Tear You Apart Read online

  “Touch yourself.” The words are mine. But the voice...my voice is low and husky and shredded on the jagged edges of my desire. “Touch yourself for me.”

  My cunt clenches at the noise he makes, deep in his throat. His tongue comes out, licks his bottom lip. His hand hovers, not quite touching his cock, not yet.

  “I want to watch you,” I tell him. “I want to watch you jerk that beautiful cock until you come.”

  Words have power. They can wound, elate, subdue. Arouse.

  When his fingers close around his cock, both of us groan. I’ve had him in my cunt and in my mouth, but this is the first time I’ve seen him do this since that first night I stayed in his apartment.

  He takes a moment to widen his stance, hips pushed forward. He strokes his cock from the base to just below the head, not palming it. Short, fast strokes, knuckles nudging the rim. I can see a little more of his face. He’s not looking at me, but down at himself, though every now and then his gaze flicks upward. He’s standing in front of the mirror, I realize. Watching his reflection. Then his eyes close and his head tips back a little. He bites his lower lip.

  Something changes. Instead of him stroking, now he leans with his free hand on the counter and fucks into the curled fingers of his other hand. He looks at me, still biting his lip, his gaze intense. His hair’s fallen over his forehead.

  “You’re right here,” he murmurs. “I’m fucking you. Right like this.”

  I manage an incoherent mumble. My nipples are diamond-sharp, my cunt aching and toes curling, clit pulsing. I haven’t even touched myself.

  “Let me see you,” Will says.

  I understood his hesitation in getting naked for me, but I don’t let myself think about it. I strip out of my tank top, the air suddenly too cool. I shimmy out of the pajama bottoms, aware of the slick leather under my bare ass and how ridiculous I must look sitting naked at my desk. With Will’s gaze on me, I cup my breasts, flick a thumb over the tight nipples.

  “I want your mouth right here.” My words are thick and sweet. I pinch my nipples lightly and sigh. “Fuck. I want all of you right here.”

  “I am right here,” Will says. “Sit back. Show me your pussy. I want you to feel good, too.”

  The chair moves easily on its wheels as I push it a little farther away from the desk. I spread my legs for him, forcing myself not to think about anything but giving him what he wants. Not how it’s impossible to keep my stomach flat in this position, not how I haven’t shaved and plucked and waxed myself bare like a porn star. I watch Will watching me, and every other insecurity fades away.

  “Yes. That,” he says, when I slip my fingers inside me to get them wet. When I circle my clit, his pace stutters. His fingers curl on the countertop, while his other hand grips his cock tighter, this time sliding up and over the head.

  I know how and where to touch myself. The right amount of pressure, the perfect pace. But it’s been so long, I’ve been so shut down, I can’t quite get the rhythm. And the sight of him distracts me. I need to close my eyes and concentrate on my pleasure, but I can’t make myself look away from the mesmerizing beauty of what he’s doing. I push my fingers inside myself again, bring them out slick and hot, find my clit and stroke it between my thumb and forefinger. I’m echoing him, the way I found myself mimicking his phrasing and the cadence of his voice...but it works. When I touch myself the way he’s touching himself, it feels even more like he’s touching me.

  “Shit,” he breathes. “Feels so good.”

  It does feel good, and finally, there it is. The sweet spot. Everything inside me tenses.... I’m going to lose it, I think, as my fingers slow. He’s getting close, and I’m easing off.

  “Talk to me,” he says.

  I don’t even think about what to say. Does it matter? “Fuck me.”

  “I am fucking you,” Will says.

  “Harder.” Sex talk, ridiculous. But it works. I push my fingers inside myself, curling upward. There’s that spot, the one his cock hits so perfectly. The heel of my hand presses my clit. Everything moves in time. “Fuck me harder.”

  “I love it when you come,” Will says. “I love that noise you make when I pull your hair—”

  Just the thought of it’s a trigger. I cry out. He groans. Closer and closer, we work together, even though we’re so far apart.

  I let go.

  I’m mindless again, without words, though not without voice. Hoarse and low. All I can do is breathe. The crush of waves on sand, that’s what I taste and smell and hear, and feel on my skin when Will’s pleasure comes out through his voice. We come together, and it takes forever, and then I’m aware of my skin sticking to the chair and the chill in the room and the clatter of Will’s phone when it falls over and shows me nothing but the speckles in his countertop.

  “Sorry,” he says after a couple seconds, and tilts it upright again. His hair is messed up, and he has that sleepy-eyed look, that slow smile I recognize. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  We don’t say much as we both tidy up. I put my pajamas back on and take my laptop from the desk to the chaise longue, where I curl under a blanket and rest it on my knees while I wait for Will to come back into view. He’s wearing his pajamas, too, when he returns—the blue ones with the sailboats that I bought him one day in the farmer’s market as a joke, because he normally sleeps in his briefs.

  Suddenly, I want to cry.

  He takes me, his little woman in the box, into the bed with him and puts me on the pillow, so when he turns onto his side, one arm beneath his head, it’s almost as though I’m there beside him. I turn, too, stretching out on the chaise with my pillow tucked beneath me.

  We can’t stop staring at each other. Saying nothing, nothing to say. I trace the curve of his jaw and throat, the sweet spot below his ear, with only my eyes, because he’s too faraway to touch. We stare and we stare and I can’t stop myself from smiling, because he’s smiling, too. We don’t have to speak to have this conversation; in fact, the only way to have it is by not using words.

  And then, although it’s more than silly, it’s stupid, it’s ridiculous, I pull the laptop closer to me so I can pretend it’s Will I’m holding, not some box of metal and wire and glass. Only for a few seconds, long enough to hear the sound of his breathing as close as if it was in my ear. But I can’t feel him and I can’t smell him. I want him to talk so I can at least have that last sensation, yet when I pull away to look at him, Will’s eyes are closed, his breathing heavy.

  We’ve never slept together, and this is nothing like it would be if we ever did. But it’s the closest we will ever get to it, I think, as sleep weights my own eyes. I listen to the soft shush-hush of his breathing. Then the shuffle of blankets as he shifts. I look at him. He’s looking back.

  “How are we going to say goodbye?” Will asks in a sleep-furry voice.

  He means now. I mean forever. “I don’t want to.”

  His sleepy smile slaughters me. If I was standing, it would’ve sent me to my knees. Will yawns.

  “We have to, at some point. Can’t stay online all night,” he says.

  Of course he’s right, but that doesn’t change how I feel. He gets up on his elbow, propping his head in his hand. He studies me.

  “If you knew this was the last time you’d talk to me, what would you say?” I ask. It’s too late for this kind of conversation, the sort I promised myself I’d never have with him. But I want to know.

  Will laughs, and it’s uncomfortable, not genuine. “C’mon. We’ll talk again.”

  I’m not so sure. “I just assume every time will be the last, that’s all.”

  “That hasn’t happened yet.”

  “No,” I tell him carefully. “But it’s going to.”

  He leans closer to the camera. “Do you want it to?”

  �€