Chapter 205
I am a statue, motionless on my back, only my eyes moving to search his bright blue eyes.
Now he kisses me, and the boiling fear trans.m.u.tes into need. His hand is on my knee. My bottom is against the ground, so I know he cannot mean to resume touching me there. Where will his hand move to next? Upward his palm slides, and I know his intent then. My throat goes dry, and the beating of my heart intensifies. Can he really mean to do what I think?
My clients, they pay for one thing: release. A willing female who does not expect anything in return. A pair of legs to open but which will not turn out children for them to support. Men do not touch me there. They have no reason to want to.
My breathing is shallow, approaching panic, and even his kiss cannot quiet me. I pull away and watch Hunter's eyes. He stops his upward glide at mid-thigh and waits, eyes wide.
He is asking my permission to touch me in my most private place. Why am I so afraid? Men push their manhood into me there. It is not a sacred, private thing, my womanhood. But...yes, it is.
His fingers, there? Allah, I am terrified of the idea. Hands are the medium of expression, as eyes are windows to the soul. What does he want? Why does he want to touch me there? He would not let me touch him, but he will kiss me. He will touch me, explore my skin. He asks permission before pus.h.i.+ng the boundaries.
I am confused and frightened, but my desires are sweeping me away.
I want him to touch me. Everywhere. His hand on my b.u.t.tocks felt wonderful. It was exciting, thrilling. There? My womanhood? I cannot use the vulgar terms. I do not know why. It makes me uncomfortable, as if to use the vulgar slang terms for body parts would make me even more dirty, even more the wh.o.r.e. I do what I must to survive, but in my most secret heart, I am still a little girl, innocent and pure. I am not, in reality, but I want to be. I wish I could be. My actions reflect a primal, blood-deep need to survive, but in my soul, in my dreams, I am a good girl, a woman who does not give in to l.u.s.t. If not for war, I would have been married, and birthed children. I would have gone to mosque to wors.h.i.+p, instead of working in one...instead of-of f.u.c.king in one. The curse word floats through my mind like a spreading stain.
He is still waiting. Watching me patiently. He must see the war within me written on my face. If he can read my trepidation and my doubts, then he can read the book of my features well. To read a person's expressions on their face is to know their soul.
I can read him, too. He wants me to want this, but he will not rush me, or force me, or do anything unless I want it. I move my leg so it presses against his, and I feel his arousal, thick and hard behind his pants.
I think I understand his game. He will let me touch him because he thinks, correctly, that I am doing what I believe he wants, expects. So instead he shows me what I want. He knows what I want, even though I do not. How strange.
His hand is on my thigh, his eyes search mine, and my heart pounds drum-loud. I put my hand on his and, without taking my eyes from his, inch our fingers slowly, slowly upward, closer to my privates.
I swallow hard and breathe deeply. His eyebrows lift and his hand slows. He knows I am afraid. I shake my head and close my eyes. My thighs are pressed tightly together, instinctual protection. I cannot speak, cannot form words, so I tell him to continue by forcing my legs to relax.
His fingers are tracing circles on the top of my leg, skating up my thigh muscle to my hip bone, to the bunched fabric of my skirt. Now he slides his flattened palm over the hollow where hip meets core, and I tremble, with both antic.i.p.ation and fear. What will his hand on me feel like? In me? I cannot begin to guess.
Down to the inside of my leg now, my thighs still touching each other, pressed close, and his fingers slide between them to move down. I need to touch him. Perhaps that will provide me with the courage to let him go further. I put my hand on his back, feeling the broad, hard muscle ridged beneath my palm. More contact, more heat. I slide my hand under his s.h.i.+rt so I'm touching hot skin, bare flesh.
His lips meet mine, and now need shoots through me. More. Yes.
I arch my back and lift my face to deepen the kiss, and now my tongue darts into his mouth to taste him, explore him. His hand drifts down to my knee and applies gentle pressure outward. I move my leg aside an inch, and then two. His lips close on the kiss, and he pulls back slightly to watch my face as he moves his hand up the crevice between my legs, rough calluses brus.h.i.+ng soft skin. He does not stop this time, and his index finger makes first contact with my privates. I flinch, and he pauses, the side of his finger against my core. My thighs are crushed together, and I force them apart again, drawing in courage with a deep breath.
