Page 21 of Glitterland
One of my flailing hands caught my MacBook Air and knocked it onto the floor with an ominous-sounding crash.
“Oh no, babes. Is that gonna be ahwight?”
“I don’t care, just don’t stop.” I arched my back to better receive his cock, and he made one of his shy noises as I took him to the hilt.
He bent over me and planted a soft kiss on the back of my neck, against the strip of skin exposed near the collar of my shirt. “Gotta…say…” he managed breathlessly between thrusts, “I like it when you say my name. Sounds all posh. It’s well nice.”
“Shut up and fuck me. Darian.”
He laughed, messing up the rhythm and making me buck and twist so impatiently that the antique inkwell Niall had bought me a couple of birthdays ago, and which I’d left languishing on top of the desk, tipped over. A tide of purple ink came rushing down the rolltop and drenched me.
“Erm, d’you want me to stop now?” asked Darian.
“Hell, no.”
“You donut.” He was laughing again, his body shaking against mine.
I growled at him to pay attention, but then he slithered a hand under my hips and wrapped it round my cock. Complaint lost, I gave a helpless, grateful moan, my palms slipping on ink and smooth wood, unable to find purchase. But he was there to hold me pinned between the twin pleasures of his hand and his cock. It was exactly the right sort of helpless. I writhed in pursuit of both, letting his body and all its lean strength drive away everything but desire and the frantic, undignified scramble after physical release.
Whatever the internal mechanism that moderated the human capacity for joy, mine had long been broken beyond repair. And I knew this was a poor substitute, a base shadow cast on the cave wall, a reflection in a tarnished mirror of ordinary things like happiness, love, and hope. But there were moments, fleeting moments, lost in the responses of my body to his, when it was almost enough. And, God, I wanted, I wanted. These crumbs of bliss.
My nails scratched at the desk, my breath a broken torrent. One of his hands drew back a curl of hair that, heavy with sweat, had fallen across my eyes.
“It’s ahwight, babes.”
I twisted my head to the side, feeling the discomfort in my neck and ink pooling beneath my cheek. “Kiss me.”
“Course.”
We grazed our mouths against each other in the barest of kisses. It was quite ridiculous. A bruising, graceless, haphazard business, a disorder of breath and a tangle of tongues, into which I drowned a soul-deep groan as I came.
And Essex—Darian—a few seconds after, shoving me hard against the desk, a hand on my shoulder and his mouth slack against mine.
Panting, I crumpled onto the floor, Darian sprawled out beside me. My shirt and waistcoat were a ruin of purple ink, my hands worse. My face felt wet, and when I wiped the inside of my wrist across it, I came away with a smeary indigo bracelet.
I turned my head and met Darian’s wide eyes. “You look like you ’ad it off wif a Ribena or summin.”
I stretched luxuriously. “It was worth it.”
“That’s the nicest fing you’ve evva said to me, babes.”
“Fuck off.”
He laughed.
I really needed a shower, but I didn’t move. My little finger twitched across the space between us until it lay neatly alongside his hand.
“Is this you trying to cuddle wif me?”
I snatched my errant hand away. “No. What? No. Of course not.”
“Come ’ere.”
“I’ll…I’ll make you all purple.”
He shoved an arm under my shoulders and pulled me over until I landed in an inky splodge against his chest. It rose and fell under my cheek with the steady, endless cycle of his breath. Such a simple thing. And, in that moment, frighteningly beautiful.
“See,” he said, tracing a purple spiral over the back of my hand, “this is why people normally get naked before ’aving sex.”
