And he stops. He hilts himself and stops, pinning me against the couch. I pant for breath, and finally, I open my eyes and look at Eli.
He doesn’t have to speak for me to know what he wants.
“Please,” I say, the word coming out a hoarse whisper.
He gives me the half-cocked smile. He kisses me roughly.
Then he pulls out. We move as one, untangling, until I’m on my knees, on the floor, elbows on the couch and he’s behind me.
He slides into me in one smooth thrust. My toes curl and I moan, clutching the couch fabric in my hands.
We fuck. We don’t sleep together, we don’t bang, and we sure as hell don’t make love. We’re on the floor of a barn and this is fucking, pure and raw and simple.
Eli wraps an arm around my chest, pulls me upright. He covers my mouth with one hand and finds my clit with the other while I moan onto his fingers.
It doesn’t take long before I’m shaking and shuddering. Eli knows exactly what I need, how to touch me. He’s had weeks of near-constant practice, and he’s always been a quick study.
But there’s something else. There’s the fact that Eli fits me like a glove. There’s the fact that he feels custom-made for me, the fact that what I need always seems to be exactly what he wants.
I come so hard I see stars. Eli’s hand is still over my mouth, his other fingers strumming my clit, and he doesn’t stop for anything. I come in wave after wave, my climax rocking through me.
Seconds later, Eli follows. His grip is like iron on my body, and he holds me there, using me as his cock strains and throbs, my pussy clenching again in answer.
Finally, we relax. He doesn’t let me go but we relax, on our knees on the floor. He takes his hand from my mouth and I put mine over top of it, winding my fingers between his.
“Violet, I have a confession,” he says, his lips next to my ear.
“I don’t already know all your sins?”
“At the moment, you are most of my sins.”
“Then what have you got to confess?” I ask.
He pauses, his thumb stroking my ribcage absentmindedly. I’m still on my knees, sandwiched between him and the couch, in this state of post-coital reverie where everything seems unreal except for the warmth of his body against mine.
“Sometimes I wish we weren’t us,” he says.
I lean my head back against his shoulder. I’m drunk and he’s drunk, my mind swirling, bits of words and feelings and things I should say crashing through my brain, presenting themselves and disappearing.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he says after a while. He strokes my bare ribcage with one thumb.
“You wish I wasn’t me and you weren’t you,” I say.
“I wish I wanted someone who got along with me,” he murmurs into my hair. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
He finally pulls back. We unwind, tumbling to the floor. I’m still naked, my back against the couch. Eli puts an arm around me, his pants still on and undone. I lean my head against his shoulder.
“I get along with you just fine,” I say. “You’re the one who doesn’t get along with me.”
He just laughs.
“How on earth could that be?” he muses. “You’re so damn agreeable, Violet.”
“You’d hate it if I were.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” he says. “I like nice girls.”
“I’m nice,” I say.
Eli kisses the top of my head, his arm still around me.
“You’re something,” he says.Chapter Thirty-ThreeEliI should have kept my mouth shut. I don’t know why I think I have to say everything out loud that runs through my brain when I get drunk, but I do.
I press my lips into her hair and try not to think, because that’s clearly no good right now. I’ll think tomorrow.
Right now, I’m here and she’s here against me, wrapped together on the floor like lovers.
“What time is it?” Violet asks.
“You got a date?” I tease.
She just laughs.
“Yeah, my next barn sex appointment’s at eleven,” she says lazily, not moving. “Just tell me what time it is.”
I know it’s a joke, but I don’t like it. I don’t like it the same way I didn’t like it when Seth said she was hot. Neither statement has any real significance, and yet.
I pull out my phone.
“Almost eleven,” I tell her. “You about to tell me that we should go?”
“I’m about to tell you we should stagger our departure,” she says, even as she slides an arm around my waist.
“I should buy you one of those fake glasses with the nose and the moustache,” I tell her. “That way we could sneak around all sorts of places and no one would ever know it was you.”
“They’d just think you had a Groucho Marx fetish.”
“There are worse things,” I say.