He slips the shirt over his head and obliges to press his long, naked torso against mine. He is thin, pale, so solid, and my fingers dance down the skin of his back, over scars that Josh and Izzy could never understand. I want to kiss his lips so badly, but the makeup, again like a mask, holds me back. He wants to kiss me, too, I can tell by the way one hand twines into my hair and he grazes his face so close to mine.
His mouth finds my throat again and I gasp into the tiny bathroom. My touch loves his slenderness, loves his scars and the tattoo on his right pectoral muscle, a skull and crossbones with a dagger in its mouth, an oversized crown askew on its head. A remnant of his distant past.
He ducks, takes a breast into his mouth. Already my body is burning with the memory of the way he fucks me and the motion of his tongue around my nipple. I'm so nearly useless to his intensity and to the skill he keeps so carefully hidden.
My fingers fist into his dark, rioting hair. His hands explore my body as his teeth close gently on my nipple, biting down just hard enough to elicit a whimper from me. He slips both hands beneath my panties and pulls them down in one fluid motion, as he holds me pinned against the door, captive to the great escape that I initiated.
When his fingers slide along my wetness, a moan escapes despite me, full and loud. He straightens his body, presses against me again, and his lips graze my ear as he makes a tiny growl – a reaction, I know, to how lusciously my body has already responded to him. I wrap one leg around his ass as my back arches against the door. As he plays my pleasure like a loaded weapon, I come all over his hand. Another moan leaks from my throat.
“Goddammit,” he grunts through heavy breathing, as if he still may be trying to fight it. I know he can't.
He clamps one hand over my mouth. I feel the makeup smear, but I no longer give a fuck. And finally he relieves himself from his shorts with one hand as he holds me to silence with the other. I can barely stand it, waiting for his dick, but I'm useless to do anything but cling to him as he holds me in my place.
Just when I think I might explode or die, he fits himself inside of me with a strong, definitive thrust that makes me softly cry out. My blade, I had forgotten how well-endowed he is – more so than Joshua – and he must pause just across the threshold in order to maintain his composure.
It has been so very long.
Just as quickly, his hips begin to buck, and I hold on for all of dear life. My skin slides against the door panel, lubricated by the sweat of our transgressions.
I whimper against his hand and my eyes roll back. He fits perfectly.
Again one of his hands fists into my hair, holds my head back against the door. I can do nothing but breathe through my nose, and fight the screams that want to rise. Time and space suspend, warp, so that nothing exists any longer but the smooth friction that has disabled me. All my stress, all the grief and anger dissipate, however fleetingly, in this one perfect moment.
All my tension draws into sweet release that seems like it will never stop. The tiny pains in the roots of my hair, the dominant hand on my mouth, they seem to lift the weight of responsibility from me.
The little skull with the big crown is me, and the blade in my teeth is my world, precarious and hard.
He makes little moans against my ear. This will be furious and fast, rough and urgent, the epitome of the connection between Frederick and me.
His movements become more potent, more pronounced, and I know he's also making the climb into ecstatic oblivion. Soon the dam will break. His grip on me is more frantic and the sweat between us amplifies the scent of our fervor. I make one last play, clench myself around him, which triggers massive quakes within me. He releases a grunt that could be of pain in any other instance, and though I know he wants to bury himself in me, he slips out and turns his back, turns to a quiet and solitary release.
I nearly melt into a puddle on the hard wood floor, and only manage to stay standing by leaving my weight against the door. Frederick quietly tries to catch his breath, and I watch his pronounced shoulders heave in the wake of his peak. Still he leaves his back to me.
My eyes devour his tragic beauty. But then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, naked, sweaty, black and white smeared together, and I realize that this is the first time that Freddy and I have fucked sober. No wonder he won't show me his face. He doesn't want to show me his emotion, which is so much harder to hide without the shade of alcohol.
Yes, my blade, he's so much like me.
Chapter 19 Royal Flush
Frederick
Late night finds us on the back porch playing poker, with the majority of the winnings sitting securely in Abuela's pile. I'm nursing a dark beer, considering my string of bad hands, as she, Maria, and Izzy knock back shots of tequila like it's water. Josh sits to my right, dangerously close to out
