Page 45 of Indigo

“Let’s get back into bed?” I suggest, aching to be inside her, to be buried so deep that her fucking eyes cross as I make her come again. But my girl has other plans.

Without warning, she drops to her knees in front of me. I choke out a surprised moan as she takes me to the back of her throat, my tip hitting the warm, soft flesh of her mouth. “Fuuuuck.”

Placing a hand on my lower stomach, her pale skin contrasting beautifully with my heavily inked abdomen, she hums her approval around my length. The vibration makes my balls draw tight. “Slow down, Blue. Shit, I’m right there, baby.”

She doesn’t listen, so instead of trying to make this last, I brace one hand on the tiled wall behind her, and the other on the back of her head, watching as she bobs up and down on my dick. My eyes roll into the back of my head, and I struggle to breathe as she continuously draws me further down her throat, the sensation of her muscles clenching around me turning me feral. Tightening my hold on the back of her head, I weave my fingers through her wet hair, and hold her in place a little longer every time she goes back down.

Looking for any sign that it makes her uncomfortable, and finding none, I keep going, and when she reaches one hand up and cradles my balls, rolling them gently in her palm, I just about lose it.

What does it, though, is the little tug she gives. I freeze as my vision turns white, and I come right down her pretty little throat with a guttural groan.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I chant, my hips involuntarily jerking forward as she hums again, swallowing me down.

When she finally pulls back, and my cock slaps against my stomach, I take slow, deep breaths, trying to pull myself together.

Expecting her to stand, I offer her my hand, but she shakes her head, looking up at me with mischief in her eyes, and slowly leans forward and licks my length from root to tip, making sure to get every last drop of me.

I close my eyes, the sensation overwhelming me, and rest my forehead against the tile next to my hand, allowing her to continue.

“You’re going to kill me, woman,” I whisper, peeking through my heavy lids at her as she climbs to her feet.

“Mmmm, but what a way to go,” she replies, turning around, looking at me over her shoulder as steps back under the warm water.

I huff out a laugh, and move in behind her, allowing the water to wash away the remnants of our mutual orgasms before turning off the tap and sliding open the shower door.

After I’ve dried both of us off, we climb back into bed, under the covers, and huddle close together. Our limbs automatically intertwine as we face each other, our heads on the same white pillow.

“You are so perfect, Blue,” I whisper, my heart melting at the satisfied smile the words put on her face.

Her cheeks glow red from the hot water, her body is soft and pliable, relaxed from the amount of times I’ve made her come today.

“You are, too,” she whispers, her voice so quiet it’s barely audible.

She raises her hand, and I try not to tense as her fingers reach for the scar on my forehead. Her eyes hold mine, as if she’s waiting for me to react, to stop her, because this is something she’s never attempted before, but after what we just did, I can’t. She deserves all of my deep, dark secrets. All the words I should have given her years ago, but didn’t have the guts to.

As her index finger traces along the puckered skin, I gently caress her side with my knuckles, letting the motion soothe us both. “My dad,” I croak, not realising how tight my throat is until attempting to form words. Clearing it, I try again. “My dad did that when I was fifteen.”

Her finger pauses, and I watch as she clenches her jaw and screws up her face as if the words she’s hearing bring her physical pain, but she doesn’t speak. After only a few seconds, she resumes her movements and waits for me to continue.

“After Mum left, Dad got real bad. Beyond anything I’ve ever seen. He fucking hated Jagger. I don’t know if it was because he was another mouth to feed, or if it was because he looks so much like our mother, but he always went for him before me.” I take a deep breath and place my hand over hers, gently moving it to my chest and rolling onto my back.

She shifts closer to me and starts stroking my chest hair back and forth with the pad of her thumb, as I stare up at the cream coloured ceiling.

“You don’t have to…” she says after the silence stretches a little too long while I collect my thoughts.

With a shake of my head, I close my eyes and continue; the memories playing through my mind like an awful movie. “At the start, I’d just keep Jagger away from him. We’d stay in my bedroom and play video games, something like that. I put a deadbolt on my door, and when Dad would get drunk enough and make his way up the stairs, I’d lock us in. That worked for a fair while. Years even. Until it didn’t. The angrier he got, the more he drank, and he took on this almost unhuman-like strength. He’d kick in the door, break the lock clean off the wall, and he’d go for Jagger. I think by that point I was big enough that he didn’t want to pick a fight with me, so he avoided it for the most part. Eventually, even pushing my tallboy in front of the door didn’t work, he’d still get in.” I take her hand in mine and squeeze it reassuringly as I feel it tremble against my chest. “One night, I realised Dad wasn’t going to give up on trying to get in. I put Jagger in my wardrobe and pushed the tallboy in front of them so that he couldn’t get out. No matter how small, that kid had fucking balls.” I laugh, finding a tiny slice of humour hidden in one of my worst memories. “I unlocked the door to face my father, and I was met with a beer bottle to the head. That shit hurt, but it didn’t break, not then, at least. I was dizzy, and it took me a minute to realise what was happening, and when I turned around to see where he was, he was at the wardrobe, trying to move the drawers. Thankfully, he was so drunk that his movements were slow and he didn’t get to Jagger. As I pulled him away, he swung the beer bottle again, and this time it smashed across my head. I hit him, he hit me, there was fucking blood everywhere, Jagger was screaming and smashing on the wardrobe door, making the tallboy bounce, but it didn’t budge.”

I hear Indie sniffling, but I don’t look down. This is the part that haunts me the most, and I need to get it out before I think about it too much. “Last thing I remember is getting on top of my dad and just fucking hitting him, over and over. I couldn’t stop. I just saw red, you know? Jagger was mine. My brother. Mine to protect, and he was trying to hurt him. That was the first time I realised I had the same anger in me as he did. That I could turn out just like him if I let myself.”

“I’m so sorry,” Indie whimpers. My heart aches as I look down at her and she quickly swipes a stray tear from her cheek, not wanting me to see her cry. “I’m so sorry,” she repeats, lifting herself onto all fours and climbing on top of me.

Her thighs hold me tightly between them as she straddles me and tucks her hands between my back and the mattress. “You are nothing like him, Pax. Nothing. You’re incredible. A good man, and a good brother. I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” she says, burying her now damp face against my chest.

Engulfing her in my arms, I hold her tightly, and the smell of her shampoo calms my racing heart.

As I trace my fingers along her bare lower back, her breathing eventually evens out, and tiny snores fill the room.

I, too, fall asleep, feeling lighter than I have in years after telling only one of the many stories of my childhood to the woman I want to know them all.

---