“Yeah…”
I have no more words to say, because I’m coming. The climax drags me under and holds me hostage, and I scream from the sheer intensity of it.
Nate lets me, he lets me scream his name and how much I love it, how much I love what he’s doing to me. Usually, he stuffs something in my mouth to stop me from screaming, his fingers or a piece of clothing, but now, he doesn’t even attempt to mute me.
Soon after, I hear his low, deep grunt and feel him tightening and growing even thicker inside me. My pussy walls clench around his cock, wanting him to stay there forever.
And then there’s warmth. On my breasts. Because he pulled out at the last second, put me down, and came all over my chest.
No idea why a gloomy feeling that’s so similar to disappointment perches on my chest.
But the low mood is short-lived. As I stand on my wobbly feet, I can’t stop staring at the spurts of his cum on my pale breasts, clinging to the tips of my nipples and dripping down my stomach and onto the shirt he ripped.
Nate isn’t watching that, though. He’s watching my legs with a frown. I also look down and, through my unfocused vision, I make out a trail of blood gliding down my leg and to my ankle, then soaking my white sneakers red.
A long moment of silence stretches between us as we observe the evidence of my becoming a woman.
“Fuck.” His curse is low, almost a whisper, as he picks me up and carries me in his arms bridal style.
I wrap myself all around him, sighing, then I kiss the hollow of his throat and surrender to a deep sleep.
22
Nathaniel
Gwyneth is fast asleep.
I can’t stop staring at her. At the delicate lines of her face, at the slight flutter of her long, thick lashes over her cheeks. At how her fiery hair frames her face.
But most of all, I can’t stop staring at the blood.
Her virginal blood, because she hasn’t had sex before. She hasn’t let a dick inside her, and I acted like an animal and took her against the wall.
If I had an ounce of control, even a sliver, I would’ve stopped and carried her to a bed. I would’ve put on a fucking condom like I usually do. But all those thoughts didn’t exist when she had her legs around me, rocking against me as if she’d waited for that moment as long as I have.
There was no thinking, period.
I should’ve known better. I really should’ve known fucking better.
I leave her on her princess bed, with muslin curtains and fluffy pillows, and head to her bathroom to wash my dick.
It’s covered with remnants of my cum and her blood. And I can’t stop staring at it. At the evidence of her belonging to me. At the proof that she didn’t choose anyone else. Just me.
A wave of blinding possession grips hold of me. It’s harsher than the other times and more fucking violent because a screwed-up part of me likes this.
Fuck that. I don’t only like it, my dick is getting hard at the memory of tearing through her while she said those words. That she didn’t want to give it to anyone.
No one else but me.
I slowly shake my head and wipe my length with a wet towel, resisting the urge to get off in remembrance of her clenching around me like a vise.
What the fuck am I? A teenager?
Why the hell would I think about sex right after I just finished?
I don’t usually. It’s always about getting off for me. No more, no less. I make sure the women know that, too, so they don’t expect anything after a night of fucking and orgasms.
But usually, I don’t settle for oral either. I’m all about the act itself. The fucking. However, a part of me resisted that with Gwyneth for more than ten days. I tortured my dick and myself in a fruitless attempt to get her off my fucking radar.
But with each word out of her mouth, each orgasm, and each fucking sexy sound, my resolve crumbled. The last straw was seeing her on that not-some-normal bike with that fucker Christoph and knowing she’d been alone with him.
So I had to stake my claim in the most unsophisticated, animalistic way possible. Even now, I still don’t know what’s come over me.
I’m not like this.
I don’t fuck against walls. I don’t fuck virgins. And I sure as hell don’t fuck without a condom.
Gwyneth smashed all my rules to the ground. She’s muddying my logic and I should stop it. I fucking should. But that’s the last thing on my mind right now.
I tuck myself in, then I grab a few towels, wet them with warm water, and go back to her room. She’s sprawled on her back, her arms thrown above her head in a carefree position, and only her torn shirt and bra cling haphazardly to her shoulders and torso.