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I stared lazily out the fogging window of his little red car, curling into my seat as my head started to lull to the side, my eyes lazy and half lidded. I passed him the piece, feeling guilty for taking so many hits without sharing. He instead put the piece into his pocket without another suck on it. A grin curved my lips as I watched this moment, somewhere in the back of my mind I noted that he made sure that I got quite a few more hits than he did. As I giggled with a cute uncontrollable shrill to my voice at my thoughts, he sat there driving along the unfamiliar country roads with a smile and un-muddied thoughts clear in his eyes. Sneaky bastard.
We talked. We talked about nothing really. I made a lot of casual references about the people I had been with and the men I had dated, then mentally chastised myself for bringing them up. We talked about our town and driving on snow, his still room mate who happened to be my ex, my new kinky lifestyle, and even my degree as we passed by the Comp Sci building, causing a languid pointed finger of acknowledgement from me.
I never turned to look at him. Only once to see how to use the unfamiliar piece, trying the whole time not to look at his lips as they hugged around the one-hit pipe. The rest of the time I sat curled in the seat, face forward, even as it lulled, eyes fixed on the icy roads and the buildings as they passed. I foggily recognized that things were looking familiar again, my brain starting to warm up as synapses started to fire -- he was taking me home.
I teased and flirted, cajoled and tried the whole time to keep the excitement and need out of my voice. Just like you don't let the car salesman know you really want the car -never let a man know that you are desperate for his touch and company, they only raise the price. As we pulled into the half circle driveway, I said in the calmest voice I could manage, trying to keep the anxiety and hopefulness out of my tone, that he could park around back and come up for a bit.
I held my breath thinking he would pull in front of the doors and park his car. Turn and give me a sad smile, then tell me 'he really shouldn't, he had to be getting back, and it was getting late'. I sat facing forward still, not realizing my shoulders and legs were tensing, ready for the rejection. He started pulling away from the drive heading towards the back of the building. I numbly navigated him to the parking lot, still trying to sound un-invested, drawing on my experience that boys tend to spook worse than horses when it comes to a girl showing too much interest.
We joked and flirted harmlessly as we walked to the back door of cebeci escort the building. I smiling because I rarely liked to be at the disadvantage of being addle minded when seduction was the theme of the night. He smiling, because I had to put my arms out and balance as I tried to walk on the ice, the glint in his eye saying that he might know what he was up to all along with his casual offer for a drive and some pot.
We put a movie on and did the shuffle on the bed for a bit as we sat in my room. You know the one where you sit on opposite ends of the bed, then slowly inch closer, and find reasons to be in the other person's spot when they get up to go to the bathroom. Finally, after some play over 'who's corner it was' we settled with him wedged to the corner and myself curled to his side with my head resting on his chest and stomach. I tried to talk casually. My tone in tight control. The task becoming nearly impossible as his large masculine hands moved to my hair, fingers stroking along my tresses as they stuck up and twisted and spiked in my punky style. His fingers periodically switch from stroking my hair as though I were a pet, to scratching at my scalp gently though firmly. I was puddy in his hands at that moment and he knew it. As I tried to converse, pausing regularly as I lost my thoughts, he poked fun at my easy placation and I, dimly, thought that I needed to play hard to get, make him chase me, don't make it so easy this time...
His path moved to stroke down the column of my neck and shoulder, his fingers rubbing up along my jaw. My poor self trying desperately to control the shivers and trembles that would give him too much knowledge of my current state, and too much power.
What did he even say, just then before he turned my face up to his, my chin barely above his chest? What initiated that moment that curled him down from high above me to press his lips to mine? Maybe it was magic. As I thought it must be when I felt the first gentle press, so un-insistent, so tender, so sensual, and so wonderful. I thought it was a lost art form, that I was just singular in my kissing tastes. But how cruel it was as he delicately stroked my tongue with his, as his sucked at my lips, as he paused to brush just the surface of our lips across each other, to taunt me with such appetizing and addictive kisses. Already undone, I shuddered into his hold even more as my hand came up to cup his jaw and I felt the soft and silky stubble that had formed there.
