Drowning on dry land an.., p.4
Drowning on Dry Land: an erotic short story, p.4Megan Hart
“Hi,” he said.
One word, so simple but weighted with so much meaning. It pleased her to see that he looked hesitant. Eager, but uncertain. Bette had brought a bottle of champagne, chilling on ice, and had opened it before he got there. She lifted the flute toward him without taking a step.
“Drink?” she asked him, already pouring.
“Sure. Is this…a celebration?” He took the champagne flute from her.
Their fingers touched.
This man had once been able to get her nipples hard with no more than a look and a few murmured words. The brush of his skin on hers, even after all this time, sent an electric ripple through her. Bette didn’t bother to hide it. There was no point in pretending, not for his sake. If he believed anything had changed between them, it was only because he’d been lying to himself. Of course, he’d always been good at that.
Bette smiled. “I just like champagne.”
He looked around the room as he sipped, then at her. He set the glass down on the desk. “So. Here we are.”
“Yes,” she said. “Here we are.”
“I was surprised you asked me to meet you here. I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”
“I didn’t,” Bette told him and took another sip.
His smile faded. He was tentative again. She liked it, keeping him on edge the way he’d kept her so many times.
“…Oh. So then why did you agree to meet me here?”
“Because I didn’t want to regret not taking the chance.” She put down her own glass and moved toward him. “Because I sometimes wake up with the taste of you still lingering in my mouth. Because I miss you with a fathomless and abiding ache that is marrow deep inside me.”
She had never been the one to kiss him first. In that, she’d always waited the way she had so often with everything else. Bette was done waiting when it came to him. She stepped up to him, pushing up on her toes to get at his mouth. Her fingers curled in the front of his shirt to pull him close to her.
There was an unsteady moment where she thought he was going to push her away, but it lasted only a second or so before he groaned into her kiss. His hands moved over her body. One slid up to twist in her hair and pull it in the way he knew would make her boneless and greedy with desire.
That hadn’t changed.
“I missed you, too,” he said into her ear as his fingers inched up the hem of her skirt, seeking the tops of her stockings.
Bette pulled away from the heat of his mouth on her throat. “Of course you did.”
It wasn’t what she’d have said, before. He looked surprised. His fingertips found the bare expanse of her thighs, sliding higher to the lace of her panties. He stopped before he touched her there.
It was awkward, this position, unless they were both moving. He kept still. His gaze searched hers.
“You,” he said, “are so beautiful.”
He’d never said such a thing to her before. Hearing him actually say it aloud set her back a step. She almost faltered. Fled, before he could break her again. But it was too late, because he was kissing her and he tasted the same as he always had, of sweetness and fire and desire and the flavor filled up all her senses until her head spun.
“I don’t need you to tell me that, but you can go ahead and say it again,” Bette said. She’d taken that step back, but the desk was behind her and she had no more room to move.
He moved between her legs, nudging them open with his knee. His eyes blazed. His smile grew a little wicked in that charming way. “You. Are. So. Beautiful.”
“I know,” she whispered against his lips when he kissed her.
The fifth time he kissed her was in a parking lot, summer heat shimmering the air around them, his mouth chilled from icy water. “Touch me,” he told her, and she did. Of course she did.
The sixth time he kissed her was in a hotel hallway, two knuckles deep inside her, when he said “we could do this forever,” but instead she watched him walk away.
The seventh time he kissed her was in a dream of long hallways and red doors, and a fox, running. She opened all the doors in the corridor before she found him. It was only a dream, but she had it more than once.
Bette didn’t wait for him to pull her toward the bed. She walked there on her own, tugging open the tie at the waist of her dress and letting it open all the way up the front. She turned at the foot of the bed with a smile and shrugged off the material to let it fall onto the floor. She kicked the dress aside and put a hand on her hip. She wore a pair of silky purple panties and a matching demi-cup bra. Black thigh-high stockings, but no garter belt — those were sexy but complicated, and she wanted easy access with maximum impact. She waited for him to say something, but to her smug delight, she seemed to have knocked the words right out of him. Was there any greater satisfaction than facing a former lover after so long a time and seeing him made speechless at the sight? Bette didn’t think so, not in that moment, anyway.
When he came closer to her, though, she put out a hand flat on his chest, her arm stiff to keep him from touching her. “Not yet.”
He paused, still reaching. His fingertips skimmed her bare skin. “No?”
At her tone, he stopped. Brow furrowed. “What’s up?”
“Earn it,” Bette told him.
He frowned. “So it’s going to be like that?”
“Yes,” she breathed and curled her fingers in the front of his shirt, bending her arm to at last allow him to move up next to her. She turned her face from his kiss, though, giving her neck instead. “It’s going to be like that.”
“What do I have to do to earn it?” His mouth brushed the spot just below her ear, making her shiver. His tongue flickered. “Something like this?”
At the nip of his teeth, her nipples peaked to an aching hardness that begged for his touch. Bette turned to press her ass against his groin and swept her hair to the side so he could feast further on her neck. His hands slid over her belly, one teasing downward to stroke a fingertip between her legs before he moved them both up to cup her tits.
