Trashed (13 page)

“Lift up, babe,” I say.
 

She hesitates, and then lifts her backside up off the bed, and I strip the underwear off, toss it aside. And now she’s totally naked for me, bared, vulnerable, and beautiful.

“God, Des. So fucking sexy.” I run my palms up her thighs, and back down.

 
I feel her body tense, but she doesn’t move otherwise. This time, my hands drift up between her legs, pressing her thighs open, and she complies with delicacy and demure hesitancy, her eyes sliding closed.

Even her pussy is gorgeous. She’s trimmed but not shaved, and her lips down there are as plump and kissable as the ones on her face. She opens her eyes and sees me staring at her core.

“Oh my god.” She blushes, her tan skin flushing, and she tries to close her legs, but I’m between her knees. “Stop, Adam. Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

She shrugs uncomfortably and tries to cover her pussy with her hands. “Like I’m—”

“Beautiful? Delicious? Someone I want to spend hours pleasuring?”

She closes her eyes and squeezes them tight, as if fighting with herself, warring about something internally. “You’re nuts.”

“How about this?” I say, and let her cover herself with both hands. She’s shy, suddenly. I trail my fingers down the tops of her thighs to her knees, and then drag my fingertips back up along the insides of her thighs. “How about I let you cover up, and I’ll just see if I can get you to move your hands on your own. I want to see you, Des. All of you. I want to touch you. I want to kiss you.”

“Kiss me where?”

I let a hungry smile play across my lips. “
Every
where, Des.” I slide my fingers around the circumference of her thighs, as close to her core as I can get. She shivers and I can feel her fingers trembling. Her fingers splay, and I slip one long middle finger between the gaps of her fingers, touching slick skin. “Here. I want to see and touch and taste you
here
.”

She makes a sound in the back of her throat, and then opens her eyes, fixes them on me. “Jesus.”

“That’s not my name.”

“Adam.”

“Better.” I put my hands over hers. “Now. Look into my eyes and tell me you want me to stop.”

“I can’t.”

“I know you can’t.” I brush my thumbs across her nipples, lift her breasts and let them fall with a bounce. “Because you know you want this. You want to let me touch you.”

She keeps her eyes on mine, and I see the internal war raging and I want to know what she’s afraid of, what has her so conflicted. But I don’t ask. Instead, I skate my palms over her thighs, over her hips, up her ribs to her tits and back down. I see her eyes waver with indecision, and then she lifts her chin, determination filling her gaze, and moves her hands away, resting them on my shoulders.

I grin and trace her opening with my index finger.

She moans, and her eyelids flutter.

*
 
*
 
*

I’ve touched myself. I’ve given myself orgasms. But that is totally unlike the sensation of Adam’s finger sliding up my opening.
 

I can’t stop this. I want to, and yet I don’t. I want to feel his fingers inside me, and I want to feel his mouth on me. I know he’s planning on going down on me, and I want that. I do. Fuck, I do, so badly.
 

But I’m scared. I’m terrified.
 

I should tell him I’m a virgin.
 

But I’m not going to. He’ll stop, and he’ll make a big deal over it.
 

And all he’s doing right now is touching me.
 

He’d want an explanation as to how I can be a twenty-two-year-old virgin. He’ll want the story, and I can’t give him that. I can’t. I won’t. It’s not something I tell anyone, ever. It happened a long time ago, and I should be over it, but I’m not. And that’s part of why I’m doing this, why I’m still here, why I’m fighting my fears and the turmoil in my soul, why I’m shaking like a leaf, my heart hammering and my breath coming in fast, deep gasps. I don’t want to let my past dictate my present or future anymore. I want this, really truly deeply
want
Adam, want to do this with him, but I’m afraid. Which is why I have to push myself past my fear, why I have to let this happen: so I can move on. So I can find some semblance of normality. And as long as I let my fear rule me, that’ll never happen.

It’s not normal to be terrified of letting men get close to me. It’s not normal to freeze up when male hands reach for me.
 

