CHAPTER THREE - CHRISTINE
I know what he’s thinking about. That’s why I’m trying my best to make him forget.
I need this. I need him. Just him, right now.
“We need each other,” I whisper, lowering my face to his neck. He breathes in. Holds it. My lips flutter against his skin and he breathes out.
And I don’t know why, but I like that. I sigh as I kiss him, enjoying his reaction as I softly drag my fingernails against the hard muscles of his waist. His shirt is billowing out behind him in the wind. Unfinished. Just like us. And I want it to stay like that forever. I want to capture this moment and hold it tight. Keep it to myself for as long as possible.
But, inevitably, the wind takes it past that point of no return and it slides the rest of the way down his arms and drops to the deck, leaving him bare from the waist up.
The sun has been gone for a while but the moon is out and it’s bright and big, its hazy glow spilling out into the navy-blue night like the fog of a dream. Illuminating the hills and valleys of his chest and turning him into some supernatural thing. Some fantastical thing from a legend or a myth. A hero. My hero.
I lift my head up again and find his mouth, saying, “You have always been my hero,” as we kiss.
And oh, God. It’s a great kiss. Even though he chuckles about the hero thing.
“Please,” he breathes back. Kissing me. Little ones. Just lips and no tongue. “I’m no hero.”
But he is. And even though the kisses are perfect, he’s not touching me. Not the way he should be. His fingers are pressing lightly against my head, threaded into my hair. But there’s no desperation in his touch. We are not panting heavily. We are not in the agony of lust.
It’s too calm. Too easy. Too perfect.
So I reach up and take his hands and place them on my hips.
He gets it, or does the next thing on instinct. Because they slip around to my back, encircling me and tugging me close. My breasts press against his chest and I melt.
Just melt into him.
We’ve been together for months now. Alone on this boat. And we have weeks of togetherness left.
I need those weeks to make up for the months.
The betrayal is still fresh. The lapse in loyalty still real.
And I need him to forget.
But even though he’s not pushing me away, and that’s a good sign, and I know with such certainty that we will be together tonight, he’s not embracing it the way I need him to.
So I say, “Danny…” Because I need to tell him this. I need to explain everything. But the words leave me in that moment and the whole act is just another bit of unfinished business.
“Christine,” he says, his voice low and throaty as he kisses me again. His mouth opens up and his tongue slides up against mine. And I expect him to say something like… I want to fuck you now. Or, Everything will be OK. Or, Take off your clothes.
Or maybe he’ll just rip this little dress off my body, toss it overboard, and throw me down onto the overstuffed pillows of the deck couch and make me obey him.
But he says, “You need to lower your expectations.”
And I don’t know why, because this is not the way this night should be going and that should worry me, but I laugh.
“I’m serious,” he says, his fingertips slipping under the strap of my dress and dragging it over my shoulder, leaving it like that. Unfinished, just like I left his shirt when I started the process of unburdening him. He looks down at me, his blue eyes catching the moonlight, making them sparkle in that supernatural way. Convincing me that he’s wrong. That he is my hero. Even though he says, in the same moment, “I’m no hero. You know what comes out when you poke me. Blackness.”
I stop breathing and study him. Shaking my head. Because it’s not true. He’s the bluest thing in the entire universe. But I don’t want to waste time explaining why he’s so perfect or how I know he’ll save me—save everyone—when the time comes. So I reach down and grab his cock through his slacks and squeeze.
Which makes him close his eyes and smile.
And reach for the other strap of my dress.
And drag that one over my shoulder too.
Unfinished.
But it’s enough to keep things going. Because the dress is loose. Just a simple shift that hides what’s underneath with soft white silk. So when I pull my hand away from his hard cock, it falls. Right down to my hips, exposing the lacy, white, strapless bra that covers my breasts. And one more slight tug from him is all it takes to make the white silk slide over my hips and fall to the deck. It flutters for a second, catching the night breeze the way his shirt did, and then settles at my feet in a puddle of brightness against the dark.
He stops and looks at me.
And I wonder what he sees. A beautiful, young woman in matching white lingerie?
A friend? A lover?
His goddess who will save him—save everybody—when the time comes?
Or… does he just see me for who I am? The traitor.
I wait. Time stops, I swear it does. It gives him the gift of an eternal moment so he can make that decision.
Why is everything so slow? Why can’t we just go fast?
But I know why. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
We are in between things. In the middle of our story. And there’s no way to rush the end that’s coming.
