Putting his hands on my knees, Cole pushes them all the way apart.
He leans forward and trails the tip of his tongue across my pussy—tracing the path of the razor back and forth, up and down. Testing his work with the most perceptive part of himself.
I let out a groan, thrusting my hand in his hair, pushing his face into my cunt. I grind that smooth little pussy all over his face, shivering with the sensation of his soft lips, wet tongue, and the barest trace of stubble. I feel it all like I’ve never felt it before, and I melt into his mouth, starting to cum before I even realize what’s happening.
I ride his tongue, the softest part of him against the softest part of me. The warmth, the bliss, is intensely intimate. I’ve never had oral from a man who wants it more than I do. He’s tasting me, smelling me, lapping me up. So hungry that I could never satisfy him, even while he’s gorging me with pleasure.
When the second climax passes, I almost feel guilty. I reach for him, wanting to return the favor.
“Let me suck your cock.”
“No.” He pushes me back down on the bench, still holding the razor in his left hand. “I don’t want a blowjob.”
“What do you want, then?”
His right hand rests on my thigh, holding me in place.
“I want to taste you.”
That’s what he just did—my wetness is all over his mouth.
Then Cole lifts the razor over my thigh, and I understand.
My heart skips. Every time we cross another line, the edge of what I used to know retreats in the distance.
“Do it,” I say.
He makes one thin slash on my inner thigh, so quick and sharp that the pain flares and vanishes all in an instant, before I even register it. Blood wells up, darker than wine. He catches it on his tongue, lapping the shallow wound, and then closing his mouth over it. I feel his tongue sliding across raw nerve, and then the gentle sucking as he latches on.
His mouth soothes me.
I lean back against the wall, eyes closed, fingers slipping into his thick, soft hair once more.
I scratch my nails gently against his scalp while he sucks at the cut. When he pulls back at last, I’m no longer bleeding.
I look at the mark, thin and clean. I know from experience this won’t scar.
It’s the ones you cut deep, the ones that are ragged, the ones you make over others that are still healing: those stay forever.
Cole rises, pulling me up with him. He kisses me on the mouth. I taste the sweet musk of my pussy and the metal of my own blood. Neither feels wrong. In fact, it’s a combination so perfect I might have come up with it myself, given enough time to experiment.
The orgasms have made me placid and calm.
“What do you want me to wear?” I ask Cole.
He drives us to Neiman Marcus on Geary Street. The venerable stone building stands on the corner, its layers of glass display windows impossibly chic and imposing even from a distance.
“Can’t we just go to Urban Outfitters or something?” I grumble.
Already I’m regretting the cooperative spirit that prompted me to climb in Cole’s passenger seat. I don’t want to go in some stuffy store where the sales ladies are sure to give me the kind of side-eye employed on Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. They can tell when you’re poor, when you don’t belong.
“Or better yet,” I say, “I can keep wearing your clothes.”
Cole let me borrow a pair of his old-money woolen trousers and a cashmere sweater. He even punched a new hole halfway down one of his belts to keep the pants up. It’s all way too big for me, but I like baggy clothing.
“Absolutely not,” Cole says. “That was a desperate measure. One we’re about to rectify.”
Just walking through the doors makes me uncomfortable. We have to pass under the glare of two security guards, entrusted with keeping the homeless people out. I’d feel more relaxed in one of the many tents camped out in Union Square. I’d rather smoke a blunt with one of those dudes than cringe under the aggressive, “Good morning! What are you two shopping for today?” from a lipsticked blonde brandishing a perfume bottle.
“Good morning,” Cole replies, coolly ignoring the rest of the question as he sweeps past her, keeping his vice grip on my arm while he steers me onto the steep escalator to the upper levels.
Compared to the crowded streets outside, the ladies’ department feels oddly empty. I stare around at the pristine racks of clothing, organized by designer, bright and rich and appealing, but unseen by anyone else. We’re alone up here, except for a few scattered sales associates.