13
FUCKED
One short, hard thrust, and his cock was fully seated inside me, filling me, stretching me. Still standing up, his hand gently gripping my throat to keep me in place—as if I was trying to escape—I was rendered helpless. Totally helpless. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The only thing that existed in my whole universe was Harris, big and hard and hot behind me, his dick inside me, his hand on my throat, the other strumming my nipple like a guitar string.
He didn’t move. Time stood still, and the only sound was my ragged gasps and his steady breathing. His lips touched my temple, and I trembled.
What the fuck was he doing?
To kiss a body is sexual, to press lips to chest or hip or cock or pussy or belly, that’s sex. To make out, that’s sex.
To kiss one’s face, one’s cheek, one’s forehead, a temple, a jaw…that is intimate and personal.
I didn’t do intimate.
I didn’t do personal.
To quote a certain fictional phenomenon, “I fuck. Hard.” I didn’t connect with those particular characters on any level, except for the intimacy factor. Even with Eric, my one real serious boyfriend, the only man I ever lived with, the only guy I ever let see even a hint of my true inner self, even with him I didn’t really do intimacy. Sex was sex. Eric and I fucked. We boned. Don’t get me wrong, I liked Eric. A lot. I dated him for a long time, and lived with him. But I didn’t do intimacy with him. There was no pillow talk. There was no kissy-face hold me afterward and tell me your deepest thoughts and share your most tender emotions.
He never kissed my temple.
Harris kissed my temple, one brief, slow, and utterly confusing touch of his lips to the side of my skull, and I was lost.
Not like, falling in love lost, or drowning in his touch lost, but the what the fuck is happening and where am I and what’s going on kind of lost.
And then, wildest of all, my body betrayed my heart. My hand reached up and back, and my palm cupped the nape of his neck and my head twisted to the side and my mouth sought skin and my heart was crashing and thundering and cracking and twisting and my mind was rebelling, but my body was in control. My body had hijacked the rest of me.
My lips sought skin, and found it. Found his jaw. His cheekbone. I clutched the back of his head and trembled like a dry leaf in a long wind.
And still he wasn’t moving. Seemingly content to just hold the pose, both of us standing up facing the bed, his shaft buried deep inside my slit, my body boneless and without strength, leaning with total trust against Harris’s chest.
A breath left me in a broken sigh, and I sank down, letting my weight fall just a bit, pushing him deeper. I couldn’t take the motionlessness, couldn’t take the shredding intimacy of his breath on my cheek, his wordless possession of me. I couldn’t handle the memory of that kiss to my temple. I needed…more.
“Nick…” I murmured.
“I know,” he said, and pushed me forward.
Willingly, gladly, I bent over the bed, spread my feet shoulder-width apart, braced myself with arms straight, elbows locked, hands on the mattress. I waited. Breathless with anticipation, with bated breath, with every other cliché you can think of, I waited.
And Harris, he kept me waiting. Didn’t give me what I wanted, didn’t do what I expected. Instead of thrusting hard, pushing into me, he leaned over me and pressed his lips to my spine, right at the center of my back, ran his palms up my sides. I shook so hard I had to clench my teeth. What the actual fuck was he doing?
Another caress, downward this time, from armpits down my sides to cup my hips, then his palms circled my ass cheeks. He pulled back, withdrawing. I bit my lip, waiting for the rough slam…
He pushed in gently, slowly, and I sagged, at once defeated and exhilarated. So good. So fucking good. The feel of him, moving in me. The sweet wet slide of his cock pushing into me, I groaned with delight.
He leaned over me as his hips pressed flush against my ass. His lips touched the shell of my ear. “Rough…or slow?”
“Rough,” I answered immediately.
He bit my earlobe. Hard.
I shrieked in surprise and twisted my head to look at him in shock, and he just grinned as he straightened behind me, running his palm down my spine to grab a handful of butt cheek. “Rough?”
I nodded. “Rough.”
“How rough you want it, Layla?”
“Fuck me hard, Nick.”
He pulled back so the tip of his cock rested just barely inside me, caressed the left globe of my ass with his left hand, gripping the crease of my right hip with his right hand.
There was no warning. He slammed into me so hard the breath left me involuntarily and his hand smacked my ass with a painful resounding crack.
I screamed.
I’m not a screamer. I’m a moaner, a gasper, a porn star whimperer. When I come, I usually clench my teeth and groan through them. I do not scream.
Nick made me scream.
