Want // Part 4
Title: Want // Part 4
Author: l3petitemort
Rating NC-17
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Disclaimer: Not my boys, not my girl, not anything but my utterly filthy imagination.
Summary: Kris is not impressed with being left alone.
Author's Note: This scene would not leave me alone all day long. I had to write it. *wiggles eyebrows suggestively* It probably needs some work. I have no beta, so I'll come back for a typo/grammar check later. In the meantime, here it is.
I am grateful for rehearsals. Everyone is consumed by their own work, singing quietly to themselves, or to one another in the corner, or to any number of people sent to make sure we don't make public jerkoffs of ourselves. We are less interested in each other than we are at any other time, and I think, Maybe God doesn't hate me, after all. The thought makes me shake my head to myself, puffing air out of my nose.
I explain away my absence this morning, explain away my angry-looking mouth, blame some bad takeout the night before, say I caught my face on the doorjamb, stumbling through the dark to throw up. "I think I had a fever or something; couldn't even walk straight." Adam catches my word choice and looks sharply my way. There is mischief playing at the corners of his eyes. I meet them for a second then lower my lashes before the blush reaches my ears.
Allison is a watcher. She picks up the brief exchange, raises her eyebrows, but stays mercifully quiet, except to ask me if I'm feeling better this morning. "Much," I assure her. "Just kinda tired." I'm lying, but only a little. She nods. She doesn't believe me.
I am vaguely surprised when I'm able to focus on the music. Holding my guitar, shutting my eyes, just letting it fall out of me gives me a palpable sense of relief. It's grounding; it's the one thing here that hasn't gone completely batshit crazy on me; it's, I remind myself, why I'm here in the first place. It feels good. I don't want to stop. So I don't.
I stay through lunch, alone, feeling the hum of my guitar against my hipbone, the curve across my thigh. It's as familiar to me as my own body. Adam brings me back a sandwich. "I get room service now, eh?" I ask him. "I guess certain things have their perks." I startle myself with my own ease, my own sudden irreverance.
The lines in his face relax. It's the first time I really notice the tension he'd been carrying. He swats the back of my head and laughs. His hand lingers just a second too long, comes up through my hair instead of straight back, and my fingers get suddenly clumsy. I miss the chord I was aiming for, and he looks at me, his gaze so soft I can almost feel it on my skin. Something rises up in my throat, and I have to look away. I can only manage half the sandwich.
It gets late, and we're allowed to leave for dinner, for the night, but I don't. I head down to the basement. I'm not hungry. I just want to play, want to be soothed, want to sing, not talk. Between Scott and Matt, I am almost never alone with the pianos, but tonight, I am, at least for an hour or so. Curfew is ten, since it's Monday, so everybody might stay out while they can. Curfew. Can you fucking believe it? Grown-ass men. But tonight, I don't mind. Tonight, I don't want voices.
I'm so lost in myself that I don't notice Allison until she's on the bench next to me and her leg against mine brings me back to reality.
"Kris Allen," she says, conversationally. I notice a bowl of soup sitting on the piano.
"Allison the Great," I nod. That's what I call her. The whole Sarver thing.
"Adam sent me down here. With that," she points at the soup. "Why are you having all of your meals delivered today, hm?"
"Ask Adam," I shrug. I wince. "No. Nevermind. Don't. I'm just practicing. Nerves, you know? I'm not feeling good about this one, for some reason, and then being sick all last night..."
"You lie, dear boy. You lie. Poorly, at that." She looks at me, searching. Behind her eyes, she looks like she's taking measurements, adding numbers, recording data. This little girl is making me more nervous right now than Simon fucking Cowell.
I don't want to lie anymore to her, so I say nothing. She's still working me over in her mind. She grabs a package of crackers out of her pocket and smashes them in her hand. Opening them and dumping the crumbs into my soup, she says, "Whatever this is, don't let it turn you into a total dickhead." She beams at me. I can't help smiling. I ruffle her ridiculous hair.
"Never," I tell her. "And thanks for dinner. Tell Adam thanks, too, for me?"
She stands. She bows. "Of course, monsiuer. At your service."
"Shut up," I laugh.
"Hey, you'll have staff when you win this thing," she says, mock seriously, arching her eyebrows. "Practice, you know?" She skips away, balling up the cracker package and tossing it over her shoulder as she reaches the stairs and disappears.
