Page 11 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

Fuck it. I’d give him the world if it meant more pleasure roiling through my core with every single one of his greedy, knowing touches. If it meant seeing stars burst in the backs of my eyes like a permanent screensaver, a Pavlovian reminder of pleasure that deepens the ache between my legs and the storm inside my heart.

Rory fucks the ache between my legs and I give in to it with reckless abandon. One finger, a second, and then another, knuckle to knuckle, until I feel completely stuffed and full, my body trembling in ways I can’t recreate in the darkest hours of night. There’s the hiss and sting of pain, of being stretched, but something deeper and headier overwrites it, mingles with it, as though to assure me that this feels good. A deliberate rush, a stream of dopamine, follows each insistent press of Rory’s fingers. It feels as though Rory’s entire hand is buried within me, and I glory in it, reveling in the exposed feeling, of being open to the elements and the world and the boy in front of me.

He leans across me, devouring my lips in another searing kiss as his fingers crook inside me. Soon, I’m unable to kiss at all, too distracted by the teasing stroke of Rory’s fingers, the constant cries that fly from my mouth, a primal groaning from deep inside my throat and belly. He watches my face, rapt and unblinking, as though not to miss a moment of this. He switches up the pace of his fingers, from a leisurely slowness to something deliberate and grinding, a pulsating pressure that makes my head thud to the ground and loll from side to side. He palms my exposed breasts, licking and sucking my cold-hardened nipples, burying his face between my smooth, swaying mounds as though claiming them for himself.

Pleasure builds within me from every unceasing in-out motion of Rory’s fingers. The curve of his heel caresses my clit, jolting me upward, and Rory does it again and again, grinding deliberately into me, pressing into all my burning, jangling nerves with the expertise of someone who knows his way around a female body. I’m a puddle beneath him, a being of liquid moans and no thought. Of feeling and not much else. Of chasing a peak that seems unavailable, too frustratingly far, a jerky climb I need to ascend at the hands of a jerk.

But the feeling I crave follows in quick succession. Orgasm rips through me like an act of violence. As Rory’s kisses roam my face, I grab the lapels of his fancy country jacket with enough strength that I feel like I could shred it in two. A warning rumble of thunder follows my urgent, warning whine. A crack of lightning splits open the sky in vibrant light, illuminating the bleak beyond. Pleasure lashes down from my core, wracking my body in hot, tight curls, and I buckle from the sheer, lightning-split power of it. The howling wind attacks my cheeks like whips and I cry, almost mournful, into the rain.

I’m sobbing. I’m crying — huge, ferocious, broken, gulping sobs as I crumple over myself, unseeing, into the wet grass. I don’t know why. A kind of relief. A weakening. A free-flowing, chaotic rush of pressure cratering across my body, from the corner of my eyes to my silken, sopping cunt.

Rory remains quiet, and that too is strange. He takes me in, watches me closely, saying nothing the whole time. He presses an achingly soft kiss to my breastbone, to the midpoint of the place on my body he’s declared home, where his head had curled and his hair had been free to spill across my breasts, the flat of his cheek pressed against me as I’d scooped him closer and closer as though to merge him with my heart.

He tugs down my dress, drying me off with the sleeve of his shirt, and zips up my waterproof. I don’t notice much of this. I’m dreaming, and I hope desperately that I’m not, that this isn’t another midnight fantasy — because I want this to happen between us again and again, I just can’t tell Rory this because language has fled from me and my mouth isn’t functioning right now. I’m blissed-out, dazed, in ways I never have been before.

I notice him pausing, sitting upright and watching me, still without talking. As though servile, and the thought almost makes me laugh. But it’s like he’s respecting the aftermath of his literal handiwork. He wants me to say the first word, to break the spell, but I don’t want to ruin this, I want this high, this peace and stillness, to linger within me forevermore.

At first I think he’s going to hoist me up, tell me to get moving and return to the estate. But to my surprise, Rory lowers himself down on the ground beside me. He secures an arm around my waist, snuggling close to me as though we were on a mattress like normal people. Instead, he pulls himself close to my drenched body, to the waterproof fabrics bunching across my hips. We lie together in the grass, spooning in the rain, for heavenly minutes that feel like hours.

When the world stills and I feel less overwhelmed, Rory traces my lips with the pads of his fingers and begins to feed them to me. They’re wet. They’re wet with me, I realize. Wet with my release. I draw them into my mouth, sucking deeply, sucking soothingly, and the world calms at once.

I taste like rain and salt.

When I lick Rory’s fingers clean, dropping them from my lips, I stare up at the sky. Overhead is the vast spread of wings and the dagger of a beak. A grown eagle soars above, flying in the direction of its nest.

Home.

---