He paused a moment, impaled fully inside me. Then he smoothed his palm over the stinging flesh of my bottom, and then withdrew, slowly. So slowly. Then he spanked my ass and fucked into me again, hard. I felt his cock spear through me, slam deep, felt his balls slap against my taint, and my ass cheek jiggled and stung from the smack of his palm. This time, there was no pause, no hesitation. Just the slow, almost tender withdrawal, and then immediately upon reaching the apex of his pull-out, Harris spanked me and thrust again. My left ass cheek was on fire, by now. My pussy was throbbing, and I was fighting for breath, for equilibrium.
He switched it, then. Right hand spanking right ass cheek, left hand gripping my left hip bone.
Smack.
Smack.
Smack.
Each slap of his hand was accompanied by a jarringly hard thrust.
Four spanks per side, four thrusts. Then he switched, back and forth, back and forth. No rhythm, no pattern. Always the slow pull-out, an infinitesimal pause, and then the slam into me.
I lost track of time, never counted the thrusts or spanks. All I knew was that I was throbbing and aching, that my ass was burning and stinging and that with each spank it hurt more but that with each spank the thrusts incited the fire inside my core to burn hotter, made each brutally powerful thrust of his cock into me that much more intense.
I lost the ability to bite down on my screams.
He spanked and thrust, and I screamed as he rammed home.
I don’t know how, but he knew when I was close. Maybe it was that as I neared climax, I started pushing back as he fucked me. Or maybe it was that whimpers and groans filled the spaces between screams. I don’t know how, but he knew.
And right as I reached the edge, he pulled completely out of me, leaving me empty and ready to beg.
He grabbed my left hip in his right hand and flipped me over, putting me off balance, tossing me over as easily as if I was some skinny size-nothing floozy. Just tossed me over like I was nothing. I sagged back against the bed, fighting for balance, struggling to get my feet under me.
Harris was there, grasping the backs of my knees and lifting me, his hips fitting into the V of my thighs, cock nudging my entrance. I wasn’t balanced, had no control. He had me totally helpless, my upper torso resting on the bed, my lower half in his grip.
“Do I need a condom?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m protected, and I’m clean.”
“Do you trust me?”
Fuck, what a question. Did I trust him? I mean, my life was in his hands. He’d risked death for me, killed for me, and that was just within the last couple hours. But did I trust him to fuck me bare, no protection against disease? Did he trust me to actually be on birth control, that I wouldn’t come up pregnant, and that I really was clean?
So much trust.
So foolish.
Stupid, even.
I’m impulsive. Rash. I do whatever I want, when I want. I don’t always think about the consequences of my decisions. If I fuck up, and I handle it. The one exception to this is sex. I was on birth control by the time I was fourteen, and I never, ever, ever had unprotected sex. Not with anyone. Not ever. Not even when I was wasted. If he didn’t have a bag, he didn’t bag me. That was the one unalterable, inflexible rule I never broke, no matter what. Not even with Eric, in the nearly three years we were together, we didn’t have bare sex even once.
So why, oh why did I lift my hips in silent agreement, then, with Harris?
Simple. Same answer as why I was so affected by an innocent kiss to my temple:
I have no fucking clue.
I lifted my hips, pushing against him, angling and lifting so his cock slipped into me.
Harris didn’t push in, though. “Say it, Layla. Out loud.” His eyes were fiery jade, unblinking, unwavering, intense, pinning me.
“I trust you, Nick.” Jesus, I sounded breathy. Seductive. Vulnerable.
Clearly, some other spirit had possessed me, because this wasn’t me. This wasn’t Layla.
I didn’t breathe out a whimper like that, no fucking way. When Harris finally thrusted into me, I whimpered. I know I said I wasn’t a screamer, that I made pretty typical almost fake-sounding porn star sounds during sex. In fact, I’ve been accused of faking just because of how I sound. But I never faked, it was just how I sounded.
This, though? When Harris slowly and deliberately thrust into me, the way I made this…I don’t even know the right word…moan, whimper, sigh—a sound that was all three of those in one, a moan-whimper-sigh. It wasn’t me. I never sounded like that. No matter how good it felt.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Nothing had ever felt like this before. Not the way Harris drove into me, not the way he filled me. Not the way he held me completely in his thrall, helpless.
I pulled back from the edge of climax.
It only took him four slow thrusts to get me there again. He watched me, watched my face, my expressions. I felt his attention, laser-focused, hyper-aware. I hooked my legs around his waist and he slid his palms to my ass, keeping me aloft with a firm grip of each hand on the globes of my ass. His fingers were at the crease of my buttocks, daring in, separating the cheeks. Literally, he had my entire ass cheeks gripped, one in each hand, and he was holding the entire weight of my lower body aloft with that grip.
