Hot Damn(29)
In addition, there’s a certain amount of unruly drunkenness developing in corners of the party. These get-togethers don’t usually get out of hand, but there are a few new people tonight, and I don’t know if they all have the sense to behave around the kids once they get a couple of drinks into them.
One of the noobs has started a game of beer pong in the back of the room—not something we usually do, but the shop owner hasn’t said anything to the participants. It’s getting noisy back there, though.
Just as I’m about to say something to Jesse about it, the new guy starts yelling. He swipes the plastic cups of beer off the end of the table, sending beer everywhere. Some of it splashes on the kids, who are again playing quietly with their blocks. Christopher looks up. At first he seems amused at the liquid falling from the sky, but then he sees the angry man yelling and cursing, and his face crumples up. Around the beer-pong table, people are staring and glancing back and forth as if they’re not sure what to do.
“All right, that’s enough.” Jesse has moved so fast I didn’t even realize he was planning to intervene. He grabs the noob—dressed, appropriately enough, as the Joker—and escorts him toward the door. “You need to go, my clown-faced archrival.”
There’s some laughter, and people start to relax.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” noob-guy says, struggling in Jesse’s grasp. But he’s no match for Jesse, who I assume has manhandled hysterical people out of fires, so this is no big deal.
“There are kids in the room. Watch your language.”
“Fuck you! Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Jesse maneuvers the guy to the door, opens it, and pushes him out. “Dude. I’m Batman.”
There’s a round of applause. Jesse turns and brushes his hands together then heads toward the back of the room to help clean up the beer.
Billie, who’s been watching things play out, leans toward me. “Holy shit, girl. That is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen anybody do in person.”
I can’t argue with her on that one. I’m all atingle, and everything that has any sense in my brain—everything that’s been telling me I need to emotionally disentangle myself from this guy before things get difficult—can’t think of anything but peeling the Batman costume off my fake boyfriend and having my filthy way with him.
Holy shit, indeed.
We leave not long after that. Christopher’s getting tired, and it’s far past his bedtime. We make our rounds of good-byes, and the owner thanks Jesse for dealing with the beer-pong catastrophe, as he terms it.
We’re quiet on the way home, but it’s a comfortable quiet. I’m trying not to disturb Christopher too much, since he’s dozing off in his car seat. Jesse looks content, and keeps glancing in my direction.
When we get back to my apartment, I ease Christopher out of his car seat and carry him carefully up the stairs. He’s out like a rock. I’m not sure I could wake him up at this point if I tried, but I don’t want to take any risks.
He mumbles a little as I slide him into bed, leaving his costume on him except for the cape and mask. “Batman,” he says, eyes not really open.
You got that right, kid. I tuck him in, kiss him on the forehead, and go back into the living room to deal with Batman.
I’m a little surprised he hasn’t taken the costume off, especially since the clothes he changed out of are still lying over the back of the couch. But as I come into the room, he pulls the cowl and mask back up over his head. “It’s time for us to talk about that Batman-Catwoman thing.”
Moment of truth. I told myself this wasn’t going to happen again, that I need to keep my distance before things get weird. But looking at him in that costume, watching him take care of Christopher and escort Mr. Beer Pong out the door… It’s already gotten weird. In a way I’m really, really into.
“What do you want to know?” I ask, pretending I have no idea what he’s actually talking about. “There are a few different storylines, after all. You know how comic books are. They keep rebooting the canon.”
He takes a step closer, his eyes smoldering. “I want to jump to the part where they fuck.”
I manage a gasp before he kisses me, hard and intense, and picks me up off the floor so I have to wrap my legs around his waist. At a guess, I’d say he’s not really interested in exploring the complex layers of Batman canon. He just wants to jump my bones.
Which is just fine with me.
He’s so hard, and so hot, the bulge in the Lycra between his legs filling both my hands. The costume looks awesome, but I probably should have thought about the logistics of getting out of it before I got it. Same for mine—I’m getting hotter and wetter by the second, and everything feels tight and clinging. I ache between my legs, both from the intense arousal and the press of the fabric against my swollen clit.