As we broke apart for a moment, turning back to watch the forgotten movie while our brains hummed with energy and tried desperately to block çukurambar escort out the words of warning and caution. I crawled further up on his chest, trying to get closer than I already was. His face turned to bury in my hair as he took a deep breath of it, smelling me. We came together again shortly after as he turned my face up to him again. I fuzzily thought I had to stop this, before I became addicted to these kisses that would likely never be mine again after the spell of the evening was broken.
He made some funny comment about angles, I didn't hear it. All I heard was the moment he asked to move above me. Because that's what he was doing, bad angle or not, it was a moment of silent permission before he stepped from the bed, then turned me over by a hold on my arm and moved to hold himself above me.
I had moments of not thinking, barely breathing, solely focused on the sensations those lips and tongue provided to my own of each. My thoughts forming one whispered and unconscious thought over and over again, "Please." I sent hands down to explore his back and ass, finding a belt loop and using it to maneuver him between my legs during one of our breaks as reason tried to fight to rule his mind again.
He went there easily, and returned his lips to my abandoned ones, instantly crushing his pelvis to mine, grinding into me as though it were a familiar place to be. As we kissed and broke away, and kissed and grinded, he would leverage himself to push more tightly against me, sometimes using his hips to lift me up and hook my body in a way that would rub my sex more usefully against his own. There was a moment of worry, I tensed my muscles as I felt teeth brush the skin of my neck, his jaw dropping to open his mouth wide. He rubbed his teeth gently at my tender skin, never hurting, never sharp as so many bites were. Just a smooth friction of teeth on my skin that he performed several times on both sides. I shook beneath him. I shuddered into him. I trembled for him. Please.
At some point he moved to rub his thumb against my clit through my jeans, I never met his eyes as I said my thoughts aloud, reminding him that he was only allowed to kiss. The thought had been circling to the forefront of my mind the entire evening, particularly as I sat on the bed listening to him talk with his girlfriend, assuring her that he would be home soon and to go back to sleep. What a fraud I was as he would stop and pull away, trying to calm his nerves amongst other things, and I, so unforgiving, would pull him back on to me. We'd grind and kiss more feverishly for a few moments longer before he ankara escort would pull away again. Finally pulling away to stand the last time.
I lay back on the bed trying to jog my thoughts, trying to slow my pulse, trying not to reason, and beg and plead that he not leave me. But I knew. I knew I couldn't push. I couldn't insist. I couldn't at any moment guilt him as he no doubt already felt it intensely, just as I knew the terms of which he was 'allowed' to kiss me were probably a little fuzzy and less endorsed than implied. But I wouldn't ask. What I didn't know could keep me in those arms, whereas having my suspicions confirmed would only force my conscience to pull me away.
He stood, so tall, towering over me with his shoes and jacket firmly on. I standing tensely before him after he pulled me from the bed. I pressed to him, losing all reserve, thinking instead of scaring him away -- that he was already running and these would be the last few kisses I would get. As we kissed I grabbed the collar of his jacket and began to walk us back to the door, pressing my back to it as he complied and trapped me to it with his body. He then bent to grab my legs out from under me, holding me midair, my pelvis balanced on his as the rough denim of our jeans grinded into each other.
He let my legs drop, and leaned forward to kiss me again, tugging me away from the door I blocked, admitting to it as I accused him of doing such. He made half grief-moaned excuses saying things like 'I stayed an hour and a half longer than I thought I would. I have to get home. Please'. Somehow the word felt much worse in a much different way when he said it.
My back and shoulders tensed, my head unconsciously dipping down to hang as I tried to regain my composure and let him go. Let him go after four years without him, four years of occasionally remembering the handsome, sensual, powerful roommate of my then boyfriend. The one that brought me more frequently to their home than the man I was seeing. The one that so nearly kissed me in his best friend's bed years ago, although we managed to pull apart ...that time. .. We seem to have a knack for kindling this companionship and burning attraction whenever the other was unavailable.
As he exited out the back door of my building, I returned to my room, sliding out of my pants as I slid to the floor. I pulled the toy from my sock drawer, unsheathing it of its red velvet bag and without much warning plunging it into my already soaked and desperate pussy. I came several times, so wet it would spray out around my hand and against my thighs with every forceful slam of my toy into myself, all the while thinking of his teeth on my neck. Recalling dimly that it all started with a kiss to my knuckles and a moan from my lips.
I wish I could weep for the loss. I wish I could cry for the uncertainty. I wish I could scream at the unfairness. But mostly I want to hope for a future.