Page 75 of The Match Faker

My chest tightens, a frisson of unease working its way through me. “You want me to…hit you? Or something?” I try to school my features into neutral acceptance. I’ll do whatever he needs and I’m not here to kink shame, but I’ve never hit a partner before.

He shakes his head, caresses my chin, the pad of his thumb rough, the sensation sending sparks down my spine. “Not if you don’t want to. But I meant that you can scratch, bite, pull my hair. If it feels good, I want you to leave the marks on my skin that prove it.”

He crawls up my body, kisses me, his lips moving slowly over mine, his tongue a warm, soft brush inside my mouth. I draw my hand up his back, into his hair and grip a handful. “Like this?” I ask, tugging his head back.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice suddenly deeper.

“I love the way you kiss me.” I kiss him back. “Will you kiss me one more time?” I push his head closer, gentle.

He grins. “You’re so greedy. I love it,” he adds quickly, clearly sensing that I might interpret that as a bad thing. “Keep your hand there.” He drops onto his stomach, pushes my legs up, asfar apart as I can go. He kisses into my cunt, his tongue and lips touching everything.

Exactly what I wanted.

I pull his hair, gently at first, harder when he grunts in response, when his hips start to move against the bed. I move his mouth where I want it and he grips my thighs tight, pinning me down. I’m the one on my back, but I’m still riding his face as I come, pushing, pumping my hips into his mouth. I’m still coming when he crawls up my body, his face wet, nose a little smushed, and slides into me without any resistance. We make sounds into each other’s mouths. Grunts, moans, whines. I grab him, at his hips, his ass, scratch up and down his back as he thrusts into me. I bite his collarbone, shoulder, scratch and claw at his chest hair. We’re a tangle of limbs, half on our sides, at an angle that doesn’t allow him to get too deep yet still makes me feel so full.

“Can you come again?” He pants.

“No.” I shake my head, tossing it back. “No.”

“Do you want to try?” He slips his hand between us.

I push him onto his back, follow him over, hover over his cock. “Yeah.”

He arches up into me, sits up, leaning on one hand, wrapping his other arm around me. He holds me close as he pumps into me, and I grind against him. He licks my nipples, sucks the skin between my breasts. He doesn’t slow, even as his arms tremble. He’s close. Nick grabs my ass, his hand spanning one cheek, his fingers edging into my dark cleft, pushing my hips back and forth, grinding me against him so that when my orgasm comes, it’s a surprise. The sharp, short burst all my body is capable of now. Then he’s coming, his cock pulsing, filling the condom, his body shuddering against mine.

For a long moment, we stay like this, heaving breaths, holding each other tight. He has to untangle my fingers fromhis hair when, eventually, he slides from inside me and rolls us to our sides. We kiss, touch, make sounds but no words. At one point, he gets up and wobbles to the bathroom. He comes back a little while later, the marks on his body apparent, his eyes wide and smile silly, blissed out. He holds a warm, wet cloth between my legs. I hiss at soreness I didn’t know I had. He kisses me, my mouth, my shoulder, my back, my ass, and I try to stay awake for when he comes back to the bed, but I fall asleep before he slides in behind me.

17

NICK

The absence of my sound machine wakes me. I suppose that’s counterintuitive, but in my exhaustion last night, I forgot to turn it on. Traffic out on the street isn’t even bad, the silence is just too loud. I roll toward Jasmine, only to find she’s not there. I stretch my hand out, keeping my eyes purposefully shut. If I don’t open them, technically I’m not awake. The sheets are still warm, the pillow still smells like her.

“Jazz.” My voice is scratchy and thin. “Jazz,” I say again.

The mattress shifts, and then her warm hand covers mine.

“I’m here.”

A knot in my chest uncoils. “I thought you left.” I sound more relieved than I probably should; with those four words I give away too much of what I feel for her.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she says.

I roll back to my side of the bed. “I forgot the sound machine,” I say, slapping at the milk crate nightstand I DIYed with a glue gun and two-by-fours left over from when we last repaired the stage.

“It’s okay,” she says, sliding a hand up my arm. “C’mere.” She tugs.

I roll back to her, finally surrendering, and open my eyes. My heart catches. “Damn.” I should have opened my eyes a lot sooner.

A combination of city and moonlight paints Jasmine in silver and shadows. Her hair is still down, a delight I haven’t been able to luxuriate in yet. She leans on one hand, her breasts round and full, her nipples begging to be sucked, one leg curled over the other. Like this, she could easily inspire a Renaissance artist to create a masterpiece.

“What?” A small V of concern appears between her eyebrows.

“If I had any artistic talent,” I say, grasping a strand of her hair between my index and middle fingers. “I’d paint you like one of those French girls.”

She blushes, just like I hoped she would, and turns her face toward my hand, kissing my palm, first with her lips, then with her mouth open, sending a spark of arousal to my groin. She slides her hand across the bed and presses something hard and cold against my other hand.

It takes a moment to register that it’s the lube I brought earlier. “Is it my turn now?”

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