Push(28)

He stands behind me, kissing my back and sliding my last article of clothing down over my hips. He kicks aside my panties and parts my legs while his hands move smoothly across my skin. Being like this should make me feel exposed, vulnerable, but it doesn’t. I want him to do whatever he wants. I want this to be his victory parade. His fingers skim down the outside of my leg and slowly back up the inside of my thigh. My eyes close, and the sweet pleasure of expectation rolls over me. When he reaches the top, his fingers rub me in small, tight circles. My body loosens instinctively, and I push my rear upwards, silently begging for more. Two of his fingers are inside me now, moving in and out and around in a delectable, rhythmic pattern. I am swimming in a river of bliss. I want to grind backwards against his fingers, but I don’t. Because I don’t want to come yet. I don’t want to be too eager. I want to make him wait.
But I think he knows that I am holding back because he pulls out, drops to his knees, and puts his mouth on me. Jesus. If he is good at this, it is over for me. His mouth is hot and slick, and his tongue sweeps at me in quick, supple strokes. I am lost. I want to touch him, to hold his head and control him. I want to make him move a certain way, but I can’t because I am holding on to this chair. I am at his mercy, and even though just a few minutes ago I wanted to make him wait, I don’t want to wait anymore. But now... now, he is taunting me, bringing me close and then pulling back. And then, as his tongue circles me, I feel his fingers glide inside, and it is heaven. He pushes deeply into me only a few times before I lose it. My blood is rushing, and I am singing inside. Singing like a goddamned bird. One of David’s birds.
He stands up and tells me to go bend over the bed. I rest my face against the mattress, my legs are apart, and once again, I am ass up in my heels. Then he is inside me, lithe and swift. In and out. His hands latch on to my waist, and he pulls me towards him in tempo with his own movement. I cling to the covers, trying to hold myself in place, trying to keep a tangible grip on reality. I am almost there...again. He slides one hand around my hip and down between my legs. Over and over his fingers move in those small circles while he is pushing into me. I am undone. Unfurling like a motherf*cking flag on the Fourth of July.
“Fuck, Emma,” he says as my body shudders with satisfaction. His voice sounds taut and throaty.
When my body calms, I crawl forward on the bed, releasing him from inside me, and turn around to face him. I kneel, looking at him and thinking about how powerful he makes me feel. About how much confidence his touch gives me. I tug him forward by his shoulders and kiss him hard. I reach down and latch on to him, stroking him firmly. He is slippery, and my hand glides back and forth, over and over, while we kiss. Part of me wants to play his game, to taunt him as he taunted me, but I can’t. I want to make him come. I want to make him happy. I want to show him the power he gives me. In a second I am on the floor, kneeling in front of him with my back against the bed. I take him into my mouth; he is sweet because of me. I suck him and stroke him and he grips the back of my head, holding me there, on him. Around him.
“Emma,” he says again, and I know he is telling me that he is ready. But I don’t stop, I don’t move away. I keep my mouth on him, and he pushes himself into me deeper, nearly too far. He exhales harshly and stiffens.
The parade is over. And I am smiling inside.
He stands in front of me for a few minutes, breathing heavily. I am still kneeling on the floor, but I am sitting on my haunches now, my eyes aimed at the floor. Then I feel his hand on my face. It is cold against my hot skin. I press my cheek into it and look up at him. His face looks serious, somber even. I wonder what he is thinking.
“Why so serious?” I ask with a smile, not sure I want to know the answer.
“You know what kills me, Emma?” Uh-oh.
“What?”
“Knowing that you’ve done this before. With someone else.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t with anyone that mattered, that’s for sure.” And that is the truth. No one has ever made me feel this way before, and I sure-as-shit have never wanted someone like this before. I’m not telling him that, though, not yet anyway. We haven’t even known each other a week, for Christ’s sake.
“And do I?”
I smile up at him. That is all I am giving him—and it is probably too much—but it makes him grin a little, and because of it, I know that I matter, too.
“Well, then,” he says, “let’s go. I still have something I want to show you.” Oh, yes. That.
* * *

Twenty minutes later we pull into a gravel parking lot off the side of the road. It is not somewhere I have been before, but I haven’t lived here very long, so, frankly, there are lots of places I have never been. I saw the entrance sign to Addison Park a mile or so ago, and I am now aware that it is the largest of the county’s parks. When we pull into the lot, I begin to wonder if he is taking me somewhere to teach me how to use the gun. It’s nearly dark outside, though, and I can’t imagine myself shooting the gun in the light, let alone in the dark.
We get out of the car, and David pops the trunk. He grabs a cooler and a pair of flashlights, and he heads down a small gravel path on the side of the parking lot. He hands me one of the flashlights on his way.
“David,” I say, “you do know that I’m wearing heels, right?”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that. Wait a sec.” He puts down the cooler, walks back to the car, and pops the trunk open again. Out of it he pulls a pair of shit kickers and hands them to me. “Here, you can wear these.” Really?