He tasted good. Salty. Clean. I sucked hard on his fingertips and he grunted, a strangled thing deep in his chest that I felt more than heard. My cries were muffled by his hand, and I bit down lightly, scraping my teeth over his flesh, my hands bracing myself on his shoulders as his thrusts became harder and faster, more wild and uncontrolled. He bit my nipple lightly through my sweater, and I squirmed and mewled around his hand, my legs locking high and tight around his waist. Any second I felt like I was going to fall, but each time I felt myself slipping his thrusting hips caught me and pushed me back up, filling me up far better than I had ever been filled before.
Our gasps echoed in the empty alleyway, the sound of the soles of Malcolm's fine shoes scraping over the gritty cobblestones with each rock of his hips loud against the silence. Around his pumping cock, I felt my body curl up and squeeze, a powerful orgasm building fast and tight inside me. My hands found his hair, dug in, gripped him hard, and he growled around my breast and nipped me again. Sharp little sparks of pain flashed and danced across my body, and I clung to him like a woman drowning.
“Fuck,” I whispered. “Fuck me, Malcolm.”
He shuddered at the words, his hips hammering into me even faster, and suddenly we were coming together, hot and hard. Cum pumped into me and I felt my body suck it in as I came around him, quivering and tightening, milking his cock for all I was worth. My toes curled and my head banged against the wall behind me, but it was inconsequential compared to the intensity of the orgasm rocketing through me.
Malcolm's knees buckled and we staggered. Stone scrapped across my back against the fine wool of my coat, and I held my breath as the spasms of pleasure spread over my body, rippling over my limbs and sending my head spinning.
Malcolm was done before I was, and he pulled out suddenly, abruptly, leaving me to sink against the wall, a tiny trail of cum leaking from my pumping core as I struggled to stay upright. A quick kiss to the forehead and his hand was around mine, pulling me up, and then we were walking briskly down the street as I tried to keep my footing, the rubbing of my thighs over my slick, swollen pussy lips an almost unbearable sensation. My face burned against the cool night air, and I barely had enough sense to keep myself from speaking. Wherever we were going, it wasn't back to the flat.
Again we wended through the back alleys, heading down, down, down to the sea, and Malcolm's hand was hot around mine. I couldn't help but feel a little pleased by his warmth—no longer half dead, I had woken him up, given him something to feel—but as our pace picked up I realized he was nervous. The twisted streets flashed by me, and before I knew it we were on the docks, hidden inside a dark alleyway, watching the harbor.
“My boat's coming,” Malcolm said, his voice hoarse. “We'll run out to meet it. I don't think the police are watching the dock. I gave orders to the skipper before we even landed in Dubrovnik, and Dominic has arranged for him to meet us here. Don't worry, it's well stocked and provisioned, with art supplies as well as food.” He smiled. “Perhaps we will find the perfect medium for my masterpiece out on the sea.”
I could barely think straight. Slippery cum was running down my thigh, and I only had enough brain cells untouched by blazing pleasure to hope it didn't run into my high-heeled boots. That'd make things awfully squishy down there...
“I should call Felicia,” I whispered suddenly. “She's going to be worried about me.”
“No,” he said, “don't turn your phone back on. In fact, you should throw it away.”
“I need it,” I said. “I won't turn it on, but I'm taking it with me.”
In the dark, he smiled at me. “You can't cling to things forever, Sadie," Malcolm said. "All things fade."
"That's dumb. I'm not the one who's planning on killing herself, so I'm going to need it regardless. Is that some of your Buddhist wisdom?"
"Not mine, no," he said, his smile deepening, "but that doesn't make it any less true. Desire is the root of suffering, as the Buddha teaches us. Holding onto that which should be let go is the root of our suffering."
“But does the root of our suffering include a list of contacts twenty miles long that I can't possibly remember on my own?” I asked.
He laughed quietly. I heard the hum of a boat motor in the distance “It most definitely does.”
I regarded him thoughtfully as he turned and watched the harbor. The moon still shone, but wispy clouds had begun to shroud it, dimming the light. Feeble lampposts beamed out in the dark, barely touching the great, hungry blackness of the ocean. I could hardly make out his face in the dark, but the set of his jaw was pensive. A man who still desired things. He desired to board that boat. He desired to fuck me until we both couldn't walk. He was a hypocrite, and I wondered if he knew it. “Hey,” I whispered.