“Like this?” he continued, freeing her breasts from the confines of the bra and tweaking her pebble-hard nipples. One of his hands moved over her belly again, between her legs, this time beneath the lacy edge of her panties to her bare, hot flesh. He stroked her, both his hands moving in sync.
Bette arched, letting her head fall back to his shoulder. She pushed her ass harder against his cock, thick and hard through his khakis. She ground against him, rocking her hips to let the hand between her legs shift and slide. She’d meant to tease him longer. Maybe even make him beg, but oh, fuck, this…this was too good not to give in to.
The clitoris was the devil’s doorbell, and Bette was more than ready to answer its ring.
“I missed you,” he said into her ear. His fingers circled her clit, then down to dip inside her slickness. Up again, pressing and stroking while the other tugged first one, then the other nipple in perfect, aching rhythm. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. It didn’t matter where I was, or what I was doing, no matter how long it had been since we were together, somehow it always came back to you.”
She hated him for saying that, almost as much as for telling her she was beautiful. “Shut up.”
His hiss of surprise turned her to face him.
“I don’t believe a word that comes out of your fucking mouth,” Bette told him, even as she kissed him. Even as their tongues stroked and tangled and she let him bruise her lips from the force of his desire. With his fingers still fucking into her, his other hand now digging into her hair, she said, “So shut up and fuck me. That’s all this is. Nothing else.”
She pushed him back a step, fiercely enough to make him stumble. Both of them breathing hard, they squared off. When he reached for her again, she knocked his hand aside.
“Take off your clothes.” Bette stepped backwards, finding the chair by the window. She
He was already tugging at the buttons of his shirt, opening them with his gaze locked on hers. “Yeah? You want this?”
“Naked,” she repeated coolly.
He faltered for half a second, but rallied. He took the time to hang his shirt over the edge of the desk chair. His pants, too, neat and tidy the way he’d always been. His socks, next, shucking them off to face her and then stand tall in only a pair of snug fitting boxer briefs that emphasized his erection. He turned in a circle, looking over his shoulder at her before making it all the way around to face her again. He stroked a hand over his bulging cock.
“You first,” he said.
Bette laughed with real, true humor. Of all the things that had passed between them, laughter had been a lot of it. So there’d been tears too, she thought as she shook her head with a smile. But always, there’d been this — the way they’d laughed together.
“Nope,” she said simply. “You. Naked. I want to see that cock ready and dripping for me.”
He blinked at her words, again surprised. She understood. In their time together, she’d never been demure or shy, but she’d also never been…this.
Without a word, he hooked his thumbs into his briefs, but he hesitated before pushing them over his hips. His chin lifted. Eyes blazed. Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe he was going to tell her to fuck off.
She loved his uncertainty and hesitation.
Slowly, he eased the soft fabric over his cock until the tip peeked out. Bette didn’t move, though she wanted to crane to catch a glimpse. She sat very still. Not smiling, and definitely no longer laughing. He pushed the material down over his thighs, then stepped out of it to stand in front of her with his erection so hard it tapped his belly.
Bette hadn’t forgotten the length and curve of his cock. He was smaller than her boy — not as long. Not as thick. It didn’t matter, of course, she still thought it was as close to perfect as a prick could get…but she noticed the differences.
A slow, delighted sigh slipped out of her. “You have such a gorgeous cock. I always loved it. Stroke it for me.”
“You think you can tell me what to do?” His hand was already gripping, but the low and angry noise easing from his throat told her he wasn’t taking her commands very well.
She looked straight into his eyes. “Yes. I think I can tell you exactly what to do, and I expect you to do it. Because you want to push that hard cock deep inside me, or else you wouldn’t be here in the first place. Because I decide how far this goes, do you understand? I decide when you get to touch me, and how, and how hard you get to come, if you get to come at all.”
She watched the line of his throat work as he swallowed, hard. His fist gripped his cock just below the tip. He shook his head slowly, back and forth just once.
“No,” he said.
Bette laughed again, the sound wicked and gleeful and clearly affecting him because his dick bobbed, even with his grip holding it still. “Your cock says otherwise. And look, sweetheart…look at how you’re already leaking for me.”
It was true. Clear, slick fluid had gathered in the slit at the tip of his cock and glistened in the hotel lamp’s soft golden light. It dripped as she watched, sliding over the smooth skin of his cockhead and disappearing into the tightness of his fist.
“Get on the bed,” Bette told him. “On your back.”
Pushing the tangled weight of her hair over her shoulders and down her back, she shook it to show off. He’d always loved her hair, and it was even longer now. She hadn’t cut it since the last time she’d seen him. The curls had grown thick and wild. Unruly. It was a pain to maintain, but she was glad she hadn’t given in to the urge to chop it all off, not when his eyes lit up at how it cascaded in dark, rippling waves nearly to her ass.
