He moaned and surged to his feet. He got his dick out of his pants like he’d been trained to do it, like those military guys you see in movies, dismantling guns, every small motion keyed to the utmost efficiency.
He pushed into me bare. Even in my lust haze, I caught that right away.
“I’m not on the pill,” I gasped.
He knew that, dammit, and I couldn’t stand the thought of him pulling out long enough to wrap up.
“I know,” he groaned out, already moving inside of me, rutting mindlessly like he just didn’t care. “God, Lourdes. I missed you.”
That, and the big erection banging me against the wall had me distracted enough to almost let it go. Almost.
I pushed against his scarred shoulders in a last ditch effort, and that got his attention, as I knew it would.
“What . . . ?” he asked, hips still surging at me, the part of him that just couldn’t stop was not stopping for even a second.
“Don’t you have any condoms?”
His face screwed up in what could only be called agony. “Fuck me, I don’t. I’m not even supposed to be here.”
I wanted to cry. And he kept moving all the while.
“I’ll pull out, okay?” he rasped into my ear, still rocking into me.
I did some very bad math in my head, expedient math that’s sole purpose was to get us both off in a hurry.
Believe me, I know.
“We should be fine,” I gasped. “I don’t think it’s the right time of month, so we should be fine.” As if I said ‘we should be fine’ enough we would be?
And the rational me knew damn well that I had never been regular enough to rely on math like that.
Rational me was gone while hedonist me was getting her world rocked.
Pure idiocy. I know, I know.
“Thank God,” he growled, ramming into me faster, harder. “Fucking miracle, that.”
I really thought the timing worked in our favor. I really, really did but that being said, when I’d told him that, I’d still been thinking he’d pull out. Just to be safe, that extra bit of insurance that was by no means a guarantee, but still better than not pulling out.
I came first. Of course I did. He’d pound me all night before he let himself go before me.
He gripped both of my wrists and started kissing me on the mouth like he wanted to eat me alive as he let himself go.
He was buried to the fucking hilt when his cock started jerking out its release inside of me.
Even with my brain still lust fuzzy from orgasm, I felt jolted back to alertness when I realized what was happening inside of me.
“Pull out,” I moaned into his mouth.
He started to, genuinely gave it a try, I thought, but about halfway out, he shoved back in deep and held himself there, rooting inside of me.
Like he just couldn’t help himself.
This was one of many, many reasons why the pull out method was a terrible form of birth control. Oh yeah, that, and the fact that it really didn’t work, just felt a lot more safe than him shooting his whole load inside of me, as opposed to say, smaller amounts of pre-cum.
“Heath,” I tried to make my tone plaintive, but it came out breathy and pleading. Even I couldn’t tell if I sounded more like I wanted him to pull out or stay inside.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he muttered, but he still didn’t pull out, instead jolting inside of me.
And, God, I was just as bad, still clenching around him, milking out every drop, not putting my foot down, not making him stop.
And then he said a thing that thrilled and terrified me, and I couldn’t have said which reaction was stronger.
“Do you want to have any more kids, or are you done for good?”
I’d never (not for one second) ever even considered this. My boys were grown. That was it. I probably could have more. I was in perfect health. I’d just never thought of it.
And what the hell did it mean that he was asking me this? I was scared to even contemplate it. Scared to hope for any possibility.
“I’ve never thought about it,” I said honestly. “Why do you ask?”
He shook his head, a short jerk of a motion, as though he was making himself stay quiet on the subject.
But it didn’t work. Miracle of miracles, he couldn’t keep himself quiet.
He pressed his forehead to mine, still shamelessly inside of me, still pinning me to the wall. “If somehow you did get pregnant, I just want you to know, and I understand and respect that it’s your choice, but if you were to wonder what I want, just know that I’d want you to keep it. Us to keep it. Even if the timing is horrible, and I’m off working. Even if you don’t see me for a long time. That’s what I would want. No question.”
Holy shit. I had no clue what to do with that. Whether to be happy or horrified.
“Good to know,” I finally said.
Lame, I know.
I just never thought I’d get pregnant.
When he finally pulled out of me, he didn’t go far, sprawling right there on the floor, on his back.
He reached up, grabbed both of my hands, and pulled me to straddle him.
I knew what this was. He was giving me something of himself. Doing something that was uncommon for him. Allowing himself to be vulnerable. For me.
“Can I . . . ?”
He swallowed hard and nodded, putting my hands on his chest. “Yes. Touch me. I need your touch. It’s helping. The more you do it, the better I feel. Just . . . go slow. Not too much at a time.”
A feeling of pure, unadulterated tenderness shook through me.
It was kind of sick, but I couldn’t even decide if this need I felt to soothe him, to mend him was maternal in nature. Maternal, or else maybe that other intangible woman feeling we all have, the, oh this man is broken, let me fix him urge, because when I fix him, he’ll be mine.
Maybe it was an unwholesome combination of the two. I honestly didn’t care. He was covered on the outside by scars, but inside were the real wounds, the deep ones, and all that mattered was that I needed to help him heal every part that pained him.
I traced my fingers over the scars on his chest carefully, circling my hips on top of him, rubbing our spent sexes together until he stirred again, grew hard and huge again. I was so slick and ready, so keyed to every inch of him that it took no effort at all, no guiding hand, no careful shifting. I thrust my hips and sucked him back inside of me, where he belonged. It was beautiful.
I stopped touching his chest when I took him in, knowing it would alarm him. Too soon.
Instead, I grabbed both of his hands, cupping them over my aching breasts as I started to move.
He cursed. He praised. My stoic man even begged for it as I rode him hard.
I gave it my best, used every toned muscle in my body to rock his world. This was where all of my hard work at the gym paid off, where I finally got to show him that he wasn’t the only one with some spectacular moves in bed.
And then it happened again.
I let him empty himself inside of me. Again.
I guess at that point we were both just kind of thinking, ah well, damage is done, might as well enjoy the rest of the night like this.
Because, God, it was beyond divine.
He snaked a hand down between our sweaty bodies, gripping himself at the root, twisting his hand, rubbing against us both where we still joined.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “Fucking bare inside of you. I can’t take it. You don’t even know. We’re both going to be raw before I’m done with you this time.”
He wasn’t exaggerating. By morning we were both sore and aching.
And the entire night, all the times he came, he never pulled out.
He was back two nights later, as desperate and needy as the last time.
“I didn’t expect you back so soon,” I gasped when we came up for air.
It was strange with how little I still knew of him how much peace I had made with our situation. Somehow, with him being mostly gone, I’d wrapped it all up and tied it with a nice pretty bow of justifications.
So many excuses that made our age difference, his lack of forthrightness, his random coming and going somehow okay in my mind.
I was good at talking myself into the most romantic explanations.
It was a talent, really.
Well, yes, he was young, and yes, of course, he was quite a bit younger than, say, me, but what toll did it take on a person to see the things he’d seen? To withstand the things he’d withstood? To do the things he’d done?
Yes, quite a toll, I could see. In every line of his tense, readied body, every word out of his cold, hard voice, in every thought in his fractured, paranoid mind, laid that toll.
What did years matter when held up to that?
Not a lot, indeed. Tragic as it was, violence had aged him more profoundly than years would ever touch the average human.
And, after all of that, who was I to push him? Of course he’d have secrets, but he could reveal them to me at his own damaged pace.
I’m a patient woman, I reasoned to myself.