Elizabeth Finn - Unforgiven

He wiped her stomach clean with a washrag, and then he carried her to bed, planting her gently on the sheets. He ran his fingers between the lips of her pussy. She was still soaking wet, and every place he touched caused lurching spasms to rack her body. She was well and truly oversensitive at the moment, and he enjoyed the way her body responded as he worshipped her tits for a while.

When he pulled her back to his front and wrapped his arms around her, he reached back quickly, turning the light out.

“Was that playing?”

“Yes, Bailey, that was playing.” She fell asleep moments later, and he did too.

He apparently was just an early riser, and when she opened her eyes and yawned, she found herself alone again in his bed. She wanted coffee, she needed coffee, and thank God for her, he was a coffee drinker. She still had no clean clothes, and those that she’d dropped just outside his shower the afternoon before were inexplicably missing. She padded downstairs naked, hoping like hell he didn’t have company, and she found him sitting in the same Adirondack chair on the back deck he’d been in after their first run. As she rounded the chair to see him, she found his eyes were just as distant and unreadable as they had been on that day too. But there was one difference. He was completely naked.

His strong thighs were parted, and his testicles were large and heavy. His penis was intimidating even in this relaxed state, and as her eyes roved over him, he hardened and lengthened to a terrifying size—also a quite intriguing size. She was trying to lean casually against the deck rail a few feet in front of him, but as she leaned back, she misjudged the distance and staggered back into it. He smiled for a moment, and she did too. If only she’d known all she had to do was humiliate herself to get a smile from him.

She gave up trying to act casual and kneeled in front of his parted thighs. She knew there was a better than good chance he’d stop her if she tried to touch him, but she liked to test limits on occasion. His testicles were exceptionally masculine, and his erection was high on his stomach. She kneeled up and leaned to him as his eyes seared hotly into her. He watched as she reached for him, and she paused, waiting for him to grab her wrist or reprimand her in some way. He didn’t. She proceeded to wrap her hand around the thick, smooth shaft, feeling the weight of him in her hand for the first time. She still expected him to stop her, but he made no move to. His lips parted, and he sucked in a quick breath. When she leaned to him, his teeth gritted, and his hands fisted, but the best was the strangled cry he emitted when her lips parted and sank down over the head of his cock. He cursed, and she sank lower, pulling and sucking. He made no attempt to still her.

She was slow as she started moving up and down along his length, and she stopped to trace a rigid, hard vein with her tongue. It wrapped around the shaft like the root of a tree, feeding his engorged arousal. He gripped the arms of the chair, knocking his empty coffee cup off to shatter into hundreds of porcelain pieces beside them. She pulled back at the sound of the breaking cup, and he looked at her. He reached for her mouth, brushing the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. If that was the permission she was looking for, she was past needing it. It had been years since she’d touched a man, and she was terrified, but he’d withheld himself from her, and he was finally letting her in.

Instead of continuing with her mouth, she reached up and stroked a soft trail over the seam of skin on his testicles. They were so tight, but their size was a very masculine reminder of the power inside him. Her hand gripped his erection again, and she stroked up and down as he started to grunt and groan. When she took him in her mouth again, his groan intensified, and his hand grasped the top of her head, twisting in her hair. He set the pace as he gripped and forced her movements. He was gentle, but there was little question who was running the show.

Her eyes flashed to his just to see his dark ones looking back at her. His lips were parted, he was panting, and the quiet grunts that escaped his mouth were completely involuntary. He was on the brink of losing it, and his focus was locked on her. She could feel the tremor in his thighs, and soon his cock was thrusting up into her mouth as he clenched his bottom to drive himself upward. She closed her eyes and the moment she did, his husky and broken voice interrupted her. “Look at me.” She did, and the moment before he came apart completely, he spoke again. “Don’t swallow.”

He cried out as he came, tightening his buttocks hard and thrusting up powerfully. She let him come in her mouth, and she sucked gently on him as he grunted and groaned out his release. He stared down at her as she kneeled between his legs. She could feel his seed on her tongue, and the sensation made it hard not to swallow him down, but she sat still, waiting for him. He reached a hand down to her, pulling her up to straddle his hips.

