#Slice :: #WankWednesday
Our first contact wasn’t a kiss. It was a duel. A contest. A war waged with teeth and tongue.
This is how we are.
This is how we always will be.
It was Jessi who slammed me against the wall, driving my breath from me, forcing my mouth open for her tongue. She stabbed at mine, parried it, fucked her hot tongue into my lips.
I went taut and wet and feral.
This is how we are.
This is how we’ve always been.
When her knee shoved mine apart I snarled against her mouth. I cursed the serendipity that led her to me still in my yoga pants and tank top. They offered little resistance, bending and bowing away from her hands like willows. I twisted, tried to take back the leverage. Jessi slammed my hands against the wall, fingers so tight around my wrists bones ground in complaint.
“Don’t fucking touch me.” Her words were harsh and nasty. I wondered who set her off today, who turned this needy, angry beast loose to hunt for me. “You’re going to stand there and take it,” she rasped close to my ear. Her teeth raked down my neck, over my collarbone. I know those teeth. They’re sharp. I can’t count how many times I’ve ran my tongue over their edge, feeling the threat. They’re teeth that tear, teeth that rend.
Fifteen feet away the sanctuary of my loft taunted me. Within I’d gladly surrender to whatever depravity she needed to visit upon my body. Then I’d turn the tables and take her back, guide her back to the calm, collected woman she normally presented after pushing her for orgasm after orgasm.
Here. In the hall. I twisted my head, my hips, my shoulders. In short, I fought. The laugh that trickled through her lips scared me. As did the flood of want that greeted the rake of her fingers through my slit. “Stop, Sash,” she said, her voice a void of emotion. “Stop fighting me.” I felt her lips against nape and shivered at her words. “I don’t know what I’ll do to you if you don’t fucking stop.”
My body obeyed, though my mind still fought. “I’ve never seen you like this,” I murmured, conciliatory, using that voice one uses with defensive animals.
“Shut the fuck up.” My stomach lurched at the words, my cunt coiled at the swirl of her fingertips over my clit. “No more, Sash,” she breathed against my neck. My thoughts spun and swirled, fallen leaves in a maelstrom. “You. Are. Mine.” Her fingers shoved up into me, hard and fierce as her words. I bit my lip, tasted the coppery velvet of my own blood.
And I knew. Knew she’d heard I’d finally given up on her, met someone, gone on a date. Her mouth slid over mine. Her fingers gone surprisingly gentle, her tongue smoothing over the swell that throbbed in time with my heartbeat. I trembled. I shook. I came on those tender fingers, crying out, my voice echoing down the hall.
“You’re mine,” she said against my lips, slicing her tongue through them. I shuddered and came again, the roll of my orgasm spidering up my spine and down my legs. My knees buckled. Jessi caught me, held me up against the wall. “Mine, Sasha, mine,” she repeated, soft and low. Hot tears tipped over my eyelashes and streaked down my cheeks. I gasped when she slipped her fingers from me, raising them to her lips to taste them. Her smile, creamy and self-satisfied, pushed at the wound that was her rejection for so many years and broke it open, spilling out vile green emotion.
“No, Jessi,” I murmured. I pulled my pants up, tucked in my top, fished my key from my pocket. “Not yours. Not any more. You waited too long.”