My thighs are far enough apart now that he is able to turn his hand so his palm cups the mound of sensitive flesh. My breath is coming in short, panicked gasps. Heat is billowing through my body, centered on my core. He moves so slowly, like a creeping sand dune. His middle finger traces up the crease of my womanhood, not parting the lips, only touching. I lick my lips and grip his shoulder, turn my face to press against the column of his arm.
I feel shame rising in my throat like gorge. How can I be letting this happen? I should not. I should stop this. But I do not want to. His touch feels good. His middle finger tracing the crease once more sends lightning shooting through me. I slide my legs farther apart, nod my head against his arm.
He hesitates, though. He nudges my forehead with his lips, pus.h.i.+ng my face away from his arm so I am forced to look at him.
"Do not feel shameful," he says in mangled Arabic. "You want this? I will make you feel nicely, if you want me."
His words are confused, but I know what he means.
I kiss his lips, summon my courage, and meet his eyes. "Touch me," I say in his language. "I fear, but I also want." I am aware that I mangle his language as he does mine, but I do not care, as long as he understands what I intend to say.
He kisses me, gently at first, sweetly, chastely, then with intensifying heat. I give in to the desire, stop fighting it and kiss him back with all the need I feel raging inside me. I kiss him hard, curl my hand around the back of his neck so he cannot break the kiss, crush him closer, taste his tongue and his teeth. My legs fall open wide, my heels drawn slightly in so my knees lie flat on the ground.
He takes this as the invitation it is, and his finger slices up the line of my privates and back down, pus.h.i.+ng in ever so slightly with each motion up and down. I feel at once hot and wet down there, as if wanting him has set loose a flood inside me. I worry that he will feel the wetness inside me and think it is gross, and almost clamp my legs closed, but do not.
His finger slides into me, and I hear his breath catch. I force my eyes open so I can watch for the disgust on his face, but instead I see only desire, pleasure, a smile of delight, but concern touches his eyes.
Then something wild and magical and terrifying happens. He curls his finger upwards and brushes the small nub of sensitive flesh near the top of my privates, and when the tip of his finger touches me there, my universe explodes. I hear a moan, loud and shamefully wanton, escape from me.
I thought I was awash with heat and damp desire before, but in the instant of his finger's contact with my c.l.i.toris, a flood of fire and liquid shoots through me, drenching me. My cheeks burn with shame. I can smell myself, my desire, and I know he does, too. Surely that scent will turn his desire to ashes, cause his face to wrinkle in displeasure. Surely. I watch his face, but all I see is his blue gaze burning into mine, and there is nothing in his eyes but concern for me, and a need so intense my breath catches.
He likes this. His nostrils flare and he draws in a deep breath, pulling in my scent. His head falls onto my chest between my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and his chest heaves. His finger curls against my c.l.i.toris once more, as slowly as the s.h.i.+fting of desert sands. My throat betrays my pleasure with a long, high-pitched whimper, and my body arches clear off the ground as lightning strikes my core.
What is he doing to me? I cannot take this. It is too intense. Too much. My heels sc.r.a.pe the dirt as the wave of ecstasy rolls over me. He waits until my back returns to earth, and then he does it once more. This time, however, he circles the little b.u.t.ton of flesh with his finger, slowly still, but without stopping. My breath sc.r.a.pes past my throat, and a moan hits my teeth and forces my mouth open wide. I can feel my face contorting, my eyes clenching shut, my face lifting to the ceiling as sensations I never knew were possible shoot through me. Such intense pleasure it is nearly painful bolts through me, lightning at my core. Quivers of ecstasy lance through me as his finger swirls around my c.l.i.toris.
Now he moves away from my b.u.t.ton and his fingers, two of them, descend and thrust gently into my womanhood...my v.a.g.i.n.a. I know there are other words; I have heard them all before, but I do not want them in my head. I am fighting enough
I crack my eyes open and glance down to watch him, seeing his hand, his middle and ring fingers pus.h.i.+ng into my privates. He is inside me to the knuckle now. Watch it happen. Let it happen. Enjoy it. His palm faces my body, and now his fingers curl upward, explore my inner walls. My breath is coming short stutters, gasps, whimpers. His curling fingers brush me in a certain spot, high on the inside, and the lightning bolts s.h.i.+ver hotter than ever, send me into a writhing, helpless spasm, and he does not relent, but presses his thumb to my c.l.i.toris and moves it in swift circles, barely brus.h.i.+ng me.
