falling. by ~anjart on deviantART
Not much to say this morning. Not entirely in a good mood, heh. Definitely not chatty. Thunderstorms are due, and I have a date with a big ass book that needs proofing. I am on the neverending proofing train, I think.
Have a good one, lovelies.
p.s. but p.s. we have cracked over 35K so yay that :) We started this journey about a month ago. Can you freaking believe that?
by Sommer Marsden
I watched the emotions on his face run the gamut. He didn’t let me go, he just held me there as if I were an unwilling listener to his confession. I was willing but I let him bind me within the cage of his fingers and I didn’t fight it.
“For the longest time, I didn’t sleep,” he said, the heat in his voice had lowered to a simmer. “Because every time I slept—“ He shook his head and looked off. Hearing something maybe I could not. Sounds from a whole other lifetime.
“Every time you slept?” I breathed. It was a struggle to talk but I managed. My heart continued to race. My mind doubted he would hurt me—knew he would not, in fact. My body still wasn’t sure. Anxiety coursed through me like cold, dirty water and I reminded myself it was instinct.
I didn’t have to fear Johnny unless I chose to.
“Every time I slept…he died again,” he said. His eyes, a dark storm-blue now thanks to his emotions, found me and I saw how shiny they were.
My throat, the part that still remained open, felt tight. I curled my fingers over him again, feeling his cock respond. He looked angry. Begrudging me the power I had over him and his body. Mine was great as his at this moment in time, despite the tableau you might see should you look at us.
He tightened his grip on my neck a little and I smiled. “Go on. Do it,” I said again. “This is the knife edge for you, Johnny. Do you want to run your fingers over it?”
He was in a position to hurt someone again. He might not love me, but he cared about me, that much I knew. This was where he saw what I saw—a good fucking man. A tainted, broken, fractured man who hid from the darkness in his past. But a good man all the same.
I rubbed him with the tip of my fingers and sucked in a thin sip of air. He kept his fingers curled around my neck but leaned in to kiss me.
“Yes,” I said against his lips and he grunted.
I parted my lips so he could taste my tongue. I took each slippery thrust as he kissed me. His hands stayed, pinning me there, while he worked his buckle and his fly one handed. “Push them down,” he said, meaning my pants.
I tried, both hands were free, but my fingers tingled from lack of air and fear. I had just enough air to be safe, but enough was restricted that I could feel the surreal floaty feeling of disconnect. He opened his palm for a moment, pushed with me and my jeans puddle around my ankles. Sweeping my panties down, he knifed his hand up the insdie of my thigh, pausing just enough to test me. To see if I was wet. It was a perfunctory, clinical prod and it turned me on. He was too intent to finesse me and I liked that.
The hand was back, the great sweet gusts of air gone and his mouth returned to bear down on mine. “Open your legs, Aurelia.”
I parted, let them fall open. All of me was bare to him. He quite literally had my life in his hands and we both knew it. I was tall and curvy. I was not a small woman, but compared to him I was a fucking ballerina.
With his free hand he danced the silky tip of his cock along my soaked hole. He penetrated me only to his cock free of me completely and play the now-wet head over the swollen knot of my clit. I almost came.
White lightning sizzled in my peripheral vision—visible only to me. My ears were ringing.
He kissed me again and bit my lower lip so my heart jumped and my blood leapt. “I’m the farthest thing from a good man that you will find Aurelia Blake.”
I leveled my gaze at him, forcing him to look at me. I woudn’t back down. “I’ve seen worse men than you. I’ve seen men who have broken and destroyed and never lost a moment’s sleep.”
He thrust into me hard, almost like he wanted to hurt me. Maybe he did. It stole my breath and my words hitched. But he was in me, filling me, stretching me. That one big hand anchoring my hip, the other my neck and he stared down at me—into me—as he started to move.
There was so much in that stare. Love, hate, respect, trust, suspicion, anger, fear—all of it capered over his thuggish features as he fucked me.
I curled one leg up around his trim hip. I stared right back at him—giving him back what he was giving me. He looked almost confused and when my body grew unbearably tight and my cunt filled with a searing heat, I begged him. When all I could think of and want and anticipate was coming for him, I begged.
“God, kiss me, Johnny,” I said. And there was the plea that perhaps he’d been waiting for. The weakness. The need.
But I gave it to him anyway, because for the first time ever—for me, at least—this was not a game. This was something real. I wasn’t sure what it was, but whatever it was, it was authentic. And I wouldn’t fuck it up with mind games and one-upmanship and bullshit.
He kissed me and he fucked me and he squeezed my throat just a hair harder as his movements became more aggressive and he banged into me hard, my head hitting the wall. He pushed his lips to my ear and clasped my ass with his free hand and growled, “Come with me, Really.”
And I did. I made myself as tight as I could and when he lost his hold—when he broke and surrendered to his body—I let myself go too. I fell back into it. Trusting him to fucking catch me. To leave me enough air. To not fuck me up any more than I was.
For me, this was what the falling was like.