver does the same thing.
The music is hypnotic and the sex going on all around me is like a drug. An aphrodisiac that makes liquid pool between my legs. Surround his cock as he fucks me slowly. Makes my whole body yearn…
More… gimme more… gimme more.
“Oliver,” Younger Me is saying in the movie on the wall. “Oliver,” Older Me is panting in real time.
“I love you,” Younger Oliver says in the movie. “I fucking love you,” Older Oliver is saying as he bites my lip hard enough to make it bleed.
The sex is loud.
And sick.
And slick.
Filled with filthy erotic grunts and the slapping of skin on skin as he pounds me to the rhythm of our past.
We are animals. We fuck like animals. Primal and intrinsic and primitive.
But it is nothing if not love.
We come together this time.
Hot, and so sweaty our bodies want to stick together. And then we kiss. He kisses me like he is thirsty and I am cool, clear water.
More… gimme more… gimme more.