Pressure wells up inside me, and my hips are moving on their own, rocking up into his hand as he moves his thumb against me and his fingers inside me. The pressure is rising, rising, turning into fire, into earthquakes within me. I do not know what is happening. Fear is a cold wave in my heart, threatening to douse the fires raging in me.
I feel like a tea kettle about to boil over. His every touch makes me writhe and whimper. His head rests on my chest, on my s.h.i.+rt, and his breath washes hot against my neck. He, too, seems overwhelmed, barely holding on to his sanity or his control.
I touch his chin so he looks at me. The vulnerability I see in his eyes is what does me in. I am on a ledge, about to fall over into madness. I want to see his eyes, so I may retain some semblance of my self through it all.
HUNTER.
My G.o.d, she's so beautiful. She's barely holding on. I can see how afraid she is of what lies beyond that edge. She's so close, about to come, but she won't let herself. She's gazing at me, fear in her eyes, desire in her eyes, confusion, need, worry, shame.
Shame. She's ashamed of this. I saw her blush when I first touched her. She is so wet, her desire a pungent aroma that has me so hard I could come if she'd only brush her thigh against my c.o.c.k. Just the smell of her p.u.s.s.y is enough to make me lose control. I can't take her eyes on me any longer. I let my head thump down against her chest. The thin cotton of her s.h.i.+rt is strained by the swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, each mound pulled aside by gravity. Her nipples are beads poking the cotton, tempting my tongue.
Not yet. She's not ready for that yet.
My fingers slide inside her channel, and her body is writhing against me. I touch her c.l.i.t with my thumb and I feel her nearly lose it right then, but she doesn't. She's afraid. How do I make her forget her fear?
I kiss her. G.o.d, she tastes so good. Her lips drive me crazy, the way she nibbles at my lower lip, the way her tongue traces my teeth...I want to kiss her forever, but I can't. Her c.l.i.t is a hard little b.u.mp, intensely sensitive. If I so much as brush her c.l.i.t, she whimpers. Her G-spot is a roughened, ribbed patch of skin, and she moans when I rub it with my fingers, her hips bucking against my hand.
I'm so hard, so f.u.c.king hard. I'm about to come in my pants just touching her, just hearing her moan for me. Thank f.u.c.k she isn't trying to touch me, because I wouldn't have enough self-control to stop her. I desperately want to feel her slim little fingers wrap around my c.o.c.k, stroke me and touch me.
No. No. This is about her, not me.
She moves beneath me, sliding down so her knees rise up, her heels b.u.mping against her a.s.s, thighs spread wide as I drive her wild with my fingers. Sliding down made her s.h.i.+rt bunch up even more, and now the bottom swell of one breast is visible.
f.u.c.king G.o.dd.a.m.n it. I can't take it, can't help it. I've wanted to kiss her b.r.e.a.s.t.s from the very first moment she accidentally flashed me while changing. I've seen them again since, but I've always forced my gaze away. To look was to want. Now I have my fingers in her p.u.s.s.y and her juices slathered on my hand, and all I want is to touch her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Need to.
f.u.c.k.
I give in, nudge the hem up with my nose so her breast is bared completely. My G.o.d...so perfect. A taut, round globe of silky sweet skin with wide, dark areolas and tall, rigid nipples begging for my mouth.
I swallow hard, working my tongue to produce saliva. My mouth is dry, my throat clenched up. I'm nervous, oddly. It's not as if I've never done this. Not by a long shot. But this, with Rania...it's different, somehow.
I glance at her eyes, and she's watching me again through hooded lids. I slow my fingers inside her, and her hips lessen the wildness of their bucking. Her mouth is open, and her eyes betray her weltering emotions.
"Please," she whispers.
I don't know what she's asking. Stop? More? Make her come? I don't know. I don't want to hurt her or scare her. I want her to experience this. The fear in her eyes tells me she's never felt this before, and I'm not surprised. s.e.x for her must be an impersonal thing, a transaction. I can't image anyone has ever taken the time or expended the effort to give her pleasure. This must be confusing and frightening for her, especially if she thinks I'm going to use her like she's accustomed to being used. I can't tell her I won't. I don't have the words, and I do want to. I want to be inside her. She's so close to coming, and I want-need, so f.u.c.king bad-to move over her and push into her and feel her tight around me.
She is tight, too. I didn't expect that, considering. Guilt and shame at the thought burn into me, but it's true. I didn't expect her to be tight, but she is.
"Please," she whispers again, and touches my face so I look at her.
She arches her back and rocks her hips. She wants more.