“Open up.” She froze for a moment, but he watched her steadily. She parted her lips, and he groaned as his focus moved to her open mouth. His finger thrust inside her mouth through the creamy cum, and he groaned again. She sucked on his finger as he thrust it into her mouth, and when he was done touching, he withdrew his finger and leaned to her ear. “Swallow.” He pushed her head back, kissing and sucking his way down the front of her neck as she swallowed the salty, thick liquid.

He clutched her body to his with a strong hand on her back, and his other snaked between them to part the wet lips of her vagina. He settled his still engorged cock between her lips, and he slid between them, back and forth as he rocked his hips against her, holding her tight. Her hips were tightening and rolling against him too, and as her wet flesh rubbed a slippery trail along his arousal, he bit down on her shoulder. She loved his bites. Always controlled, always intense, and always just as much as she could handle.

He eventually replaced his dick with his fingers, and he sank two inside her to his knuckles. He thrust as she gripped his shoulders and buried her head against his neck. He pushed and pulled, and when his thumb started circling and swirling around her clit, her legs trembled and turned to rubber. She came, reaching back to grip his knees even as her stomach muscles tried to pull her inward and around her guts. He watched for a moment before he sank his teeth into the plump skin of her breast, biting down gently. He sucked hard on her skin and then her nipple, and his fingers still gently plunged into her.

They stayed collapsed together on the chair for many more long minutes, breathing deeply against one another’s neck. Their skin was clammy and damp with perspiration, and after he stood her up on her feet, he pulled her away to his shower. They were silent as they showered and were back to watching one another curiously, nervously. At least she was nervous. He seemed lost again, but he reached for her hips, pulling her up against him and nuzzling into her neck, and she relaxed.

She curled up on his bed and watched him move naked around his room. He wasn’t in a hurry, and she studied him as she hugged a bunched up pillow in her arms. He looked like the old Darren. He looked like her Darren. He didn’t smile the way he used to, but there were times . . . Occasionally he seemed to forget that he hated life, and his lips relaxed. It was then that he was so much like her Darren that it choked her. She’d give anything to have her old Darren back, and if she could mix him with what they’d just done last night and this morning, all the better.

Remembering the man he used to be wasn’t just painful; it was like coping with the grief of losing someone you loved. It seemed wrong to liken it to the loss of Jess or her father, but she struggled to put it in any other terms. She felt like Darren had died that night too, and this was a sad ghost of the man she had known. The ghost of him was forced to spend eternity reliving his death over and over again until he was insane or figured out some way to move beyond it all. He just bounced between the past and present continuously, and she hated it.

Was that why he needed her to stay? Did he think she was the key to setting him free in some way? Helping him leave the past behind permanently? She . . . the disaster who’d wrecked her life just as it was beginning and destroyed everyone who’d loved her. She couldn’t help him. She would give her life if she thought she could save him, but she knew she couldn’t. It didn’t mean she wouldn’t stay for him. Wait for him. Pray for him. She owed him that much if nothing else, and she owed herself too. This wasn’t a spiral into self-destruction. It was her penance. It was her redemption. And because she’d loved him once, or loved him still, it wasn’t even a question.

He sat on the side of the bed, slipping his shoes on. He was no longer naked, and she’d lost track of what he was doing as she’d zoned. Hell of show to miss . . . He turned to her, and he leaned over her. She thought for a moment he might kiss her—seemed the least he could do after the past many days, but he didn’t. His thumb brushed along her lower lip, and then he pulled back.

“Your clothes are drying in the dryer. This is my last shift for a few days, so I’m sure I’ll see you sometime next week, I guess.” That wasn’t a man asking to see her. It wasn’t a man who wanted to make plans to see her again. It was a man content to run into her whenever the occasion arose. The pain was swift. She suddenly felt like a whore, though she guessed she had no idea what that actually felt like.