I think she must be my bodyguard tonight, because the clock hands creep around and around, and nobody comes to interrupt me, and suddenly it's eleven. It cannot be healthy to be spending this much time by myself, I think. I picture Adam upstairs. He's always in bed early on Mondays, blowing kisses to the living room before he goes up to read, unwind, pretend to sleep. He gets very little actual sleep, Monday night or otherwise, but he does make an effort. With this image in my head, I feel a little better -- a little healthier, anyway -- about being down here alone.
I've beaten this song and about five hundred other ones to death, and I am tired down to my bones. I'm not ready to go upstairs yet, though. I feel like Gokey might be milling around, ready for a pre-performance prayer circle or something, and that is not on my Shit-I-Need-Right-Now list. God and I aren't currently speaking.
I let my body sink into the couch down here, and it sinks deeply. I shut my eyes against the harsh lights. I let my fingers tap across my legs like piano keys, crawl across my belly like guitar strings, hear melodies I recognize, melodies I don't, playing in my head.
I'm in the middle of a nightmare, one I can't remember, but one that has my veins bulging out of my neck and my heart racing, when Adam's hand wakes me. I know it's his before I even open my eyes. I'm strangely oriented, the terror draining out of me almost immediately, when he shakes my knee.
"Jesus Fuck, Kris," he says, leaning down close. "I thought you were having a fucking seizure or something." His blue eyes are drawn close; the lines in his forehead are back. "I've been all over this house looking for you." His hand is still on my knee. My breathing is still erratic, but I'm not scared. Not exactly. Maybe a little.
He is bare-chested, bare-footed, the way he always sleeps. His hair is around his face at odd angles. No makeup, all freckles. His black pajama bottoms are slung low; the tops of his hipbones are peeking out of them, just barely. I am suddenly wide, wide, wide awake.
"Shit, man, I'm sorry. I fell asleep down here. What time is it?"
"Past midnight," he answers. "I wouldn't bother you, except tomorrow's kind of a big deal, you know? I wanted to make sure you were okay. Thought you might want your bed." His eyes remind me of Allison's: busy scanning my face, looking for something, trying to solve the equation of my eyes.
"Yeah, yeah. Thanks." His hand still hasn't moved. I can feel it warm through my jeans. His grip has actually gotten tighter. The warmth is starting to radiate, touching the insides of my thighs. I feel the muscles there jerk ever so slightly. I wonder if he feels them. When he picks up his hand, I realize that he must. He reaches out for mine, and I curl it around his wrist, let him help me to my feet.
"You're a hot mess," he grins, looking me up and down. He's right. My shirt is rumpled, one button undone. My sneakers are still on, but one is untied. My jeans are twisted, and they suddenly feel just a little too tight. I watch him as he notices why. He worries his lip a little, shuts his eyes for just a hair longer than a blink, then snaps them back to my face, drops my hand when he's sure I'm steady.
He follows me up the stairs. I am acutely aware of his presence behind me. He's throwing so much heat tonight that I wonder if maybe he's caught my stomach bug. The thought makes me laugh to myself. He's being very careful not to touch me, and his obvious avoidance makes me more than a little uneasy. It's so... un-Adam. When I get to the top of the stairs, I deliberately step against the doorframe so he'll stumble into me.
His whole left side brushes my back, my ass, my leg. I feel his erection through his pants, through my jeans. He quickly sidesteps around me and pushes the door wider. I now have the fucking hard-on of my life. It's truly epic. I actually think, for a second, I'm going to lose my fucking button; it's going to go snapping off my pants and break a fucking vase or something. Something else that will be fun to explain.
Every time I step, my zipper rubs against my cock, and I'm starting to feel just a little antsy, a little wired. I'm irritated that he's not speaking, not guiding my shoulder around corners like he does. I'm irritated that he didn't bring my dinner down himself, that he sent Allison to try to talk to me. I'm confused by his sudden discomfort with me, the way he's treating me so fucking delicately. He does nothing delicately. He sure as fuck wasn't delicate with me last night. This morning.
And I'm for sure a hot mess now, and as we're climbing the stairs to the bedroom, I make up my mind.
At the top, I nudge him in front of me. He reaches for the door. His hand touches the knob, and I reach out into the darkness, catch it where it sits, ready to turn, and stop him where he stands. Before he can look at me with a hundred fucking questions in his eyes -- eyes that I can't see -- I shove my hip against his thigh, push him against the doorframe, throw my own thigh between his legs. The bedroom door rattles.
