You don't know anything about it, not yet. But you will. You
make a pact with yourself. You think, 'If I wait, if I wait until
exactly the right moment this will work.'
But the waiting slips effortlessly into impatience and you find yourself
on his doorstep in your stocking-feet, having padded down to his room from
yours, chewing at what's left of one of your stunted fingernails.
You try to stop and find you can't.
He opens the door, finds you standing there. You drop your hand
from your mouth and instead try to chew your lip into a grin. You
don't know if it looks endearing or not, but you hope it does. It
has to if this is going to work.
"Hullo, Elijah," he says, and you find a smile tugging at the corners
of your mouth, coaxed there more by him than forced by you. It's
better that way.
Then you think you should say something. As a bit of mild panic
swells in you, you open your mouth. All that comes out is, "Orli,
I -- " Never have words been more necessary and less available to
you. The mild panic becomes a stronger panic, and it catches in your
throat as your well-prepared seduction lines, the ones that have kept you
awake at night with endless rehearsing, evaporate in the brown warmth of
his gaze. His eyes crinkle into a smile, and you stop trying to say
anything. Instead, you let yourself just grin at him. He grins
back at you and tugs you into his room without a word.
Did it work? Was it something you did? You don't know.
But there you are. You sit in the middle of his bed, where he put
you after dragging you into his room, and you tuck your feet up underneath
you. You feel small, kittenish. You didn't count on that.
He circles around you, around the bed, his gaze one of calm appraisal,
but you feel anything but calm as he rakes his eyes over you. Your
heart does a triple somersault as he stops his circling and pins you with
his eyes. You look down, and then he's right there, right next to
you, his weight on the bed dipping the mattress and unbalancing you from
the yoga position you've been sitting in. You try not to squirm as
his breath fans across your cheek. Then, directly into your ear he
whispers to you:
"Over the Fence -
He pauses, and you catch him licking his lips, one swipe of his tongue,
slow and delicious. Savoring that strawberry. Then he says:
"But - if I stained my Apron -
"That's Dickinson," he finishes. "From your side of the pond.
I prefer Keats, myself, but - " and that's as far as he gets because you're
kissing him and he's kissing you back and a searing, searching heat is
tearing through your body, ignited by the endless points of contact along
your tongues.
You think, quickly, once, and realize: Who's seducing whom here?
In that moment you don't really care as he pulls you to your knees on
the bed. His mouth hasn't left yours yet and the heat of him is now
sparking fires in you everywhere as he envelopes you in his arms.
When his mouth finally leaves yours, you pant, "Orli, Orli," over and
over until he kisses you quiet again. You stay quiet as he slides
your shirt off your shoulders, slides his fingers everywhere the fabric
used to be, slides himself up close to you again, so close you can taste
him and his lips aren't even on yours anymore. You close your eyes
tight.
No questions.
No answers.
You feel his fingers hook through two belt loops on your jeans and you
feel his lips trying to kiss away the fires he lit. He can't.
And you don't want him to. You want to burn forever under his touch.
He kisses down your neck, across one shoulder, then captures a nipple
with his teeth and tongue and you realize you've lost all control, not
that you had any to start with. But you want it, control, and you
had it when you came here to Orli. This was your idea, wasn't it?
'Stop thinking,' you scold yourself as Orli licks across to your other
nipple and latches on, setting new fires without bothering to quench the
old. 'Stop thinking,' you warn yourself. Again, again, it's
the same: You try to stop and find you can't.
You close your eyes tighter as he licks at your navel. You want
to be lost in him. In a way you are, he's devouring you whole and
you're letting him, you're loving it, you're aching for him to claim you
-- but you won't let him. You know you won't. This plan, your
plan, you want it to work. For you. You want to win.
You want to claim him. Your patience can't be for nothing.
You need to claim him. You have to -
"Stop thinking," he hisses in your ear before biting at the lobe and
licking away the marks his teeth have left.
You don't reply and you know he doesn't expect you to. If he had
wanted an answer, he wouldn't have eased down the zipper of your jeans
and reached in to soothe the ache there with gently demanding fingers.
He wouldn't have nudged your jeans off your hips. He wouldn't have
covered the tip of your cock with his tongue, hot and wet, burning and
cooling all at once. If he'd wanted an answer, he wouldn't have slid
his tongue along the underside of your cock. He wouldn't have cupped
your ass with his hands and squeezed, once, twice, claiming you as his.
If you'd been meant to answer, he wouldn't have distracted you like
this, taking your mind off of everything except him and his tongue and
the scorching fires racing through your blood and the aching need for release.
He's going to make you come, he's going to swallow you and kiss his
way back up to your mouth, he's going to claim you. You feel yourself
tottering ever closer to that precipice. You know he's going to make
you come, you know you're going to come harder than you've ever been able
to come by yourself -
You try to stop and find you can't.
As the waves of pleasure wash over you and Orli rides them out, never
letting you get away from him, you whimper in your vulnerability, and he
kisses you quiet.
This story has been nominated at the Starless Night Awards
Strawberries - grow -
Over the Fence -
I could climb - if I tried, I know -
Berries are nice!"
God would certainly scold!
Oh, dear, - I guess if He were a Boy -
He'd - climb - if He could!