She straddled his thighs and put her hands on his hips. Her nails dented his skin, and she carefully watched his face for the reaction. His eyes widened a little, and he jerked, lips opening on a protest though she’d barely pressed hard enough to hurt him. She moved a hand between her thighs to circle her clit, never looking away from his gaze.
“How many times did you make yourself come thinking about me?” she asked.
He snorted softly. “What kind of question is that?”
Her nails dug harder into his warm skin. “Answer me.”
“A lot,” he admitted, wincing, and put a hand over hers to stop her from digging again. “I told you, Bette, I thought of you all the time. You should know that.”
“I didn’t know anything.”
She scored her nails over his hip and across his belly, leaving faint white lines that would turn red but leave no lasting marks. She pinched his nipple. He bucked, hips rising, and she moved upward at the same time so that when he settled, his cock was pressed to the crotch of her silky panties.
“It was always you,” he said, voice harsh but muted.
She gave him a brittle smile and shifted so the softness of her lingerie teased but barely touched him. “Good. And when you fucked those other women, did you think of me then, too?”
“What makes you think there were other…fuck!”
She’d leaned to grip his chin in her fingers. Then she leaned closer to flick his lips with her tongue and whisper, “Don’t you lie to me. I deserve better than that.”
Still holding his chin, she let her mouth hover above his, until he pushed up toward the kiss. Laughing, she kept just out of reach. When he fell back with a small, frustrated groan, she let go of him and sat up. Both hands flat on his chest, scratching lightly downward.
“You’re different,” he said.
“No,” Bette answered. “I’m the same. I’m just not afraid to be who I am, anymore. With you, I was always afraid.”
She had always loved his body. The leanness of him. Smooth skin, hard muscles. Athletic. In the beginning she’d been self-conscious about being naked in front of him — he was strong and fit and she tended more toward softness and curves. She still loved his body, which had changed in subtle ways over the past couple years, the way her own probably had, too. The difference was that she was no longer self-conscious about the lines at the corners of her eyes or the few strands of silver in her hair, not about the softness of her belly or the curves of her hips and thighs. Her boy had given her that, and never once by telling her she was beautiful. Everything Damian did for her made her feel that way.
But she was not with her boy now.
Bette moved her mouth over his throat and along his collarbone. Then his chest, pausing to sample his nipples until he writhed and she sat up, looking stern. “Don’t move.”
“You gonna tie me up?” He teased at first, but his smile faded a bit at her expression.
“No. I shouldn’t have to tie you up in order to make you obey me.” She tilted her head to look at him and wet her lower lip with the tip of her tongue.
His gaze darkened as he looked at her mouth. He pushed up on an elbow. “Maybe I’d like it.”
“You’d love it,” she said. “But you don’t deserve that level of attention from me yet.”
With a snort, he fell back onto the bed. “So have your wicked way with me. Order me around. Is that what you want?”
Again, she ran her nails down his body. This time, he arched into the touch, even when she scratched a bit more roughly. “Yes. That’s what I want. Are you going to give me what I want?”
He almost didn’t answer, but then came his low reply. “Yes. Anything. Just don’t stop touching me.”
Bette didn’t say anything to that. Not with words. She answered him with the nip of her teeth in a sensitive spot. Then, moving lower, lower, she took his cock in her mouth. She didn’t laugh at the startled noise he made, though she wanted to. If she laughed, she would certainly weep, and she didn’t want to do that. Later, Bette knew, there’d be tears. With him, the
For now, there was this.
She took him in deep, inch by inch, her hand following the path of her mouth so he was never without her touch. It was an adjustment for a moment, remembering that he was small enough to deepthroat without discomfort. She could never manage that with Damian.
When he tried to touch her hair, she made a warning noise and he fell back again. His hips pushed upward, though, and she allowed it because she liked the way he tried fucking into her mouth, how frustrated it made him when she refused to go any faster.
She sucked him for a long time. A hand cupped his balls, her thumb stroking backward along the seam. She pressed that secret spot just above his asshole in time to her sucking, feeling the throb of his heart beat there. Her hair fell down around her face, shielding her. She teased the head of his cock with her tongue. She slid lower, brushing his balls with her lips and then also with her tongue. His inner thighs earned the press of her teeth and heat of her breath as her hand kept up the steady stroking along his shaft, always too slow for him to come but fast enough to make him shudder.
She was so wet her thighs slid against each other, and when she squeezed them, the pressure on her clit was enough to get her spiraling toward orgasm. She didn’t touch herself. Not yet. She concentrated on him. So many times she’d yearned to have him in her mouth like this, and now she was going to take her time.
Anyone who thought cocksucking was a submissive act clearly didn’t understand the power of giving pleasure. Every moan, every sigh, every tense and shift of his muscles was an homage to her, and Bette accepted all of them as her due. Years had passed since the last time she’d done this with him, so she learned him all over again. How fast, how hard, when to give or when to take. When to hold back.
When to let go.
Drowning on Dry Land: an erotic short story by Megan Hart / History & Fiction have rating 4 out of 5 / Based on32 votes