I know he's going to say something, and I just want to shut him up; I don't want to hear it; I don't want to know why he's acting like this. And I sure as shit don't want to hear him ask me what's wrong. Before he can catch his breath to "What the fuck?!" me, I have his face in my hands, pushing his whole head back, his chin up.
I grind my hips up against him, feel him grow bigger, harder against my leg. I keep pushing. I feel like I'm trying to push into him, under his skin, get inside. My hands are covering his ears. They're hot. His entire body is a thousand degrees. I press my mouth into the hollow at the bottom of his throat, open up my lips. My tongue finds his pulse there, steady, thrumming with blood. I lick at it, push against it, suck. I want to pull it into myself, like I'm starving. It's pounding, stuttering, wild. He rocks his hips forward, stroking up my leg. I hear his voice, strained and heady and bordering on obscene, "You're fucking killing me, Arkansas."
His hands come up through mine and grab my head roughly, yanking it back. We are standing face to face, holding each other's heads in the darkess. I feel him staring at me, feel the heat in his cheeks, his eyes. I feel his chest, wet hot against my elbow. "You don't know what the fuck you're doing."
He's whispering. It sounds harsh. I don't like it. I want him to shut up. The button of my jeans is pulling tight, digging into his hip, which has come riding out of the elastic of his pants. He won't stop. He brings his forehead down against the top of my head, his hands lock behind it, just above my neck. "You better be able to handle this. You better not pull anymore shit. I can't fucking take it. I can't fucking take it, watching you fucking implode. That's what you're doing; that's where this is going, and if you can't fucking handle it, you better stop this right fucking now." His voice is urgent, desperate. It sounds like he's holding back tears and holding back his fucking orgasm at the same time. I want to crack him open, let everything come.
And I can't handle it. I know that. I hear him. But I also can't stop it, there's no way I can stop it now, and I don't think he can, either, so instead of answering, I open the bedroom door with one hand and shove him towards it with the other, following him, my fingers wrapped around the waistband of his pants. I push the door shut with my foot, push his back against the wall. My swollen, abused fucking mouth is on his, and he's just licking at it, running his tongue along it, tracing the outline, slick and easy, careful, somehow, in this chaos, not to hurt me.
His hands push my button apart in one smooth movement, and he pulls either side of my fly, forcing the zipper down. I groan into his lips as he slides his hand over my chest, my belly, working my shirt buttons as he goes. The last one fights back, and he just yanks it apart. I shrug it off, kick it away.
He hooks his thumbs through my belt loops and tugs my jeans down over my hips, slides them over my ass. I step out of them, greedily pushing my boxers down with them with one of my hands. The other one has his bicep in a bruising grip, like I'm holding on for my life, and maybe I am. My breath is hard. It's rattling my ribs.
I am bare and undone. I push my cock against his, slide it over the fabric of his pajamas. My mouth is on his chin. I bite it a little. I can't help it. I can feel the pulse in him as I slip my hand underneath and feel him hard, hot, aching underneath. His hands reach behind me, squeeze my ass hard, pull me up belly-to-belly with him.
I don't want anything between us anymore. I yank his pants hard towards the floor, press my face into his body, follow them all the way down, leave a trail with my tongue. He steps up out of them. I feel his knees shake against my arm. I'm kneeling now. His hands are in my hair; he is gripping it, making little noises that I want to swallow, trap inside my chest, and feel echoing there forever. Noises that I want to make into a song.
His cock is against my cheek. I run one hand up, press it there, pause. I've never done this before. He knows it. He starts stroking my hair, raking the damp strands away from my face with his thumb. Though I know what he wants, know how fucking bad he wants it, he's gentle with me. "Slow, it's okay. It's all right. If you get scared, stop."
Scared. That does it. My mouth gapes, my head jerks back a little, a reaction to being somehow fucking babied, coddled, fucking loved as I'm kneeling in front of him, and instead of crying out the way I want to, I take him in my mouth. I'm not scared. I take the entire thing at once, wrapping my fist around it, sliding over him with my lips. I close my eyes. He's still, not moving, not forcing anything. I take him all the way in, all the way into the back of my throat, then back out. I'm careful with my teeth. I can feel the tension in his hand, holding the back of my head. I feel what he wants to do. I don't know how he's resisting it, that pull. I never can. I run my tongue in slow circles over the head of his cock, take just that part between my lips, kiss it.
