Page 35 of Forked (Frenched 2)
He lifted his mouth from mine. “Turn around and spread your legs.”
I turned around and he slid my boy shorts to my ankles. I wore nothing under them. Leaning forward, I braced myself against the counter and opened my feet wider, rising up on tiptoe. Expecting to feel his cock between my thighs, I was surprised by cool batter against my hot skin. He spread it on my ass and licked it off, making me giggle and moan in delicious agony. He rubbed it along the backs of my legs and knelt between them to eat it off, his fingers and mouth and tongue teasing and tantalizing me, inside and out.
Closing my eyes, I moved against him, torn between wanting to come just like this and wanting to feel him pounding into me from behind.
My body decided for me, growing hotter and tighter as I spiraled higher. “Nick,” I gasped, collapsing forward onto my elbows as colors danced behind my eyelids. He moaned, pushing his fingers deeper, and I came so hard I felt it in every muscle, every inch of my body reverberating with pleasure. My legs weakened, and it felt like he was holding me up with one hand and his tongue.
“God, you’re so wet. And I love your ass.” His breath was hot between my legs, his fingers gliding in and out of me. “I want to fuck you like this.”
“Do it,” I begged.
He got to his feet and I heard the glorious sounds of a belt coming undone, jeans being unzipped. Then he stopped.
“Fuck, I don’t have a— “
“I don’t care. I’m on the pill. Just do it.” I arched my back and looked back over my shoulder, hoping my body looked irresistible. “Please.”
He placed the tip of his cock at my entrance, sliding it in just enough to torture me. “Please what?”
“Please fuck me.” I tried to push back against him, make him give me more.
But he held me steady, using his hands on my hips to hold me where he wanted me. “I love the way that sounds coming out of your mouth,” he said, pushing deeper. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say it before.”
I smiled, exhaling with relief as he glided in and out. “I guess I was too shy to tell you what I wanted back then. Or maybe I didn’t know yet.”
“So tell me now.”
I looked back. “Fuck me. And don’t be gentle.”
He began to move my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh as he jerked me back onto his cock. “I was always so scared to be rough with you,” he said, the strain in his voice telling me how he struggled to keep control. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” But each time he hit the deepest spot within me, I felt a sharp little twinge, and once or twice it was enough to make me gasp.
“Good. Because ever since I saw you today, I’ve been thinking about fucking you just like this.” He reached up and tore the elastic from my hair before fisting a hand in it and pulling so hard I cried out. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said through clenched teeth, his hips driving forward now in powerful thrusts that made my teeth clatter, “otherwise I can’t promise not to tear you apart.”
“I want you to,” I managed between hard, short breaths. “I want you to tear me apart. I want it to hurt.”
And as he cursed and groaned and fucked me so hard against his kitchen counter my skin would bruise, I was shocked to realize it was true—I wanted him to hurt me. Beyond enjoying rough sex, I wanted pain at his hands, wanted it bone-deep and razor- sharp. Wanted him to inflict damage on my body and make me feel unsafe, unsteady, unloved.
Safer that way.
Yes, I thought, gleefully, deliriously, maniacally, as he wrenched my head back. Yes, as he squeezed my breast too hard, pinched my nipple too tight. Yes, as he dropped my hair and clutched my neck, gripping hard. Yes, as his climax seized him and he groaned, pushing my hips painfully against the granite, his hand a collar around my throat. Yes, just like that. Make it hurt.
But as his breathing calmed, he released his hold on me. Bracing his arms on the outsides of mine, he kissed my spine between my shoulder blades and laid his forehead against it.
“Coco.”
I was hot and sweaty, but my arms prickled with gooseflesh. His voice was too soft, too tender. If you tell me you love me right now, I will fucking kill you. “Yes?”
“I need to tell you something.”
Oh, God. No. Please.
“Wait, Nick. Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say anything that…you might regret. This weekend will be fun, but it’s just this weekend, remember? I don’t want us to get carried away and think it means more than it does. I don’t want to