We shouldn’t even want to because there’s a very high probability that none of us will be saved. That our enemies have another god waiting in the shadows. Some hero who will rip our world apart and tear everything to pieces.
And I’m just about to give up and turn away, accept this as an inevitable, forgone conclusion, when he reaches around and unfastens my bra.
It drops to the deck at my feet, joining the dress. I stare at it for a moment, holding my breath again. Because I was wrong.
And when I look up at him, he’s smiling. Eyes still bright and blue. Still filled with the power to save us.
I realize in this moment that time, or the universe, or whoever runs this miserable fucking place, is giving me a second chance and I should not waste it.
So I don’t.
I reach out, unbuckle his belt, unbutton and unzip his slacks, and slide my hand inside. Wrapping my palm around the thickness of his cock.
He growls a little and that makes the hazy dream world we’ve been stuck in for the last several minutes fade away. Brings reality back into focus.
And when he responds by palming my breasts, squeezing them with just a little more force than he should, the relief I feel is real.
He presses up against me so the length of our bodies are touching and now our kissing is what it should be.
Desperate, and heated, and filled with lust.
And our breathing is heavy, our excitement coming out in huffs as our tongues twist together. And he’s backing me up. I almost trip over the discarded silk dress, but there’s no chance of me falling. His massive arms hold me tight and carefully until my knees hit the back of the couch and I break our kiss so I can sit.
I gaze up at him, hoping he sees what I see.
My Danny. His Christine.
“Hi,” he says, laughing a little.
“Hey,” I say back, tugging the front of his pants down so I can pull his hard and ready cock out and hold it in my hands.
His fingertips are in my hair, then he fists it, tugging my head closer to him.
I open my mouth, eyes still tracking his, and take in the tip of his cock. Wrapping my lips around it, holding his gaze.
Then he gives in and sighs.
And so do I.
I take him further. Deeper into my mouth, all the way to the back of my throat, which makes him tug on my hair and I love that.
I love that he wants me. Wants more.
So I give it to him and begin bobbing my head in a back-and-forth rhythm. Taking him deep, then pulling back, letting my tongue slide along the underside of his shaft.
It’s one of those messy blowjobs and I don’t care. It’s hot. So fucking hot. Saliva is pooling in my mouth until there’s so much it begins to drip down my chin. And when Danny grips my hair again, tugging me backwards, he smiles at the mess.
This is a side of him I don’t know, I realize. This erotic side wasn’t part of who and what we were before. And for a moment I’m filled with jealousy that he’s done this with other women.
But I’m stupid. I know I’m stupid. Because I’ve done this with other men. And he could be thinking the same thing right now, and he’s not. I know he’s not.
He’s smiling at me. He’s enjoying himself.
And then he’s pushing me back into the couch cushions. A little too hard, but I giggle at that. Because I like it. I like the dark beast inside him. Because I know that beast is blue and no matter how much he wants to lose control, he won’t.
Maybe I wish he would? Maybe I should push him harder? Make him?
But before I can finish that thought he’s kneeling down with his hands under my knees, pushing them up towards my breasts, legs open as he lowers his head between them and brings me out of this introspection and places me squarely in the realm of unthinking ecstasy.
“Oh,” I moan. Because the little flicks of his tongue against my clit are slightly overwhelming. “Oh, God,” I say.
I can feel his smile too.
And that’s it. Even if we stopped right now my night would be complete.
Because this has never happened before. We have never been this alone. Never this together, this excited—while not in the presence of Alec.
Is that bad? I wonder.
“Christine,” he says, his words vibrating the soft folds of skin between my legs. “Stop thinking so motherfucking hard.”
He pulls back, grinning wildly.
Which makes me grin too. “Sorry,” I say.
But he just shakes his head. “Nothing to be sorry for, darlin’. You’re too perfect, that’s true. But I don’t mind.”
A laugh escapes. Because in no possible reality am I the perfect one in this couple.
He reaches down for his cock, fisting and pumping it a few times, then looks at me and frowns. “I’m gonna fuck you now,” he says in a gruff, heated voice. “Because I can’t wait another second. But I’m gonna fuck you again later and we’ll do it right next time.”
And with that he thrusts inside me. Filling me up. So deep it hurts, making me squeak out a little cry of pain.
But he doesn’t stop or apologize or ask me if I’m OK.
He doesn’t need to.
He knows.
He knows I love every moment of blissful agony when he’s inside me.