I run my hands up to his thighs, pull them towards me. He slips past my lips, back into my mouth. I release him again, urge him again with my hands. He's still resisting, still being a fucking gentleman. My voice is thick, running over with emotion. "Just do it," I tell him. "You won't hurt me."
His hand tightens in my hair. I'm licking the underside of his cock, slow. "Do what?" he groans.
"Fuck my mouth," I say, vaguely aware that those words have never, ever crossed my lips. They don't sound so wrong there. "Do it. Fuck my mouth. Cum inside it." I kiss him again, taste salt. He makes some unintelligible sound as I open up for him, slide him inside. I reach up, pull him towards me again, and he finally lets go, rocking into me, finding a rhythm there. I let my mouth relax, get used to it, enjoy it. I close my eyes. I have one hand gripping his cock, and my other hand slides down my body, finds mine. It's throbbing, aching, beating with my heart.
He moves faster. He's pulling on my hair now, hard. This is the only thing that hurts, and it's a good hurt, it's fucking fantastic, it feels so good that I start to moan along with him, and his whole body is starting to quake, pull itself tight. I only have a second to wonder what it's going to taste like before I find out. It's warm. It's perfect. It tastes like the ocean. I swallow, and I keep swallowing until it's gone, and I think I'm going to explode, and then he's down on his knees with me, pushing me back towards the floor, and I'm about to cum all over his belly when he presses it against me, but I clench my muscles, pull back, don't let myself.
But I only last a second longer, long enough for him to lick once up my entire length, flick his tongue across the head of my cock. And that's it, that's all I can take, and then I'm a disaster, laying flat on my back, making a mess out of myself again, and him, as he leans down into me, lets me let everything go across his chest. Something like a sob wrenches itself from my guts as I grip what is probably my shirt, or his pants, or something underneath me; loud, primal, strange, full up with things I can't name.
He sits up and pulls me to him, practically has to peel me off the floor. I crawl into his lap, feeling very small. Very, very small. He strokes my back. He rocks me a little bit. The muscles in his arms are trembling, but he doesn't let me go.
Author: l3petitemort
Rating NC-17
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Disclaimer: Not my boys, not my girl, not anything but my utterly filthy imagination.
Summary: Kris is not impressed with being left alone.
Author's Note: This scene would not leave me alone all day long. I had to write it. *wiggles eyebrows suggestively* It probably needs some work. I have no beta, so I'll come back for a typo/grammar check later. In the meantime, here it is.
I am grateful for rehearsals. Everyone is consumed by their own work, singing quietly to themselves, or to one another in the corner, or to any number of people sent to make sure we don't make public jerkoffs of ourselves. We are less interested in each other than we are at any other time, and I think, Maybe God doesn't hate me, after all. The thought makes me shake my head to myself, puffing air out of my nose.
I explain away my absence this morning, explain away my angry-looking mouth, blame some bad takeout the night before, say I caught my face on the doorjamb, stumbling through the dark to throw up. "I think I had a fever or something; couldn't even walk straight." Adam catches my word choice and looks sharply my way. There is mischief playing at the corners of his eyes. I meet them for a second then lower my lashes before the blush reaches my ears.
Allison is a watcher. She picks up the brief exchange, raises her eyebrows, but stays mercifully quiet, except to ask me if I'm feeling better this morning. "Much," I assure her. "Just kinda tired." I'm lying, but only a little. She nods. She doesn't believe me.
I am vaguely surprised when I'm able to focus on the music. Holding my guitar, shutting my eyes, just letting it fall out of me gives me a palpable sense of relief. It's grounding; it's the one thing here that hasn't gone completely batshit crazy on me; it's, I remind myself, why I'm here in the first place. It feels good. I don't want to stop. So I don't.
I stay through lunch, alone, feeling the hum of my guitar against my hipbone, the curve across my thigh. It's as familiar to me as my own body. Adam brings me back a sandwich. "I get room service now, eh?" I ask him. "I guess certain things have their perks." I startle myself with my own ease, my own sudden irreverance.
The lines in his face relax. It's the first time I really notice the tension he'd been carrying. He swats the back of my head and laughs. His hand lingers just a second too long, comes up through my hair instead of straight back, and my fingers get suddenly clumsy. I miss the chord I was aiming for, and he looks at me, his gaze so soft I can almost feel it on my skin. Something rises up in my throat, and I have to look away. I can only manage half the sandwich.