I’ve got to get Jesse out of his costume—or at least partially out—or I swear I’m going to explode. It’s easy enough to get the zippers down, but from there… I pull at Jesse’s tight black Lycra, trying to peel it over his shoulders. He’s focusing elsewhere, his mouth on mine, hands cupping my ass while he holds me up against him. His hips move between my legs, his erection stroking across my pussy through the thin fabric. There’s no way I’m going to get us skin-to-skin if he doesn’t back off for a few seconds. But I don’t want him to back off. I want him to keep doing what he’s doing and get right the hell inside me as fast as possible.
“Shit,” I say fervently. “Why did I get these damn costumes?” I jerk at his waist, thinking maybe I can just get the lower half of the costume out of the way, but even that isn’t going too well.
“Because it’s hot as fuck,” he says, then adds, “Catwoman.”
Abandoning the fruitless efforts to undress him—just for a second—I make a meowing noise and claw playfully at his face. He chuckles and tosses me down onto the couch. Before I can say anything else, he’s on top of me, pinning me to the cushions, his mouth on me. He’s not laughing anymore. Finally we’re on the same page, and he’s dragging at the lower half of my costume, pulling at the waistband. I knew there was a reason I opted for the two-piece version instead of the unitard.
The very thought that he’s so hot for me sends a shudder of arousal through me. His hands are rough on my costume—so rough I’m afraid he’s going to tear it right off me. Good thing it’s not rented.
A second later I realize I wouldn’t care anyway. All I want is to get my hands on his cock, and for him to get his hands on my pussy, and for the two to meet and make some seriously filthy sex. The outcome for the costumes is the last thing on my mind at the moment.
His fingers dig into my ass, pulling down the Lycra a bit at a time, until his blunt nails are digging into my skin. I pull at his costume at the same time, feeling the outline of his cock through the thin, tight fabric—so tight I can feel the textures of his hair even though he’s still clothed. I manage to get the material down far enough that I can swipe my thumb over the sticky head of his cock. He makes a throaty groan.
“Over,” he says.
I have no idea what he means, but then he grabs me by the hips and, in a quick motion, flips me onto my stomach. He moves me around like I weigh nothing at all, and that show of strength makes my pussy flutter and ache. I want him inside me.
He jerks the Lycra down to bare my ass, and a second later he’s got a finger inside me. Clenching my teeth, I press my face into a stray pillow on the couch. He shifts behind me, the couch cushions moving in a surf-like wave. While one finger, then two, drive in and out of me, he slaps my ass with his free hand.
God. I have no idea why that feels so good, that sharp burn and sting across the width of my ass, but it does. I can feel every line where his fingers strike me—his hand is big enough to leave a bright pain all the way across my butt cheek. It makes me long for the mirror we fucked in front of before, so I could see the rising pink on my skin. I fold the pillow over my face, eyes clenched shut, just picturing that as he hits me again. It’s not hard, but it’s just hard enough. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Still finger-fucking me, he strokes the place where he spanked me so I can feel the burn again, but lighter, more delicate. I moan into the pillow, muffling the sound as best I can.
His fingers slide free then a moment later his hard cock presses against me. He swats my ass again, this time lightly. “Now,” he says. I open my legs a little, and he slides in on a moan.
God, it feels good. He’s so thick, and when he’s all the way in, it almost hurts. I squeeze down on him as he draws back, the friction sending heat like a spear into my belly. When he shoves in again, it’s still tight, and the sharp edge between pleasure and pain is exactly what I’m looking for. My hands dig hard into the pillow, still using it to control my urges to just scream out his name, scream out for him to fuck me harder, faster, deeper. More.
He seems to be taking it easier than I’d like, though, and we can’t have that. I push back onto him. “Faster,” I tell him. “Harder. It’s okay.”