Trashed / Page 36

Page 36


He pulls back and thrusts in, and I’m shaking all over, filled, spread apart, aching and burning and needing and replete. And then he drags my hands down the wall to bend me at the waist, and his fingers curl around my wrists and slide up my forearms, up my biceps, and then he’s cupping my hanging, swaying tits as he pushes into me. There’s no warning, just his cock driving into me with a sudden and punishing rhythm. He’s careful, though, and every thrust is silent, not even the wet sound of joining giving us away.

Inches away, Bob and Martha quietly discuss their grandchildren, upcoming birthdays, their son and daughter-in-law’s marital difficulties.

Tension in my core become unbearable, thick and hot and taut, and every drive of his dick into me makes it worse, or better, or something. Increases the fire’s potency, tautens the wire coiled inside me, swells the balloon of pressure expanding in my sex. He holds my tits in place, uses them for leverage as he fucks into me hard but slow.

Then, abruptly, he buries himself deep and releases my tits, grabs my hips and pulls me backward. I’m forced to bend even further, so I have to press back into him and push against the wall with my hands to keep my balance. And now he’s thrusting in even more slowly, gently, and his palms caress my ass, my back, the crease of my hips.

I have to suck in a breath, realizing I’d stopped breathing entirely for a few moments. I’m bent double, and he’s driving into me. I’m motionless, taking what he’s giving me and soaking up the ecstasy. I don’t need to move, don’t want to. I just want to let Adam do this to me, to take me.

But then the volcano within me rumbles and begins to detonate, and everything I thought I knew or wanted or needed is erased. All I want and need is to come, is to have him deeper, is to get him to keep going, keep fucking me. I want to say that to him, but I can’t speak. I don’t remember why not, but I know I can’t. I’m breathing hard, and I hear a barely-audible whimper escape my lips.

Adam’s hand goes across my mouth, muffling me. His other hand is at my hip, pulling at me, urging me. I move back into his thrusts, push, push, and I spread my legs farther apart. Adam’s hand slides down my thigh, grips me at the knee, and lifts. I put my foot on the bench, straighten, and I feel Adam lift up on his toes behind me, thrusting hard. And in this position, he reaches so deep it’s impossible to not whimper, but his hand is there quieting the sound. His foot goes up on the bench too, on the opposite side, and now he’s thrusting and thrusting and his breath is raspy in my ear. One hand is on my tits, cupping one and then the other, massaging and kneading and tweaking nipples. His other slides over the inner thigh of my propped-up leg, touching the delicate, sensitive crease between thigh and labia, and then his fingers are rubbing at my clit and I’m gritting my teeth to keep silent, the climax spreading through me from the tips of my toes and tingling fingers to the sun-hot fires burning in my core, and I’m dipping at the knee, needing him harder and deeper.

I feel him rumble deep in his chest, and his breath catches, and his cock spasms inside me, his rhythm faltering, and he’s coming with me, coming hard, his face burying in my neck, my hair a black mass between us and around his head and face, and he’s still rubbing at my clit to make me come harder, or again, or still, or something, all I know is that I’m going supernova, being torn apart by the orgasm and he’s fucking deep and hard and fast and his voice is murmuring quietly in my ear:

“You feel it, don’t you? I know you do…fuck, Des, you have to feel this.” He bites my shoulder; a sharp nip that I know is going to leave a mark. “Deny it if you want, but I know—I know you feel this connection.”

I want to whimper, as much from the unerring truth of his words. I feel them like an arrow striking my secret heart.

“Don’t make a sound, Des. Don’t say a word.” He’s thrusting to the rhythm of his words, milking our orgasm even as he sends arrow after arrow of truth into me. “You don’t need to. I feel you. I know you. Fuck, fuck, you’re so incredible. I know you feel us. You do, don’t you? Yeah, you feel it, you fucking feel us, Des.”

We’re both exhausted, shaking, tremoring from the orgasm, but he’s still thrusting, and I’m so sensitive, so sore, aching from having taken him so hard, so many times, yet I can’t get enough even though I’m so post-climax sensitive that it’s unbearable.

And then he pulls out, sweeps me off my feet and into his arms, carries me into the room and lays me on the bed. I watch him strip the condom off and wrap it, discard it, close the sliding door, and then he’s back on the bed, hovering over me. His mouth descends so slowly, so gently, and that almost breaks me, almost jerks the truth from me.

I feel us, Adam, I want to say. But I don’t.

Because I’m afraid. Because I can’t trust anyone.

Because anyone I’ve ever trusted has hurt me. Those I don’t trust have hurt me, too. Everyone hurts me. It’s inevitable. Home after home, foster parent after foster parent. I wanted to trust them, to love them, to belong, and they always turned on me, hurt me, betrayed me.

So I don’t say a word. I just kiss him back and hope he can feel the regret and the buried emotions.

But the kiss doesn’t end. He breaks it, his lips parting from mine, his breath on my mouth, and then he kisses my throat and my chest and my breasts, and I want him again, even though I know I’ve had all I can physically withstand.

His cock nuzzles my thigh. I can’t help touching it, grasping it, and can’t help caressing its marvelous length. I feel wonder course through me as it responds, and I watch between our bodies as it comes to life in my hand.

He kisses my nipples, and then gasps and looks at me. “What are you doing, Des?”

“I don’t know.”

“Again?” It’s a suggestion.

I shake my head. “I can’t…I want to, but I…can’t. It’s been…a long time and I’m…sore.”

“Then what are you doing?”

I can only shrug. “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t stop me, though. He remains on his hands and knees above me, and we both watch as I stroke him to life. He watches, and I watch, and my hand slips and slides, back and forth along his length. I rub my thumb over the head, and he flinches. I do it again, and again, stroke and rub the tip. He lifts his head, and his eyes meet mine.

I don’t know why I’m doing this. I’d rather have him inside me, and I know he’d rather the same thing, but neither of us suggest this. He doesn’t move, and I keep stroking.

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