It gets late, and we're allowed to leave for dinner, for the night, but I don't. I head down to the basement. I'm not hungry. I just want to play, want to be soothed, want to sing, not talk. Between Scott and Matt, I am almost never alone with the pianos, but tonight, I am, at least for an hour or so. Curfew is ten, since it's Monday, so everybody might stay out while they can. Curfew. Can you fucking believe it? Grown-ass men. But tonight, I don't mind. Tonight, I don't want voices.
I'm so lost in myself that I don't notice Allison until she's on the bench next to me and her leg against mine brings me back to reality.
"Kris Allen," she says, conversationally. I notice a bowl of soup sitting on the piano.
"Allison the Great," I nod. That's what I call her. The whole Sarver thing.
"Adam sent me down here. With that," she points at the soup. "Why are you having all of your meals delivered today, hm?"
"Ask Adam," I shrug. I wince. "No. Nevermind. Don't. I'm just practicing. Nerves, you know? I'm not feeling good about this one, for some reason, and then being sick all last night..."
"You lie, dear boy. You lie. Poorly, at that." She looks at me, searching. Behind her eyes, she looks like she's taking measurements, adding numbers, recording data. This little girl is making me more nervous right now than Simon fucking Cowell.
I don't want to lie anymore to her, so I say nothing. She's still working me over in her mind. She grabs a package of crackers out of her pocket and smashes them in her hand. Opening them and dumping the crumbs into my soup, she says, "Whatever this is, don't let it turn you into a total dickhead." She beams at me. I can't help smiling. I ruffle her ridiculous hair.
"Never," I tell her. "And thanks for dinner. Tell Adam thanks, too, for me?"
She stands. She bows. "Of course, monsiuer. At your service."
"Shut up," I laugh.
"Hey, you'll have staff when you win this thing," she says, mock seriously, arching her eyebrows. "Practice, you know?" She skips away, balling up the cracker package and tossing it over her shoulder as she reaches the stairs and disappears.
I think she must be my bodyguard tonight, because the clock hands creep around and around, and nobody comes to interrupt me, and suddenly it's eleven. It cannot be healthy to be spending this much time by myself, I think. I picture Adam upstairs. He's always in bed early on Mondays, blowing kisses to the living room before he goes up to read, unwind, pretend to sleep. He gets very little actual sleep, Monday night or otherwise, but he does make an effort. With this image in my head, I feel a little better -- a little healthier, anyway -- about being down here alone.
I've beaten this song and about five hundred other ones to death, and I am tired down to my bones. I'm not ready to go upstairs yet, though. I feel like Gokey might be milling around, ready for a pre-performance prayer circle or something, and that is not on my Shit-I-Need-Right-Now list. God and I aren't currently speaking.
I let my body sink into the couch down here, and it sinks deeply. I shut my eyes against the harsh lights. I let my fingers tap across my legs like piano keys, crawl across my belly like guitar strings, hear melodies I recognize, melodies I don't, playing in my head.
I'm in the middle of a nightmare, one I can't remember, but one that has my veins bulging out of my neck and my heart racing, when Adam's hand wakes me. I know it's his before I even open my eyes. I'm strangely oriented, the terror draining out of me almost immediately, when he shakes my knee.
"Jesus Fuck, Kris," he says, leaning down close. "I thought you were having a fucking seizure or something." His blue eyes are drawn close; the lines in his forehead are back. "I've been all over this house looking for you." His hand is still on my knee. My breathing is still erratic, but I'm not scared. Not exactly. Maybe a little.
He is bare-chested, bare-footed, the way he always sleeps. His hair is around his face at odd angles. No makeup, all freckles. His black pajama bottoms are slung low; the tops of his hipbones are peeking out of them, just barely. I am suddenly wide, wide, wide awake.
"Shit, man, I'm sorry. I fell asleep down here. What time is it?"
"Past midnight," he answers. "I wouldn't bother you, except tomorrow's kind of a big deal, you know? I wanted to make sure you were okay. Thought you might want your bed." His eyes remind me of Allison's: busy scanning my face, looking for something, trying to solve the equation of my eyes.
