Page 85 of Courtroom Drama
My hand slides down him, and I let my fingers stroke him, mythumb brushing the tip, then down the length. He closes his eyes and hangs his head in response.
“How many did he give you?” I ask.
“One,” he says, also breathing hard.
I cup his length in my palm, wrap my fingers firmly around him. “Then I guess we better make it count,” I say.
He responds with a groan and leans into me again, his kiss ferocious and demanding. I respond with equal force, releasing my grip on him so I can close the space between us and feel his kiss more deeply.
I have never looked at or touched or longed for a man the way I do Damon. The yearning I have for him is like a tummy ache after too much sugar, a bee trapped in my sternum. It hurts, the ache of desire for this man.
As if he knows this is exactly the right moment, he takes his hand and smooths the hair from my face, presses his lips to mine once more, then buries his head into the side of my neck as he enters me. I rock forward to allow him in, and we both release a breath in unison as he finds his way. His mouth suctions to the top of my shoulder when he’s pressed deeply inside me, and I shudder. He bites firmly at the same spot on my neck as he pulls out, then slides back in again, and I’m mentally pleading for time to stop so this feeling can last indefinitely. I press my fingertips into his ass, urging him along. He obliges, moving with faster, more distinct effort. And for an indiscernible moment in time, we are one, connected in every way, moving together and apart at the exact right frequency, a surge of pleasure between us both. I beg for it not to end, for him not to stop, and it’s more vocal than I expect myself to be. He seems to enjoy it—my pleading—bulling into me with more abandon each time.
As my tension builds to near release, he pulls himself out of me and smirks at the resulting frown that overtakes my face.
“I can’t let this end yet,” he huffs. He rolls off me and sits up, pulling me into his lap. I eagerly oblige, lowering down onto him. His eyelids twitch as I take him in fully, and I feel nothing short of powerful as I ride him. I rest my forearms on his broad shoulders, tug at his hairas I move. He buries his face into me, biting again at the curve of my neck as my pace becomes frenzied. He thrusts his hips with me, and together we slam into each other with reckless surrender.
In this suspended time, it’s as though he was built for me. He fits me perfectly, filling all the places that have felt so empty for so long. Somewhere along the way, he has taken over, pounding into me, and I can do nothing but bounce and moan in pleasure.
When his final thrust comes, I clench, holding him inside me for a last moment of bliss.
“Holy shit,” he exhales into my neck.
I agree. “Holy shit.” I feel a release so deep I only realize the presence after it’s gone, like a chiropractor has worked out a longstanding kink.
I climb off him and lie flat, and he stretches out onto his back beside me. We laze quietly for a moment, and as we do, he runs his fingertips gently along the top of my right thigh, and it causes a new eruption of goose bumps across my damp skin.
Here, beside Damon, I am more alive than I have ever been.
I run my fingers along his arm and chest, admiring his ink, recognizing again it’s the first time I’ve seen him without a shirt and, thus, the first time I’m seeing some of his tattoos. His skin holds a backward map of his life, and I want to drive every road, see the moments of each, all the way back to their origins.
He props himself up on his elbow to face me when we’ve both caught our breath. “That was...”
“Nice?” I offer.
“More than nice. Epic.”
I laugh. “I like that. Epic.”
He presses his lips lightly to my forehead, then cups the side of my jaw and runs his thumb gently across my bottom lip. I wonder if he knows how intensely I feel his forehead kisses.
“I’ve thought about this since the first time I saw you,” he says, his voice gravelly.
“We were ten.”
He huffs. “Okay, maybe not the first time, but definitely shortly after.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“You were my best friend,” he says, as if it’s answer enough. And it is. We were kids when we met. When and how were we meant to transition to more? His hand grazes my thigh. “I did plenty of things, thinking about you.”
I let my tongue rub at the tip of his thumb, and he flicks his eyes down to the movement.
“Oh?” I say, unsure if he means during our time on this trial or back then.
“Yeah.”
“Tell me,” I murmur, arousal humming between my legs again, as though it never waned.