For some reason, Adam scares me the least of anyone I’ve ever met, even as he simultaneously terrifies me more than I ever thought possible. I feel safe with him. I feel like I can trust him, like he’d stop in an instant if I said the word. Like he’d be furious for me if he knew the root cause of my fear. And I want him. I want him so bad. I want to touch his skin, his muscles. I want to see all of him. I want to pull his underwear off and see and feel that massive, iron-hard thing they so completely fail to disguise.
 

I’m not some innocent, lily-white fainting daisy. I grew up hard, and fast. I’m not innocent or ignorant. I’ve had a few…experiences. I’ve just never been capable of letting anyone get close enough to me to give them my virginity. I’ve just never been able to withstand touch, however gentle.

I’ve seen cocks before, and I know he’s packing something rarely and uniquely amazing. Just like the rest of him.
 

I
want
him. I want
him
.

But I’m scared of letting myself go there. I’m scared of what will happen. Not to my body, but my heart. And I’m scared I’ll freak out at the last second, and mess everything up.

Oh god, he’s touching me everywhere. Hips, breasts, nipples, ribs, thighs. And he’s telling me he wants to touch me—and
kiss
me—everywhere, all over, and I know I want it and can’t keep a curse of embattled need and fear from escaping.
 

“Jesus,” I hear myself say.

“I keep telling you that’s not my name,” Adam jokes again, a grin on his lovely, talented mouth.

“Adam…” I breathe.

“Better,” he says, covering my shaking hands with his.
 

I’m covering myself. No one has ever seen me like this, naked, bared, open, vulnerable. And the way he’s looking at me, like I’m something yummy he wants to eat, is both dizzyingly wonderful and scarily intoxicating.
 

“Now look into my eyes and tell me you want me to stop.”

He knows that’s impossible. I’ve let this go too far, and there’s no turning back now. “I can’t,” I admit.

“I know you can’t,” he says, an arrogant smirk ghosting across his lips. “You know you want this. You know you want to let me touch you.”

How the fuck can he read me so well? How does he know what I want so unerringly? It’s unnerving.
 

I can’t look away from him. There’s not the slightest desire in me to look away from his pale, green eyes. His gaze heats me from within, makes something quiver inside me. More even than his arrogant words and confident touch, the knowing, patient, hungry look in his eyes has me acquiescing to my own desires.
 

I want to let him see me, touch me, and so…I do. I force my hands away, and cling to his broad shoulders. I can feel his muscles shifting under his skin as he keeps his eyes on mine, that cocky grin curling on his lips, as he traces the seam of my pussy with one thick forefinger.

I feel a sliver of heat knife through me, beginning deep within my core, deep down just below my belly. The heat is damp, thick, and pervading. And then his finger drags from the apex of my vagina back down, pauses, and slides back up. The upward journey parts my labia ever so slightly, and a moan escapes my lips. My eyes want to close, but I refuse to let them. I make myself watch. I force my eyes open and watch his finger skate up and down my opening slowly, slowly, again and again, slipping in a little further with every upward and downward motion. And then he’s
in
me; his finger is inside my pussy to the second knuckle. His palm faces up, his finger curling in. His eyes go to mine, watching my every reaction. My eyes are heavy, fluttering with the aching fullness of one of his fingers, my core hot and wet now, made all the more damp by his touch. Wetness moves through me, until I’m sure I must be dripping, and I’m embarrassed, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
 

Or maybe he does. He pulls his finger out of me, and I feel so empty, suddenly. And then, making sure I’m watching, he puts his index finger in his mouth—the finger that was just inside me. I gape at him in disbelief, but can’t summon any words. It was mortifying and erotic in equal measure, and I don’t know which reaction to show, so I don’t show either, I just stare at him. His finger, glistening with his saliva and my essence, slips back into me now, piercing me slowly, and I squirm at the invasion, breathe out a moan.
 

I ache. There’s a pressure within me, building and building, mounting with every appreciative, desire-hot sweep of his eyes over my body, with every gentle, skillful touch of his hands and mouth on my skin. I ache, and I know somehow that only Adam could ever release the pressure, could ever provide the relief I need.