She stares into my eyes, and then peels her s.h.i.+rt off so she's naked from the waist up, glorious b.r.e.a.s.t.s bare to my touch, bare to my mouth. I let myself look this time, take in the expanse of skin and mounds of flesh.
Her breath is coming in shallow pants, and I can feel the tension in her muscles. Baring herself like this is taking effort, courage. I want to touch her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I wish I could kneel above her so I have both hands free to touch her all over, but my wounds won't let me, and I don't think she'd react well to having me above her like that.
I take my fingers out of her, and she moans in protest. Her cheeks flame with shame as I lift my fingers to my nose to inhale her aromatic scent. I think she's ashamed of the musk of desire from her juices. I put my fingers to my mouth and taste her essence, meeting her eyes all the while. Her eyes widen in pure shock and disbelief, perhaps even something like disgust. I can't help a little laugh from escaping at the expression on her face. I swipe into her slit again, gather essence on my fingers, and lick it off again, just to prove the point. Her brow wrinkles, and she shakes her head.
I slide my palm across her ribs, and her expression smoothes out into pleasure as I cup the heavy weight of one breast in my hand. She watches me as I lower my face to her skin, kiss her flesh between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, kneading it. I rub my palm across her nipple, and she gasps. When I roll it between my fingers, she bites her lip to keep from moaning out loud. I wish I could tell her how much I love the noises she makes for me. I can't, don't try. Words would fail me. Her beauty has captured me, imprisoned my capacity for language. All I can do is pay homage to the temple of her body.
I pinch her nipple again, delighting at the gasp that tears from her, and then I take her nipple into my mouth and suckle, and I feel joy rocket through me when she moans so loud it's almost a scream.
I find myself wondering how mad with ecstasy I could make her if I went down on her. G.o.d, she would respond so beautifully. I can almost feel her thighs clenching my face as she writhes against my mouth. I can almost feel her fingers tugging my hair and hear her voice raised in pleasure.
I don't know if she's ready for that.
I lick her skin, flick her nipples, each one in turn, with my tongue, and I return my fingers to her p.u.s.s.y, slide them against her c.l.i.t slowly, circling gently, mindful of her sensitivity.
She gasps and moans and whimpers, all control over her vocal responses shot to h.e.l.l now. I love it.
f.u.c.k, I have to stop thinking that word. That word isn't possible.
She feels so f.u.c.king good. Her skin is flaming hot against me, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s softer than the softest silk, her hips rocking and writhing against my fingers. I have to fight myself to stay up here, to keep myself from startling her too much. She's still skittish. But, dammit, I want to taste her. I know she would like it, once she got past the shock.
I really shouldn't. It would freak her out.
But I want to make her come, want to taste her as she comes apart around me.
RANIA.
Allah, I am so lost in the wilderness of ecstasy Hunter gives me that I have no control over anything I do. I hear my mouth making such shocking sounds, not faked now, but real. My knees are sticking up in the air, my heels against my backside, my hips moving as if they're alive as Hunter moves his fingers against me.
His mouth is on my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, moving from one to the other frantically, nibbling, kissing, licking. Every once in a while he bites my nipple, just hard enough to make me insane, to send jets of pleasure whirling inside me.
I feel him moving, but I cannot fathom what he might be doing. I cannot think, cannot form coherent ideas. All I know is his fingers inside me, his mouth on my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. His fingers never cease their movement, and I am about to explode, but cannot. Not yet. I do not know why, but I cannot fall over the edge. I am afraid of what lies beyond, what that will feel like, but I also want it, more than I have ever wanted anything.
I feel him moving slowly, adjusting his position, but my eyes are glued shut as the lightning from his fingers, moving slow and then fast and then slow, fills me. I feel his shoulders brush my knees, and I know he is going to mount me now, and I am not even afraid, especially if it means relief from this boiling pressure within me.
But he does not mount me. His lips touch my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, his s.h.i.+rt-clad chest brus.h.i.+ng my stomach. Then, impossibly, terrifyingly, he moves downward. Toward my privates. No. No. I tense, freeze, but his fingers on my c.l.i.toris take over for me and I move once again, yet my fear does not abate.
