Page 72 of Tourist Trap

“I had my annual not too long ago. All clear.” I smile again and lose all pretense of looking at his face, going back to focus on his cock.

His hand is slowly pumping now, and my hand starts to creep between my legs, with a mind of its own. He lets out a deep, pained groan as he starts to move, his cock bobbing with each step he takes toward me until he’s standing at the foot of the bed. His hand pumps himself one last time; the tip is red and weeping with need before he puts a knee on the bed. I’m on one elbow, one hand gently playing between my legs as I watch him approach with heated anticipation.

“Lay back, baby,” he says softly as he climbs onto the bed, his body sliding over mine, and I do as he asks, dropping from my elbows, and then he’s face-to-face with me.

I expect the same frantic energy, the same intense need and desire. I expect him to push me back, to slam into me, to do…something.

But it all changes. The way he moves, that look in his eyes, the way his fingers graze along the skin of my arm. Gone is the frantic energy, the need, moving as if this would disappear in a moment, and in its place is…reverence.

Such sweet, all-consuming reverence and longing, it makes my heart skip a beat, makes my body shift softly toward him, my hand moving up to cup his jaw and look into his eyes.

Suddenly, it's me and Miles and nothing else. Gone are our history and location and bills and future. It’s just us, right here, right now. He notches the head of his thick cock into my entrance, and my eyes sink shut, my breathing turning labored with anticipation.

“No,” he says, low and gravelly. “No.” My eyes open, and his hand moves off the bed next to me and rests on my face as he holds himself up with just one strong arm. “You’re going to look at me the first time I sink into you.”

“Miles,” I moan, my hips shifting to get him deeper, to push him to fill me.

“The first time I give into this, when I finally admit to what you’ve known for some time, you’re going to watch it take over me. Watch me become yours, for good.”

“Miles,” I whisper again, this time without the irritated pleasure, instead filled with the understanding that Miles ismine. I fight the urge to cry, but that’s suddenly gone as he slides into me, as his thick shaft stretches me in the most perfect way, as inch by inch, he fills me.

Once he’s fully seated in me, he stops, his eyes still on mine and open and filled with everything I wanted to see a week ago. Everything I saw this morning, but he wouldn’t admit to. Desire and acceptance and friendship and a million other things I don’t have the time or presence of mind to identify.

“This changes everything,” I whisper because I won’t let him play with me that way. “This changes everything, Miles.”

“Good,” he says, then he pulls back, dragging along swollen and sensitive flesh before slamming back in. I moan loudly, a leg wrapping around his hips as he slides out again and thrusts back in. “I want it to.”

“Oh, god,” I breathe as his cock slides against sensitive nerves, sending a bolt of ecstasy straight to my core, that pleasure swirling as it does. It’s too much. It’s too good. It’s too consuming, I think it might break me. I hold on to his back, and he pounds into me, my nails biting as I try to hold onto reality.

“I know,” he says through gritted teeth. “Me too.”

Because he feels it too. That perfect rightness, the total and complete change, the knowledge that nothing will ever be this good, this right. This is me and Miles, and the rest will fall into place, so long as we have this.

Us.

“I’m going to come,” I murmur, a panic flitting over me at the thought. My breaths come in pants as my hips move up with each slam inward, and he adds a grind now, friction to my clit as he does.

“Good, take me with you, baby.”

I don’t know if it’s the permission or the acceptance or the mere thought that my orgasm will trigger one of his own, but with his words, my back bows, my cunt tightens around him, and my head falls back as I scream his name.

I come, and I come, and somewhere in my distant consciousness, I feel his body tighten, feel him go somehow deeper still, and feel him spill into me, groaning my name into my neck as he comes inside me.

And with it, I know I am ruined for any other man.

TWENTY-FIVE

CLAIRE

Miles stays on top of me for long minutes, both of our breathing evening out before he gently rolls off. His feet quietly hit the floor, and he pads to the bathroom when I hear the sink going.

I lay on his bed, trying to gather the courage to get up as well, trying to not overthink things too much, but he returns before I can. Without a word, he moves to me and then something warm moves between my legs.

A washcloth.

Miles is cleaning me with a warm washcloth after he just fucked me to oblivion. I keep my eyes to the ceiling, trying to rectify this with the version of Miles I know before he’s done, disappearing into the bathroom once more.

Slowly, I sit up, pulling the covers that are haphazardly thrown off the bed up to cover myself as the ceiling fan above us runs slowly, sending a cool breeze along my body, and finally, I take in his room. He’s lived here for years from what he’s told me, but it’s so sparsely decorated, you’d think he just moved in recently. The rest of the house is the same, which is confusing to me since, at the very least, you’d think it would be filled with knickknacks from his grandmother. While there are a handful strewn about, it’s not a house that was lived in for any stretch of time with love and laughter.

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