He slides his finger upward and finds the nexus of the aching pressure: my clitoris. The heat and the wetness and the pressure and the need, it’s all centered there, and he knows it, and he finds it, and his finger presses the diamond-hard nub of nerves and I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning too loud.

“You like that, Des?” His voice is a low rumble, coming from deep in his chest.
 

“Y-yeah. I do.”
 

“Then let me hear you say it.”

“I like it,” I say.

He circles my clit again, not touching me directly, but the indirect pressure is somehow worse, or better, I’m not sure which. All I know is the circling and swiping of his finger has me wiggling, has my hips wanting to move, has the heat and pressure coiling higher and hotter and moving closer to the surface.
 

And then he flicks my clit with a fingertip, and I have to muffle another groan.

“Don’t hold back,” he growls. “Let me hear you.”

He wants me to be noisy? Why?

Thoughts are erased as he moves his finger in circles again, and my hips are moving now, out of my control. I can’t stop them. I should. I know I should. I’m being crazy and embarrassing. But I can’t control myself anymore.
 

He controls me with his touch.

I’m too late to bite back a loud moan when he flicks my clit again at the same time that he leans forward and takes my hardened nipple in his mouth. The moan is loud and embarrassingly breathy, but this only seems to make him touch me faster, mouth my breast all the more hungrily.

And then he nudges me backward, and I fall to the mattress. My legs hang over the edge of the bed, and I know I’m bared to him, my thighs spread open for him. I feel his gaze, and I feel his finger moving inside me, descending from my clit to my channel, slipping in and then moving out. My eyes close involuntarily, and I feel so full from just his finger, and then somehow I’m even more full, spread open inside until it almost aches, and I force my eyes open and sit up on my elbows to see that he has two fingers inside me. He’s not moving his fingers all the way in, and I wonder if he can feel the barrier of my innocence, if he can feel my virginity with his fingers. If he does, he doesn’t say anything. He just curls his fingers into me and moves them. It feels so good I have to fall back to the bed, have to close my eyes and let my hips lift in the rhythm of his moving fingers.

My eyes are closed, so I don’t see him do it. I’m aware of nothing but his fingers and the ever-mounting sun-hot balloon of pressure aching inside me, and so I’m shocked into a breathless scream when I feel something wet and firm and slippery and hot at my opening. I feel my clit being sucked on, and then his tongue is moving against my clit and I’m moaning, moaning, and I can’t even remember my name or his, but I know nothing, nothing has ever felt this way.
 

I open my eyes and peer down the length of my body to see his face buried between my thighs, moving from side to side as he flicks his tongue against my clit faster and faster. Shit, shit, shit…that’s a vision I’ll never forget, Adam’s broad shoulders and the massive curve of his back and his short spiky black hair and the feel of his tongue in my most sensitive, most private, most delicate place, and the heat is exploding and I’m groaning past clenching molars. I’m grinding against his mouth, and I’m gasping with wantonly erotic need, and his tongue is flicking my clit with hungry vigorous speed, and I’m lifted off the bed, his hands cupping my ass and physically lifting me as if I weighed nothing, and he’s pulling me against him and Jesus, holy shit, he tosses one of my legs and then the other over his shoulder, and his face moves crazily and his tongue circles madly, and my hips gyrate, driven by an engine of relentless heat.

This is surreal.
 

This isn’t happening.

It can’t be.
 

But it is.

And then I’m making a wild sound, a teeth-clenched scream and the world is imploding and my body is wracked and my core is shaken and exploding and I’m writhing, and Adam is growling into my pussy and his fingers are driving in and out and rubbing somewhere high inside me that has the explosion going hotter and the heat spearing even more sharply.
 

My thighs clench around his neck, and my heels scrabble at his back, and my hips move on their own. I’m screaming. I don’t recognize the sounds coming from me, but then I don’t recognize anything in this dizzied chaotic world where all is spears of ecstasy rifling through my veins and muscles and pores, where all is hotter than the sun and Adam’s hands clutching my ass and his mouth sucking my clit and his fingers sliding in and out of my pussy. He’s playing my body like an instrument, like he’s a virtuoso and I’m his art, taking each sound and shiver and making it into music.