When he licked the fingers that had been inside me, I nearly died of shame. The smell is embarra.s.sing enough, but when he licked the wetness off, the moisture that I could see glinting on his fingers, that was mortifying. And now...and now he is moving as if to put his mouth on my v.a.g.i.n.a. I have heard of this, of course. Soldiers are vulgar beasts, and they tell vulgar jokes, suggest vulgar things. They suggest this very thing, but when they visit me with their greasy, folded dinars, they do not follow through. Not that I would have let them. I have to retain some sense of power if I am to survive. I dictate what they may do, and to let a man do what Hunter is about to do, that would be giving up the little vestige of power I actually have. That would be vulnerability.
Except I am letting it happen. His mouth leaves my breast and I feel his breath on my stomach, and now it is hot on my privates, burning me. I know I am panicking, truly panicking now. My breath is ragged gasps, and my heart is thundering like the hooves of a thousand horses. His fingers continue to move, and the diversion of pleasure centered powerfully on my core is enough distraction that I do not go completely mad.
And then his tongue laps at my core, and I am undone.
HUNTER.
My G.o.d, she tastes so good. Her strong soft thighs rest on my shoulders, trembling like a leaf in the wind, and I can't believe she would let me do this, but she is. Her whole body is shaking, quivering. Her breathing is panicked, each inbreath a whimper, each outbreath a moan.
This position, on my stomach, is excruciating. It's too much weight on my healing ribs, and I can barely breathe for the agony, but nothing-nothing-matters except Rania in this moment.
She's closer now. I swipe my tongue up her slit and she groans low in her throat, shaking her head, denying I don't know what, and her hips lift, fall. I lap my tongue against her c.l.i.t, an upward thrust with the tip of my tongue, and she gasps a shriek. I do it again and again, and each time she makes a sound so impossibly erotic that my c.o.c.k jerks and I nearly lose it again. I have to clamp down with every muscle in my body to keep from exploding right there, as if I was fourteen and a virgin again.
I lick her c.l.i.t in a rhythm, and now her hips go wild, and yes, G.o.d, yes, her fingers clutch my hair. She doesn't seem to know whether to push me against her p.u.s.s.y or push me away. She settles for just tangling her fingers in my hair tightly enough that it hurts, but that pain is a mere drop in the bucket compared to the fire in my ribs, the burning in my lungs. I mean, f.u.c.k it hurts. I don't stop, though. I'll stop when she comes. She's close, so close.
I want to feel her shatter around me. Her legs are clenched so hard I'm almost worried she'll pop my head like a grape, but then she remembers on her own and lessens the pressure.
I slip my fingers beneath my chin into her p.u.s.s.y, focusing my tongue on her c.l.i.t in ever-faster circles, and I rub her G-spot with my fingers to match the rhythm. I take her c.l.i.t into my mouth and suck on it, flicking it with my tongue like La-no, not going there, not even thinking her name-she liked it like this.
Rania screams past gritted teeth, her body arched off the ground, fingers tangled in my hair.
Yes, now...
RANIA.
Oh, G.o.d, oh, Allah, oh, sweet Heaven...
I call on the Christian G.o.d, on my parents' G.o.d. Words are ripped from my lips, actual screams. I am past feeling shame at the noises I am making. His mouth does things to my body that I cannot fathom, cannot understand, cannot bear. It is too much, too intense.
I want to shove his face away from my privates, but I cannot make myself do it, because it is too much to stop. His tongue flicks my c.l.i.toris and I nearly sob, but gasp instead. His fingers slide into me just as I begin to think it cannot feel any more impossibly intense, and I could die from the storm of fire in my belly.
How can this keep going? How can he do this? I can hear the grunt in his chest, the stubborn refusal to capitulate to the pain, and I cannot believe he is able to move at all, let alone give me such incredible pleasure.
This is a gift, I realize. I will treasure this all my life, whatever may happen once this is over.
My body is writhing like a serpent, my back undulating, my hips lifting and falling. My hands are on his head, my fingers in his hair. I am still torn between conflicting instincts to push him away and pull him closer.
When his fingers go inside me again and find that spot unerringly, I lose the fight. I clutch him, pull him wantonly, selfishly against my womanhood. Then his mouth forms a suction around my b.u.t.ton and I scream.
The fires in my belly, the pressure, the storm, it is about to break.
He slows, just at that moment, and I moan in protest.
"Hunter..." His name comes out of my mouth, torn from me.
I tighten my fingers in his hair until I know it must hurt him, but I am past the ability to care about anything. I pull him against me, push his face deeper into me, my legs around his shoulders. It takes all my power to not crush him with my legs.
And then...
And then it happens.
"HUNTER!" I scream his name as I explode, coming apart at the seams.