His Gift 2(9)

Later, he’d said. Later? When I’d first met him, at the party, he said that I was to be his gift for a week. I wondered if he would get bored with me before then.

I wondered if it would be enough time.

A pinch on my asscheek made me squeal. His grinning face told me that he wasn’t about to let my thoughts go wandering off again. A swipe of his tongue brought forth another squeal. I never knew that I could sound so girly.

“You know, I’m not a very patient man,” Jake said. His tongue moved again, hot against my folds. Exploring… probing…

I moaned when he pulled back slightly. He pressed a kiss to the inside of my thigh, although it was slick with moisture. It tickled slightly and I jerked back, but his hands gripped me in a solid vise.

“I love the noises you make, sweet girl,” he said. He sucked at me then, and explosions of color burst behind my eyelids. I didn’t even know that I had closed my eyes. Immediately I thought of the canvases, of the painted wall behind me. That was how I had painted my frustration.

How would I paint this? This fury of burning pressure that had already rekindled in my body? How else but red, red and orange and gold, the color of flame? Or blue, flame’s true color, the hottest part of the spectrum. All of the colors, in fact, all except green, his eyes.

Before I met him, I never thought that green could smolder.

His hands kneaded the backs of my asscheeks, pulling my hips forward. I screamed softly as his tongue thrust into me, then retreated, then thrust again. My hands had moved down to push him away, but now my fingers threaded his hair and pulled him urgently to me.

“Yes,” I whispered. I tilted my head back. The ceiling, too, was white, pure white, and just above me the green dripped like a dark growth. The paint was all over, in my hair and on my body, and I didn’t care a single bit. All I cared about was the insistent rhythm with which he thrust his tongue farther, farther inside of me.

The slickness, the press of his lips, the suction that ebbed and grew, all tore me from side to side. The room had turned hot again and I was breathing hard, my throat burning along with the rest of me.

Clenching my eyes shut, embarrassment forgotten, I screamed loud as the pressure exploded again through me, bursting like color from a brush onto a perfectly white canvas. I threw my head from side to side, clawing at his back, his hair. His tongue worked me all through the orgasm, pushing me to ever greater heights and sending me flying from the top.

Every muscle in my body had turned watery and I trembled as he leaned back, wiping his mouth on his undershirt. I nearly sobbed with pleasure. Every new climax he brought me to was higher than the last, and I could not understand how. How had he pulled these sensations from my body?

This is what I want to paint. This.

I thought it dizzily, not sure what I meant. My hands were still opening and closing against the hair on his head.

He stood up, his hands pressing first against my hips, then cupping my elbows. I stayed leaning against the wall, breathless and unable to stand. My eyes closed, I felt his lips brush the top of my hairline.

“When do you want me to fuck you?” he whispered.

The question shocked me. It was meant to shock me. I opened my eyes, swallowing. Jake grinned wolfishly.

I gathered myself for a moment. He was pushing me to the edge again, this time to the edge of my discomfort. He must know how difficult it was for me to talk. Not just because he’d taken away my breath, but because… well, I had never talked about sex before with a guy.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

I shook my head, feeling my brain slosh around in a pleasant haze.

“I don’t know,” I said again.

“Come on. How innocent are you, my Lacey?”

My Lacey. Was I his? Yes. Yes, he’d bought me. He hadn’t bought me with money, though. He bought me with his touches, strokes that sent my body whirling in a storm of pleasure and needing more. More.

He thought of me as a girl, and now he was asking me to tell him. There was no thought in my mind that I wouldn’t tell him. He would know soon enough. I’d heard about the blood, and the pain, not too bad, they said.

I couldn’t lie to him. I steadied myself as best as I could and then lifted my head, speaking as clearly, as matter-of-factly as I could.

“I’m a virgin.”

***

Jake’s eyes stormed over, and for the first time since I’d met him, his emotions showed bare and obvious on his face. One in particular.

I could see in his eyes a small flicker of fear.

“A virgin?” he asked.

His skin was taut over his forehead. Sweat darkened his white undershirt, showing the damp skin through the fabric. He looked like a wild animal coiled and ready to attack. I let myself breathe in slowly before replying.