I felt the pressure of his fingers against my asshole, nudging but not pushing in.
He’d want in there, at some point.
I’d let him. Shit, I’d probably beg him for it, if this was how it was going to feel with him.
Once he was sure of his hold on me, once he was sure I was close, he settled closer, leaning deeper into the V of my thighs, pushing his cock as far in as it would go.
And then he started fucking.
Oh. Oh Jesus. Oh shit.
This was real-deal fucking. He left me no breath, left me no quarter, had no mercy. I’d asked for it rough, he gave it to me rough. Hard. He didn’t ask if I was ready, didn’t ease into it. Just…a single growling murmur of appreciation for my body, and he started fucking, ramming me hard over and over and over, so my whole body was jarred with each thrust.
“Play with your tits, Layla. Pinch your nipples.”
I obeyed, cupping my big, bouncing breasts in my hands and thumbing my nipples erect, and then pinched them.
“Hard, Layla. Make yourself scream.”
I caught my left nipple between my thumb and forefinger and pinched it so hard I shrieked; a bolt of lightning blasted through me, striking my core as I twisted the nipple and pinched it again. Pinched both.
“Come for me, Layla.” The command was quiet, but spoken with razor sharpness, rife with intensity.
I shattered, twisting and pinching my nipples as the orgasm ripped through me.
“Finger your clit. Right now, while you’re coming.”
I kept one hand at my breast, twisting and pinching, and my right hand delved down in obedience to Harris’s quiet order. I put my middle and ring fingers to my hardened clit and rubbed myself in circles, so aroused I needed no buildup, already coming so all I had to do was swipe at my hypersensitive clit hard and fast.
“FUCK!” The word was a plea, yanked out of me as the orgasm spiraled through me and out of control, making my entire body gyrate. “Oh god, Nick, Nick, NICK!”
I glanced at him through slitted eyelids, and saw a small, pleased smile on his lips as he drove into me over and over. And I realized he still hadn’t come.
“Your turn, Nick,” I said.
The smile spread, turned feral. “My turn, is it?”
“I need to feel you come, too.”
He set me down, unwrapped my legs from around his waist. Made sure I had my balance, and then climbed onto the bed. Rested his head on the pillow, and just stared at me. Waiting.
“Ride me,” he ordered.
I took a moment to just drink in his body. So fucking sexy. Lean, corded with iron-hard muscle. Lupine, primal. Dark, curly, masculine hair dusting his chest and stomach, trimmed close around his junk. God, his cock. Glistening wet with my essence, hard and thick, the very slight curve that felt so perfect inside me, hitting me right where it felt the best.
His eyes followed my movements as I twisted in place and climbed on the bed. My heavy breasts swayed as I crawled over him, and I fucking loved the way his eyes just devoured my body, the way his gaze seemed to speak a thousand, million words decrying my beauty, all in silence, a poem in glances, a song in gaze. He didn’t need to say a single word, and I knew I was gorgeous, to him.
But then he did speak, as I straddled his hips with my thighs. “Layla, you are…so fucking beautiful.”
“Thanks, Nick.”
He reached up, his knuckles brushing my cheek. And then he gathered a handful of my curly, tightly-kinked, ink-black hair, and pulled my face down. It was a rough jerk, tugging my face down to his, but the expression on his face somehow made the gesture seem…tender. I wasn’t sure how he managed that but it was effective. My heart was leaping in my chest, thumping painfully hard. Trying to escape, trying to get away from what I perceived in him.
“No, Layla,” he said, and nipped my lip with his teeth. “I don’t think you get it. You are absolutely perfect.”
I had nothing to say to that. I couldn’t speak, even if I had possessed the words. I was choked up, throat tight. This was raw terror pounding through me.
Perfect?
God no.
I knew I was good looking, but more because of my body than because of my face. When you’ve got dimensions like mine, you don’t need to have a beautiful face. Most guys told me I was hot. Sexy. That I had a bangin’ body. That my tits were the best thing they’d ever seen. That I had a ghetto booty so fine they could fuck it for hours. More cushion for the pushin’; legs for days. I’d taken those compliments to heart, and I stayed in shape to keep it that way.
But no guy had ever told me how beautiful I was, not without qualifying it in relation to my body in some way.
And you know what? That kind of hurt, down deep. Knowing my beauty was only because of my body? It was the kind of hurt you don’t know how to express, even to yourself.
But in that moment, when Nick told me I was beautiful, that I was “absolutely perfect”? That framed it for me in a way I could finally understand.
I waited for the qualification.
It never came.
And my defenses were on high alert.
