Page 49 of Most Likely to Match
He pets me, two deft fingers that he uses to taste me. Like I am a treat, a flavor sampler at the ice cream parlor, an amuse-bouche that he turns into the main course as his mouth covers my clit, his tongue teasing, lips sucking.
I put his wet t-shirt in my mouth, tearing at the fabric to keep quiet, but still, I moan, and he answers me back, a satisfied grunt. My nipplesachefrom the cold, my arousal. I grip my breasts, harder than I normally would, just because it feels so good to be used like this, if only by my own hands.
My feet search for purchase, anything I can use to push back against his mouth. I scoot back farther, my heels on the edge of the pool, my legs spread wide, my body open in an obscene way that only adds to my pleasure. Dean levers himself half out of the pool to get closer, to lean into me when I push against him, both of us seeking pressure and pleasure.
I open my eyes to look at the sky as he fills me with tongue and fingers. Realize only now how full the moon is, how low it hangs tonight, how easily we could be seen.
“Do you like,” I gasp, “how I taste?”
He nods against me, chin on my taint, nose and mouth buried deep in my pussy. He grunts his yes, then groans because I’m coming; coming from his face, his eagerness, hisneed. I’m coming because anyone could see us, and Iwantthem to. I want everyone to see how well and thoroughly fucked I am.
I moan, too loud, uncaring. Grip my breasts, push them together, hard enough to leave bruises, just for something to hold on to as heeats me through my orgasm, as he licks, hums his encouragement and his pleasure, my body shuddering and shaking until I close my legs and beg him over and over again to stop, please stop.
I’m not fully aware of him after. He swears, not angrily. His form comes over top of me for a moment, blocking out the moon, his hair tinted silver in the dark. His hands on the inside of my legs are warm as he pushes me back open, the sound of fabric clinging and wet. He says, “Can I come on you?” His palm covering my pussy.
“Do it,” I groan.
On his knees, one hand pressed against my inner thigh, the other wrapped around his cock, he pumps himself, his gaze locked on the spot between my legs, spraying me with cold drops of water. I reach between my legs, pulling myself apart with my middle and index fingers. My body aches for him. He gasps, his furious rhythm stutters, and he groans, long and low, as his come, hot against my frigid skin, covers me. The first spurt covers my pubic hair, then my plump lips. His warm come paints my hole, my taint, my ass, and the shock of him there, even if it’s only his ejaculate, makes me so hot, so wet, so horny for him again. I use his come to rub my clit once more. A few short strokes, and I’m gasping and coming and saying his name.
Dean watches me, his eyes bright in the dark night. When I’m done, he rubs his thumb through his come, collecting it from my hair and between my legs. He licks the side of his thumb, like he’s licking melted ice cream off a cone, and when I reach for him, he collapses into the cradle of my legs, his penis soft but warm on my skin, his lips tasting like the most delicious combination of the two of us.
When our legs work, we gather my sopping-wet towel, and he drapes his dry one over my shoulders. We slip into the basement, the lights off, and creep up the stairs to the second floor as if someone else is here to catch us. He runs the shower, holding his hand under the water until it’s warm enough, then draws me in. He helps me with his t-shirt and I pull his boxers off, leaving them in a pile in the corner of the shower to deal with later. We take turns under the hot water, lathering soap on our hands. He is gentle with my breasts, the nipples still pebbled, and between my legs, even though I wouldn’tcare at all if I was sorer there. He kisses the abrasion on my shoulder where I collided with the pool wall, and I run my fingers along his jaw, my skin tender against his stubble, trace the muscle and tendons beneath to the spot on his collar where he got too much sun today. I press against each tattoo I can find, like each is a button waiting to be unlocked, taking extra care with each letter on his fingers, because those are the loveliest to me.
We get into bed, him naked, me wrapped in his bathrobe, finding each other’s legs under the sheets. We talk about domestic things, couple things, like how I am meeting my mom’s new boyfriend tomorrow and how he plans to do yard work and pool maintenance in the afternoon. My bones are heavy. Not in a tired way, but in a satisfied way. Muscles spent and my blood pumping the good kind of hormones through my body so that here, in the dark and quiet, it’s easier to ask him, “You said you needed time. Is this enough?”
It’s unfair, I know, to ask him to put a timeline on his healing, but he doesn’t call me on it.
“I don’t know?” he says after a while.
We face each other in the dark, but I can see nothing of his expression.
“The thing is, Chloe.” He finds my cheek in the dark, walks his fingers to my temple, follows my hair around the shell of my ear. “I could let you destroy me,” he says. “If I’m not careful.”
He’s not embarrassed or scared or even brave. He says it like an obvious truth. A fact, as scientific as it is profound.
I turn my head, hold his wrist to my lips, and say the only thing I can say, even though, at this point, they’re still only words to him. “I won’t.”
9
DEAN
Istretch out across the bed, arms reaching for soft, warm skin, but coming up empty. The top-down blinds my parents installed after I moved out have only been drawn down about twelve inches, but combined with early morning sunlight streaming from the hallway through my open bedroom door, I have to squint at the sudden brightness when I open my eyes. As if summoned by every teenage nocturnal emission ever released in this bed, Chloe chooses this moment to pad into my bedroom, holding two steaming cups of what I can only assume is coffee and wearing my old blue and green tartan bathrobe. And absolutely nothing else.
Suddenly, Chloe could be the human embodiment of the sun, and I still wouldn’t— couldn’t— look away. The robe hangs from her shoulders, sloping gently over her breasts, her nipples barely covered by flannel. The curve of her tummy and the flare of her hips command my attention. I follow the lines of her body with my eyes, my hands and mouth aching to join, until I land at the inevitable terminus between her thighs.
When we were younger, I never spent much timelookingat her. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know I could. Ididn’t understand the simple joy of looking at her— at any woman’s— body. Noticing the golden tint to the hair between her legs, the shadows thrown across her body by breasts, hips, and limbs. At most, back then, I got momentary glimpses of skin that looked impossibly soft. Now I wonder about her scars, how they got there and how she feels about them. I find freckles and consider the best names to give them so that I can use them in the future to map out her body the way astronomers use stars to map the night sky.
“Good morning,” she says, placing the mug on the bedside table when I don’t take it from her offered hand.
“Sorry.” I clear my throat, sheepish at being caught staring, though not regretful. I sit up against the wall and hold the mug in my hands, letting the warmth seep in.
Chloe doesn’t take back her spot next to me, though. She wanders the cramped horseshoe of floor space left around my bed, investigating the accumulation of stuff on my dresser and walls. She stops at the bookshelf on the other side of my bed and exchanges the coffee in her hands for the Nikon D700 DSLR.
“Does this still have film in it?” she asks, frowning down at the viewfinder.
“No.” I smile. “It’s digital.”
“Oh, duh.” She blushes. She turns her back to me, bending over the camera. I mentally thumb through what photos I could possibly have on that memory card, but when she turns back to me, half her face is shielded by the camera, the lens pointed directly at me, and I flinch, tugging the sheet up my body and turning away.