"Yeah, yeah. Thanks." His hand still hasn't moved. I can feel it warm through my jeans. His grip has actually gotten tighter. The warmth is starting to radiate, touching the insides of my thighs. I feel the muscles there jerk ever so slightly. I wonder if he feels them. When he picks up his hand, I realize that he must. He reaches out for mine, and I curl it around his wrist, let him help me to my feet.
"You're a hot mess," he grins, looking me up and down. He's right. My shirt is rumpled, one button undone. My sneakers are still on, but one is untied. My jeans are twisted, and they suddenly feel just a little too tight. I watch him as he notices why. He worries his lip a little, shuts his eyes for just a hair longer than a blink, then snaps them back to my face, drops my hand when he's sure I'm steady.
He follows me up the stairs. I am acutely aware of his presence behind me. He's throwing so much heat tonight that I wonder if maybe he's caught my stomach bug. The thought makes me laugh to myself. He's being very careful not to touch me, and his obvious avoidance makes me more than a little uneasy. It's so... un-Adam. When I get to the top of the stairs, I deliberately step against the doorframe so he'll stumble into me.
His whole left side brushes my back, my ass, my leg. I feel his erection through his pants, through my jeans. He quickly sidesteps around me and pushes the door wider. I now have the fucking hard-on of my life. It's truly epic. I actually think, for a second, I'm going to lose my fucking button; it's going to go snapping off my pants and break a fucking vase or something. Something else that will be fun to explain.
Every time I step, my zipper rubs against my cock, and I'm starting to feel just a little antsy, a little wired. I'm irritated that he's not speaking, not guiding my shoulder around corners like he does. I'm irritated that he didn't bring my dinner down himself, that he sent Allison to try to talk to me. I'm confused by his sudden discomfort with me, the way he's treating me so fucking delicately. He does nothing delicately. He sure as fuck wasn't delicate with me last night. This morning.
And I'm for sure a hot mess now, and as we're climbing the stairs to the bedroom, I make up my mind.
At the top, I nudge him in front of me. He reaches for the door. His hand touches the knob, and I reach out into the darkness, catch it where it sits, ready to turn, and stop him where he stands. Before he can look at me with a hundred fucking questions in his eyes -- eyes that I can't see -- I shove my hip against his thigh, push him against the doorframe, throw my own thigh between his legs. The bedroom door rattles.
I know he's going to say something, and I just want to shut him up; I don't want to hear it; I don't want to know why he's acting like this. And I sure as shit don't want to hear him ask me what's wrong. Before he can catch his breath to "What the fuck?!" me, I have his face in my hands, pushing his whole head back, his chin up.
I grind my hips up against him, feel him grow bigger, harder against my leg. I keep pushing. I feel like I'm trying to push into him, under his skin, get inside. My hands are covering his ears. They're hot. His entire body is a thousand degrees. I press my mouth into the hollow at the bottom of his throat, open up my lips. My tongue finds his pulse there, steady, thrumming with blood. I lick at it, push against it, suck. I want to pull it into myself, like I'm starving. It's pounding, stuttering, wild. He rocks his hips forward, stroking up my leg. I hear his voice, strained and heady and bordering on obscene, "You're fucking killing me, Arkansas."
His hands come up through mine and grab my head roughly, yanking it back. We are standing face to face, holding each other's heads in the darkess. I feel him staring at me, feel the heat in his cheeks, his eyes. I feel his chest, wet hot against my elbow. "You don't know what the fuck you're doing."
He's whispering. It sounds harsh. I don't like it. I want him to shut up. The button of my jeans is pulling tight, digging into his hip, which has come riding out of the elastic of his pants. He won't stop. He brings his forehead down against the top of my head, his hands lock behind it, just above my neck. "You better be able to handle this. You better not pull anymore shit. I can't fucking take it. I can't fucking take it, watching you fucking implode. That's what you're doing; that's where this is going, and if you can't fucking handle it, you better stop this right fucking now." His voice is urgent, desperate. It sounds like he's holding back tears and holding back his fucking orgasm at the same time. I want to crack him open, let everything come.
And I can't handle it. I know that. I hear him. But I also can't stop it, there's no way I can stop it now, and I don't think he can, either, so instead of answering, I open the bedroom door with one hand and shove him towards it with the other, following him, my fingers wrapped around the waistband of his pants. I push the door shut with my foot, push his back against the wall. My swollen, abused fucking mouth is on his, and he's just licking at it, running his tongue along it, tracing the outline, slick and easy, careful, somehow, in this chaos, not to hurt me.
