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He kisses me again, this time slow and gentle, pulling back from that initial brink. He uncovers my other breast, and his fingers are back, playing with my nipple like it’s an instrument. Liquid warmth hooks low in my belly. “Trial and error, then.”
“What do you do with other girls?”
“Other girls?”
“Normal girls.”
He laughs into my collarbone, then starts sucking on it. “Elsie.”
“I just want to know. If I... if I weren’tme, what would you do?”
“No.” Against my sternum.
“I just—honesty, you said.” He’s licking the inside of my breasts like they’re luscious, sweet fruits. I run my fingers in his hair, bow into him, beg, “Please.”
He hums against my nipple. I wait for him to take it into his mouth, tense as a violin string, and when he doesn’t, when he pulls back to stare at me, I nearly groan.
I do groan. A soft, miserable whine.
“If you were any other woman...” His palms stroke my knees,spreading my legs apart. “If you were anyone but you, I would take you to bed. And I’d fuck you everywhere you let me.” His fingers are like electricity, climbing up my inner thighs, lighting up nerve endings. “I would go down on you, maybe while you’re going down on me. And because your tits look like something I’ll be dreaming about for decades, I’d ask for permission to come on them. Paint a picture.” He reaches the elastic of my panties. I inhale, sharp. “I’d clean you up and feed you before taking you home, if you wanted me to.” His thumb pushes the wet cotton to the side. Slides underneath. “But you wouldn’t be you. And afterwards I wouldn’t think of you very much.”
He taps against my clit and I let out a moan. It’s knee buckling, how good this feels, the rush of pleasure climbing down my spine.
“This is way too fast,” he says hoarsely, but he’s drawing slow circles around me. My pussy throbs in time with my heartbeat, and my nails dig hard into the windowsill. I am grateful for my black panties, which won’t show how wet I am. For the low lights. I’m grateful that I can close my eyes, pretend he’s not looking at me and seeing every little thing I’m made of. “Elsie, maybe you should ask me to stop.”
“Don’t. Whatever you do, please don’t stop.”
He laughs, breathless. “More? Less? What do you want?”
I want everything, and nothing will ever be enough. I’m empty and I ache and I’m clenching around nothing and—
“Elsie, what do you—”
“I don’tknow,” I whine, burning, out of control. “I don’t know, but please—can you—”
“Shh. It’s okay.” The thumb presses harder, and my head falls back against the window. “I barely know what I want from you, and I’ve had much longer to think about it.” He’s close, licking my neckand my nipples, scraping his teeth around my throat. It makes everything worse and so much better. “I don’t know what I’m doing, either. Not with you. This is new.”
My head is a jumbled mess of pleasure and panic. This is—ohGod. “That’s humble of you,” I manage to push out. My hips shift, trying to meet him and get more friction. Jack sees me strain, and he does nothing. I hate him. Ihatehim, I hate him, I—
“There’s somethingreallyhumbling about having the face of your brother’s girlfriend in your head every time you come.”
Another whimper. Mine. “I was never his.”
“I didn’t know it. For months, I didn’t know.”
I want to ask him what he thought of. When it started. I just say, “I was sure you hated me.”
He laughs, a little wistful, and leans in for a kiss against my temple. “I did sometimes. For making me hate my brother, just becausehewas the one who got to eat you out.” His hand twists, and something in his grip changes: more points of contact, Jack parting my folds, the heel of his hand pressing against my clit. It’s even better. So much better. “Should I put a finger inside you?”
A flush spreads up from my chest. My entire body is burning, a blend of embarrassment, heat, pleasure.
“I don’t... I usually...”
I feel him nod against my cheek. “No, then.”
“But...” Historically, penetrative sex has done very little for me. But then so has kissing or touching, and as I sit here, trembling from Jack’s hand between my legs, I cannot help thinking that maybe there could be more to that. “Trial and error,” I say, which makes him laugh, a deep rumble in his chest.
“You sure?”
