Page 5 of Wristlocked
“You ready to come for me, little Shadow?”
4
Gia
His voice is full of dark promise, but he waits for my permission. I want to draw it out, to ride that knife edge of pain-pleasure as long as I can, but he flutters the tip of his finger over my rear hole, and the shivery anticipation overrides my control.
“Yes, Lyot. Do it now.” I writhe against him, and he doesn’t hesitate. Eyes locked on mine, he sinks his long finger in my ass to the last knuckle and drives his cock to the hilt.
I cry out at the invasion, the burn and ache erupting into pleasure, and his mouth crashes back down on mine, laying me bare with his raw knowledge of my body. He swallows my cries with his plundering tongue and shatters me with his cock and fingers as I spill to pieces around him.
When my orgasm recedes and I go limp and boneless in his arms, he draws back slightly, searching my face with satisfaction. I grind into him one last time, too sensitive but still so full, and shudder as I pull free of his erection and slide down the wall to kneel at his feet. His cock is thick and heavy, slick with my arousal, and when I trail my gaze up his body and lick my bruised lips, the storm in his gray eyes goes dark and still. Ihold him there, captive, drinking in the sight of him—the hard planes of his muscles held taut beneath the smoky amber of his skin. His full lips are parted, his ebony curls hanging loose and almost to his jaw with the weight of water.
“Lyot.” My words are low and husky, the special voice I use in these moments. The one he says belongs to Shadow and I call the monster’s power. I trace the tattooed lines along the groove of his hip—the sixth crow—and strength returns to my limbs with every hitch of his breath.
He’s captured now, and it’s my turn to take him apart.
“Feed me your cock, Lyot. And don’t be gentle.”
He groans, my skin prickles, and he tangles a hand in my wet hair and guides himself to my lips. I open for him, and he squeezes his eyes shut with a rough sound, thrusting to the back of my throat. Arousal spools up through my body, the monster inside purring with triumph as my throat closes around him and I struggle to breathe. When he pulls back, I whimper, and the vibration elicits an answering moan and another deep thrust. This time, he holds himself there until my eyes water and overflow, and he reaches his limit.
He finds his rhythm, each stroke as deep as I can take himcomfortably, and even if my monster recedes unsated, I don’t push him. Instead, I hollow my cheeks and swirl my tongue over the underside of his cock, tasting my own cum on his skin. My scalp burns where his hands fist in my hair, and it’s enough. I draw lazy circles around my wet nipple with one hand while the other teases my clit.
“Damn, you look pretty with your lips stretched around my cock, Shadow.” Every word that spills from his mouth winds me tighter, riding the high of his arousal. Increasing the pressure on my clit, I hum my pleasure into his shaft and flick my tongue into his slit. “Fuck,that feels good.” His pace stutters, and hishand flies to the wall to steady himself. My thighs are trapped between his feet, and I spread them as wide as I can so he can watch me slide two fingers inside myself and clench around them.
“Jesus,” he gasps, and, taking advantage of his shuddering distraction, I surge up to impale myself on his length.
I come again with his cock buried in my throat, and his breath breaks, a desperate spasm, as another tremor runs through him.
“Gia.” It’s a plea. Barely a whisper.
My knuckles are slippery with my orgasm when I trail them up the inside of his thigh and slide free of his swollen cock. Grasping his base, I squeeze once, hard, and release him.
“Now, Lyot,” I command in the voice that’s just for him.He’s so beautiful. “Come.”
He gives me everything.
It’s almost enough.
5
Lyot
Standing in the ACCA gym with Gia at my side feels momentous. Like the start of something I’ve been afraid to let myself dream of. I want to reach out and take her hand, to soak in the heat of her skin and share the feeling. Instead, I give her a wink and a smile and keep my hands to myself.
In my braver moments, I tease her about how she always wants to play it platonic in public, considering we’ve been the worst-kept secret in our scene for years. But today, the tension radiating from her keeps me in check. She holds herself straight, head high, blue eyes flashing their usual challenge. It looks like confidence, but I know better. This is Gia on display, exposed and defensive, ready to fight to claim an identity she refuses to believe is already hers. Like a thousand times before, I want to reassure her that even if she was nobody, she’d draw every eye. The strong, clean lines of her body, the fall of curls like crimson flames, her creamy skin with those startling freckles—like one of those Irish models on the internet. And the indefinable something else that makes her so compelling on stage, something unique that radiates from her every movement. I haven’t been able to look away since the first time I saw her.
Freshman orientation is held in the aerial gym, and the giant space dwarfs the sprinkling of students sprawled across the wide strip of spring carpet that marks the warm-up area along the front side of the building. A low dividing wall separates this from the main floor, with the side facing us divided into cubbies to hold warm-up gear. A lot of them are already full of yoga blocks, Therabands, sliders, and leg weights—more than what I would expect from the number of students in the building, so the school must provide extras for people who don’t bring their own.
Beyond the cubbies, eight rigging points hang at regular intervals from the forty-foot ceilings. One in the back left corner has a foam pit for practicing release tricks, and in front of that is a double point with a static trapeze. The pulley systems for the two opposite points on the far right have mechanical lifts attached for flying. Crash mats of varying thicknesses dot the floor or sit in stacks between the points.
Huge mirrors line the right wall, and high windows across the back let in the desert sunshine. Below the glass panes are hooks filled with the apparatuses—silks in a dozen colors, black ropes faded with rosin, straps hanging from their tri-swivels, single- and double-tab hoops, and a couple of dance trapezes. On the front wall behind us, rows of lockers bracket the big double-glass doors leading to the courtyard of the larger complex, and two water coolers stand in the corner by the changing rooms.
Besides our class of newbies, maybe thirty other aerialists mingle in the space. Most are setting up to train, but a few are perched on foam mounting blocks they’ve dragged over or are leaning against the divider. Although it’s only mandatory for freshmen, apparently anyone can watch the orientation.
Ren arrives, his curls still dripping onto the collar of his T-shirt from a last-minute shower, and flashes his irrepressible grin at us. Two girls join him almost immediately, and the three of them make their way over to where Gia and I have claimed a stack of folded gym mats piled high against one wall. Ren makes the introductions, flirting outrageously, and though we haven’t officially met before now, I remember both girls from the auditions.
Rope duos aren’t super common, and women-only duos are even less so outside of burlesque. Vaya is wiry and vivacious, with thick bangs and a ponytail to her ass. Her partner, Jules, is tall and shy, with the face of a supermodel behind her cat-eye glasses. Although predictably wary at first, Gia relaxes when neither makes a fuss over her name.