His hands push my button apart in one smooth movement, and he pulls either side of my fly, forcing the zipper down. I groan into his lips as he slides his hand over my chest, my belly, working my shirt buttons as he goes. The last one fights back, and he just yanks it apart. I shrug it off, kick it away.
He hooks his thumbs through my belt loops and tugs my jeans down over my hips, slides them over my ass. I step out of them, greedily pushing my boxers down with them with one of my hands. The other one has his bicep in a bruising grip, like I'm holding on for my life, and maybe I am. My breath is hard. It's rattling my ribs.
I am bare and undone. I push my cock against his, slide it over the fabric of his pajamas. My mouth is on his chin. I bite it a little. I can't help it. I can feel the pulse in him as I slip my hand underneath and feel him hard, hot, aching underneath. His hands reach behind me, squeeze my ass hard, pull me up belly-to-belly with him.
I don't want anything between us anymore. I yank his pants hard towards the floor, press my face into his body, follow them all the way down, leave a trail with my tongue. He steps up out of them. I feel his knees shake against my arm. I'm kneeling now. His hands are in my hair; he is gripping it, making little noises that I want to swallow, trap inside my chest, and feel echoing there forever. Noises that I want to make into a song.
His cock is against my cheek. I run one hand up, press it there, pause. I've never done this before. He knows it. He starts stroking my hair, raking the damp strands away from my face with his thumb. Though I know what he wants, know how fucking bad he wants it, he's gentle with me. "Slow, it's okay. It's all right. If you get scared, stop."
Scared. That does it. My mouth gapes, my head jerks back a little, a reaction to being somehow fucking babied, coddled, fucking loved as I'm kneeling in front of him, and instead of crying out the way I want to, I take him in my mouth. I'm not scared. I take the entire thing at once, wrapping my fist around it, sliding over him with my lips. I close my eyes. He's still, not moving, not forcing anything. I take him all the way in, all the way into the back of my throat, then back out. I'm careful with my teeth. I can feel the tension in his hand, holding the back of my head. I feel what he wants to do. I don't know how he's resisting it, that pull. I never can. I run my tongue in slow circles over the head of his cock, take just that part between my lips, kiss it.
I run my hands up to his thighs, pull them towards me. He slips past my lips, back into my mouth. I release him again, urge him again with my hands. He's still resisting, still being a fucking gentleman. My voice is thick, running over with emotion. "Just do it," I tell him. "You won't hurt me."
His hand tightens in my hair. I'm licking the underside of his cock, slow. "Do what?" he groans.
"Fuck my mouth," I say, vaguely aware that those words have never, ever crossed my lips. They don't sound so wrong there. "Do it. Fuck my mouth. Cum inside it." I kiss him again, taste salt. He makes some unintelligible sound as I open up for him, slide him inside. I reach up, pull him towards me again, and he finally lets go, rocking into me, finding a rhythm there. I let my mouth relax, get used to it, enjoy it. I close my eyes. I have one hand gripping his cock, and my other hand slides down my body, finds mine. It's throbbing, aching, beating with my heart.
He moves faster. He's pulling on my hair now, hard. This is the only thing that hurts, and it's a good hurt, it's fucking fantastic, it feels so good that I start to moan along with him, and his whole body is starting to quake, pull itself tight. I only have a second to wonder what it's going to taste like before I find out. It's warm. It's perfect. It tastes like the ocean. I swallow, and I keep swallowing until it's gone, and I think I'm going to explode, and then he's down on his knees with me, pushing me back towards the floor, and I'm about to cum all over his belly when he presses it against me, but I clench my muscles, pull back, don't let myself.
But I only last a second longer, long enough for him to lick once up my entire length, flick his tongue across the head of my cock. And that's it, that's all I can take, and then I'm a disaster, laying flat on my back, making a mess out of myself again, and him, as he leans down into me, lets me let everything go across his chest. Something like a sob wrenches itself from my guts as I grip what is probably my shirt, or his pants, or something underneath me; loud, primal, strange, full up with things I can't name.
He sits up and pulls me to him, practically has to peel me off the floor. I crawl into his lap, feeling very small. Very, very small. He strokes my back. He rocks me a little bit. The muscles in his arms are trembling, but he doesn't let me go.