Danger, Will Robinson.
I slid up his body, dragging the tips of my breasts across his chest, brushing his face with them, swaying them over his lips, across his eyes. “Yeah? You like these, don’t you?”
He lifted up and captured a nipple in his mouth. “Yes, I do.”
I ground my ass on his stomach. “This feels good on you, doesn’t it?”
He cupped my ass in his hand, kneading the muscle. “So good.” But then, my hair still gripped in his fist, he tightened his hold so he had my hair by the roots, and firmly but carefully brought my face to his. “You have the sexiest body I’ve ever seen, Layla.”
“Thanks—” I started, but he didn’t let me finish.
He cut me off with a kiss. “I wasn’t done. Don’t interrupt me.” I frowned at the command, but waited for him to continue. He gave my ass a gentle spank—well, it wasn’t really gentle, it was still a loud smack, but in comparison to how hard he had spanked me earlier, it was relatively gentle—sending the round globes to quivering, and then smoothed his palm up my back, brushed my jaw with his thumb. “But that wasn’t what I was talking about.”
“No?” I was trying for casual.
“No. I said you were absolutely perfect.” He bit my lower lip again, his palm splayed against my face. “And I meant it. All of you.”
It was either cry or avoid the subject, so which do you think I chose?
I reached down between our bodies and wrapped my fingers around his cock, fitted him to my entrance, propping my body up with one hand on the mattress beside his face, hovering over him, tits swaying over his chest. A momentary pause, our eyes connecting, heat and intensity crackling and sparking between us. And then I sat down on him, hard, impaling myself on him.
“Fuck, Layla,” he ground out, “that feels—you feel incredible.”
I squeezed his cock as hard as I could. “You like that?”
He thrust up into me, our hips grinding together. “Fuck yes. Do it again.”
I lifted up, swirled my hips so the broad head of his dick smeared in circles between my damp labia, and then plunged down on him, squeezing at tight as I could. “Like that?”
His hands coasted up my ribs to knead my boobs, cupping and stroking. “Just like that. Keep doing that. Ride me until we both come.”
So I did.
I clamped down as I lifted up once more, relaxing at the apex, circling my hips again to move his shaft around and around, keeping him guessing as to when I would…slam down hard, our bodies meeting with a loud slap of my ass onto his thighs, squeezing with my pussy muscles on the down-thrust.
Seated on him, panting, everything inside me pulsing madly, I knew I had to draw it out. When I came again, it would be hard, and it would break something in me. I was scared of it. It was inevitable, but I still tried to push it away. I had to.
Self-preservation.
There was something real between Harris and me, and it scared the living shit out of me.
So I played with him. Drew it out. Used every trick I knew to string him along.
With his cock impaled inside me, I rolled my hips in broad circles, grinding down on him. And then I lifted up, paused, and sank down, and then ground hard on him again. Repeated this until I was shuddering and on the edge myself.
Harris was sweating, breathing hard, and clearly feeling what I was doing, but he hadn’t said a word, hadn’t made a sound. He’d kept his grip on my hair, and his other hand was resting on the bend of my hip where it became thigh, cupping, holding. Letting me do what I wanted.
I lifted up, planted my palms on his chest, and feathered slow, shallow thrusts around him, sliding just the top couple of inches in and out of me. Over and over and over, I teased us both with shallow movements, never letting more than half of his cock in me at any one point, sliding up, circling, sliding down his shaft again, pulling back to stretch his dick away from his body and moving in circles again.
And all the while, Harris let me.
Jaw clenched, panting, sweat gleaming on his face and body.
Finally, he growled. “Enough, Layla.”
He thrust up, jerked my head down, and captured my mouth with his. I was on top, but he was in control. He kissed me. Ho-ly fuck, did he kiss me. All tongue, lips crushed to lips, demanding that I kiss him back, commanding my mouth. His body moved, his palm on my ass, pulling at me, his hips thrusting up.
I moaned into the kiss and had to glide on him, had to move. The kiss burned me, stole my breath from my lungs and the will from my soul. It was a kiss that dominated, a kiss that possessed. Took.
He fucked.
And I could do nothing but ride him, do nothing but take it. I was helpless on top of him, my face kept crushed against his by the rough and firm grip of his fist in my hair, paralyzed by the kiss.
It wasn’t just fucking, though. The movements of his body, the rough and wild and vigorous thrusting—that was fucking. It was raw and primal and unrestrained. Everything that had gone before that, the spanking and the thrusts from behind, everything I’d done to him up until that moment, it was all just…a precursor.
Foreplay.
