Broken Read online

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” I tell him, pinching his nipple lightly. “I might not be the sort of girl you’re used to—”

  He stops me by pulling me close to his body, skin on skin. “And I’m your type of guy?”

  This closeness, the pressure of his erection against my bare belly, makes my voice hoarse. “Not really. No.”

  “Too clean cut? Not enough ink?”

  He traces the line of the tattoo I have on my belly, an intricate Celtic knot surrounding a Star of David.

  “You got it.” That’s not really true, but to talk about the real reasons Joe isn’t my type while he’s licking my throat is a bit of fragrant bullshit. What we both want is to fuck and have it be good and unemotionally tangled. It doesn’t really matter that we’re not each other’s “types.”

  He pushes me gently back on the bed and looms over me on hands and knees. His mouth now has moved lower, to sweep along my breasts and finally, oh, fuck! To take a nipple between his lips.

  “Funny, I thought I’m any woman’s type,” he murmurs, licking and sucking at my nipples while I mewl in pleasure.

  “Is that your problem?” I ask when he takes a brief break from my tits to concentrate on my throat again. “They all think you’re their type?”

  His body covers mine, but he’s good enough to keep from crushing me with his weight. His mouth pauses in its exploration of the curves and hollows of my throat. His hand, stroking my hip, stops.

  “Yes,” he says.

  His face is buried against me and I can’t read his eyes, but I don’t have to. This feels like an honest answer, probably more honest because he doesn’t have to look at me when he says it. I run my fingers through his hair. It’s soft, but short, and if he uses product in it, it’s not much.

  “Poor Joe,” I whisper. “They all want you but none of them know you.”

  This raises his head and he stares, mouth slightly open and glistening with the saliva he’s been painting on my skin with his tongue. He blinks rapidly a few times. We’re glued together at the gut, his dick rubbing the softness of my belly.

  I take his cheeks in my hands and hold him still to stare into his eyes. “Why don’t any of them know you?”

  He shakes his head and pulls away a little, but not hard enough to take his face from my hands. I wait until he looks at me again, and I tell him something that seems pretty straightforward to me but appears to take him by surprise.

  “Sweetie, it’s all everyone’s looking for. Someone to know them.”

  His body tenses, like he wants to flee, and expecting him to get up, I let him go. After a moment he lays down on top of me again and presses his mouth to the beat of my pulse. We stay like that for some silent moments until I realize our breathing has timed itself to each other. In. Out. His skin has humped into gooseflesh, thousands of tiny bumps that scratch my fingertips as I stroke my hands down his back over and over.

  His arms have gone around me as best they can in our position. We’re hugging each other. I wrap my legs around his waist and hook my ankles together to embrace him as completely as I can.

  He’s not saying anything, but his cock’s still hard and his heart is thump-thumping against mine.

  “How many women?” I whisper in his ear, my breath caressing him.

  “A lot. Too many. Not enough.”

  This makes sense to me and I feel sorry for him again. I might be alone, but I’m never lonely. I want someone to know me, someday, but I’m not desperate yet for that someone to find me. Joe seems to think it will never come.

  “When’s the last time someone took care of you?”

  Mute, he shakes his head against me. His fingers splay against me, and we grip each other tighter. I can count the number of bumps in his spine, though he’s anything but frail.

  “Roll over,” I whisper into his hair.

  He does, onto his back. I turn off the lamp to make this easier for him, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. By the time they do, the stars have begun to glow against the ceiling. There’s a little bit of light from the window, enough to outline him in silhouette, but nothing else.

  I crouch over Joe’s body with my knees on either side of his hips and my hands on the bed next to his ears. I can sense his body, the heat of his cock, but I’m not touching it. I let my hair hang down over both of us and move so it trails along his skin.

  He sighs. The bed shifts as he moves, arching a little. I fasten my mouth on the line of his jaw, orienting myself. His skin tastes good. Smallish bristles scrape my lips and I bare my teeth to press them on his skin. I nibble him and dart out the tip of my tongue to flick along the places my teeth have touched.

  He’s touching me any place his hands can reach, mostly my hips and ass and thighs. He hasn’t yet slipped between my legs to stroke me there, but that’s okay. There’s time enough for that. I don’t intend to rush.

  I move down his throat to the hard bump of his collarbone. I bite and lick and suck his skin until he cries out. I shush him and soothe the hurt with kisses. His cock throbs harder against my belly. He likes that. I make note.

  My hair trails over his face and arms as I move down his chest. I lose myself in nuzzling into the patch of hair there, which smells like him but more. When I find the small button of his nipple and take it between my teeth, his entire body jerks.

  I laugh against him. “Sorry.”

  His voice is hoarse. “Jesus, Sassy.”

  “Should I be more gentle with you?” But I know the answer to that. With every bite his prick’s gotten harder, his breathing a little harsher. He lifts his hips against me whenever my lips part and my teeth scrape his skin. I do that now, before he can answer, and whatever he intended to say is lost in a garbled sigh.

  I think Joe’s fucked a lot of women, maybe even made love to a few of them. But from the way he’s reacting to this it doesn’t seem he’s had many do the same for him. Which is a shame, because he’s got a body that begs to be made love to, all smooth muscles and perfect alignment. Some women, I think, scoffing, don’t know what the fuck to do with a beautiful man.

  I don’t mind the darkness, even if it does make me a little clumsy. Half the fun is having his dick end up in my eye instead of down my throat the first time. I make up for it by kissing his cock very sweetly on the tip, once I’ve got a handle on where, exactly, it is.

  It bobs against my mouth. I grip the base and stroke upward, a feather touch. I kiss it again, small tender kisses on the most sensitive part. I stroke it a few more times while I let my breath kiss him, and I wait until his hand snakes down to tangle in my hair and his hips thrust upward before I open my mouth and ease him inside.

  He moans when I do, though mine’s muffled. I keep my grip firm just below the head and concentrate on sucking lightly until he stops thrusting. I admire his control and open my mouth wider, relaxing my throat to take him down the back of it.

  Sucking cock is an art. Like playing the piano or painting, it takes practice. Enthusiasm. Skill. I like sucking cock for an appreciative man, the sort who’ll let me do what I want to do instead of trying to control it all.

  I make love to him that way until my jaw begins to ache. By that time he’s moaning a lot, and I’m wet enough to feel it without having to touch myself. My clit tingles and I squeeze my thighs together and let them go repeatedly, a little trick that can get me off if I do it just right.

  I stroke his cock and move between his legs to lap at his balls. I find the sweet spot at the base of his testicles and press him with my tongue and fingers until his thighs tense beneath me and his groans take on a certain quality I recognize.

  I ease off, moving back up to suck a little at the tip of his cock. I crawl up his body, kissing along his chest and shoulders until the notch of my cunt aligns with his cock. When his prick strokes my clit, I shudder. I rub myself back and forth along him like that a few times, then lean up to grab a condom from the nightstand drawer. I lift up enough to put it on hi