Page 43 of Skyn
“My little wife,” he says between huffs of breath, his cock slicking in and out, coaxing my hips forward, invading a little, then withdrawing like an indecisive general. I will never get enough of this. I feel myself give way, surrendering to his pumping greed, my soft skin buckling under the pressure of his kneading hand.
My moans fill the yurt, echoing in the small space. He pushes my legs even wider, pressing my knees against the bedsheets, straining my tendons into a near split.
“Wide open,” he whispers. “Look at you take it.” He is mesmerized by how our bodies joined.
The world shrinks to the press of my fevered skin against the cool sheets. I grip them like rail handles, as if I might be flung out of this bed with one twist. My body has long abandoned its reason, its structure of bones and tendons; I’m a river rushing into the mouth of the sea.
My spine arches. And he lets go of my knees and holds my hips, pounding into me at the perfect angle. I splinter into sharp, glittering bits. Pleasure mushrooms inside me, and I clench and cry out, before pulling him into me and kissing him until neither one of us can breathe.
I feel the moment he decides to abandon all pretense, and the shock of anticipation in my chest is downright feral.
Finally, Ben the man.
“Fawl…so good. God, it’s so good,” he moans, an animalistic hunger in his rhythm now, rough and unrestrained. There is no sweet word for it. Nothing this primal could be glossed over with purple prose. He fucks me now, digs into me like he’s mining for minerals. I offer up all that I have. And my heart rattles inside its cage as he stuffs me with his hungry dick.
His mouth kisses everything, eager and demanding, closing over what his cock and hands cannot reach. The wet slap of our bodies is so erotic, I am on the brink again. Ben’s pace is punishing. The heat is overwhelming.
“I’m going to come inside you.” He jerks. His pace is ragged. The sharp edge of pain mixed with the intoxicating drug of pleasure is more than I can resist. The unforgiving hardness of his cock is supernatural.
His body presses me into the bed, so strong and massive. I wrap my arms around him because I somehow want him closer, deeper.
“Fuck, it’s so tight and wet,” he whispers, still gripping me like he’s afraid to let go. I can barely breathe, caught in this wild, reckless moment. He releases into me a river of passion that warms my insides like liquor. The sensation courses through me like molten silver, hot and bright.
“Fawl!” he cries out. And I meet his powerful thrust with the last of my strength. His face crashes into me, kissing the breath out of me as he declares definitively, “Genius.”
Chapter20
Marriage, Josh
Iwake up on the beach. Not the worst place I’ve woken up, but definitely in the top three for wondering what the hell just happened. I’m not sure I’ve ever sleepwalked before, but apparently, a night with a platinum-tipped dick will do that to you. Sometime in the night, I ended up sprawled on a padded mat, my skin dewy and salty, the air warm and thick. The sun is just starting to stretch itself across the horizon, golden fingers licking at my skin. I lie there for a minute, letting it warm me and thinking about how I like the way it makes me look.
To my right, there’s a tray of fruit and pastries glistening like they’ve been shellacked—an absurd oil painting of excess. Fresh coffee steams from a delicate porcelain cup.
I stretch, my muscles tight and sore in that satisfying, post-ravishment way, and rise to my feet. The warm sand clings to my soles; a few grains stuck between my toes. Out in the water, Ben is naked—of course he’s naked—and glorious, his body gleaming in the early-morning light. He’s grabbing fish with his bare hands and tossing them to the bots, his laughter loud and infectious, rolling over the waves toward me.
“Lunch!” he calls out, holding up a wriggling fish in one hand like it’s some kind of prize. God, he’s so different from Josh, whose insecurities hang on him like a damp sweater, always too tight, too awkward, too heavy. This—this with Ben—feels easy, natural, like I’ve slipped into someone else’s life and found it infinitely more comfortable than my own.
I spear a few pieces of fruit on my fork, the juice sticky and sweet against my lips as I walk into the water. It’s warm, like liquid silk sliding up my legs, kissing my skin. Ben splashes toward me before wrapping me in his arms, his body still wet from the ocean.
“Your comm has gone off three times,” he says sheepishly.
If it’s the shopkeeper, I’m prepared to call him a kook and keep it moving. Yes, there were some irregular patterns, maybe a few natural accidents, but nothing to pack up your family for. Nothing to cause a riot in the whole sector over.
But it’s not the shopkeeper.
The comms are from Josh. Every single alert is from Josh, each message a beacon of rising anxiety, the tone of his voice climbing from concerned to outright panicked.
When I comm him back, he answers on the first siren. The sound of his voice jolts me back to what feels like twenty years ago.
“Oh my God, Fawl! What in the hell are you doing with a machine?”
I look at Ben, and he looks back at me.
“Marriage, Josh,” I reply, deadpan. “What else?”
“Fawl, are you a skin bride?” He couldn’t hide the judgmental distaste in his voice.
“An actual bride, I fear. Look, is that all you wanted?—”