This was…something else. Not fucking. Nothing so impersonal or casual as that. This was Nick taking possession of my soul. This was Harris taking command of my body. This was…my walls being demolished. My defenses eradicated.
I think I came at some point, but I was so blown apart by the implications of how much I was feeling emotionally that it didn’t really register.
I like sex. Duh. I mean, I really like sex. A lot. A whole fucking lot. It’s, like, my favorite thing, along with getting naked-wasted on cheap red wine and bingeing on Netflix.
But I’d never had sex like this. It was…new. Strange. Intense. Emotional. Fraught with meaning. It…meant something.
And I didn’t know how to deal.
I couldn’t deal.
But Nick wasn’t letting go, wasn’t letting me off the hook. He gave me enough slack in the grip on my hair that we could pause the kiss to take a breath, but that was almost worse. Without the kiss, I had to meet his gaze. And fuck, his eyes…the passion in them. The need. The way he looked so deeply into my eyes, the way his glance flicked down to where our bodies joined. It was all too much.
I kissed him, this time.
Smashed my mouth to his so hard our teeth clacked and my lip split. Harris pulled back, licked my lip where it throbbed and kissed it. And then, slowly, gently, masterfully, he claimed my mouth. Once again taking the initiative and control away from me.
God, he fucking owned me. He knew exactly in each moment and in each situation exactly how to snatch control away from me and make me utterly dependent on him.
My choice was to either cede control to him entirely, or get off and walk away.
I thought about it, I really did.
If we came together—and we would, I was positive—something was going to change.
But I couldn’t walk way. Couldn’t. I tried. Jesus, did I try. But I couldn’t make myself do it.
I was too ensnared by the mastery of his kiss, too paralyzed by the throb of upwelling ecstasy, too pierced by the intensity in his eyes and the rising urgency in his thrusts.
And can I just say, holy hell, the man had extreme stamina.
He let me pull my head back, but didn’t let go of my hair. His fingers were fisted in my curls at the nape of my neck, and he let me rise up enough to plant my fists in the pillow by his face. Our faces were inches apart, but we weren’t kissing, now. He was thrusting slowly, long, deep glides in and out with smooth, perfect strokes. I drew my knees up under me and started pushing back into his thrusts, our eyes fixed on each other and unwavering. Not looking away.
I wanted to.
I hated the intensity, hated the vulnerability I felt in myself. He saw me.
I couldn’t look away.
I knew the exact moment he lost the battle for control over his own body; he snarled like a wolf and began fucking in earnest, wild manic upward plunges, and his grip on my hair tightened to the point of pain, but I liked that, because it grounded me. Distracted me a little from the open passion in his eyes, from the raw furious frantic need in his gaze. From the blazing connection streaming between us. I could only push down onto him, could only ride him and take his fucking.
God, it felt perfect.
The most heavenly ecstasy ever, Harris fucking me while his eyes promised so many, many things. Tender things.
“Layla,” he murmured.
I couldn’t speak. Could only whimper breathlessly.
“Squeeze. Hard.”
So I squeezed as hard as I could, went still and focused on squeezing.
“Oh…fuck. Layla. I’m coming.” He jerked me down so our mouths touched, but didn’t kiss me, his eyes on mine. “Look at me. Don’t you dare look away.”
“I won’t…I’m looking at you,” I gasped.
I felt him start to come, and my eyes watered.
He cupped my face, thumb brushing over my lips. “Come now, Layla.”
I came. Holy fucking hell, I came. So hard.
“Say my name, Layla. Say my fucking name while you come apart on top of me.”
“Nick,” I breathed. “Nicholas. I’m coming, Nick.”
I felt him unleash. He bit my lip, kept my face pressed to his and kissed me dizzy, and his hand slid down my body and spanked my ass once, hard, and then, finally, he came. Jet after jet of hot seed poured out of him and into me, and I couldn’t do anything but feel it and squeeze him and marvel at what I’d never felt in my life before, the hot wet gush of a man coming bare inside me, filling me, surging up into me and stuttering in his thrusts as he came, came, came, his kiss fumbling as he lost all control, his hand on my ass, gripping, kneading, pulling me harder against him.
I ground onto him, clenched him with my inner muscles, and whimpered as I came with him, not coming again, but coming still, a continuation of a long shattering climax.
“Fuck,” he breathed, settling back.
“Holy shit.” I collapsed onto him.
Instead of rolling me off him, he took my weight on his body and wrapped his arms around me, kept me from escaping.
Almost as if he understood the panic shooting through me.
A single tear escaped my eye, because I knew what had just happened had utterly and completely ruined me.
I’m so fucked.