Run To You (16 page)

And yet oh, God, I understand them perfectly.

They’re begging me to finish this, each syllable so obviously fraught with need I can’t deny him anything. I have to lean in close, to give him the final perverted act. I have to put my lips to his ear and whisper, as soft as silk and so filled with delight.

‘
You don’t leave
.’

He doesn’t quite savage me. But it isn’t far off, either. The second I’ve said those subversive words, he makes me turn around. And when I say he makes me, I mean he makes me. There’s no persuasion, no precise and deliberate commands. He just gets hold of my waist and manhandles me – like he did on the bed for that brief moment of absolute ecstasy.

Only this time it’s much more obvious.

And much more forceful.

I suppose that’s what happens when you jack someone up to force factor ten before things have even begun. Previously I’d only experienced his sudden storming desire from the mid-point onwards. Now it’s right here from the beginning, and oh, Lord, it’s overwhelming. It’s like being mauled by a mad tiger.

His hands feel enormous. They seem to span most of my sides, from my hips all the way up to my ribcage. And he’s gripping me really, really hard. I’ll probably have bruises tomorrow, but oddly I find I don’t care. Instead, my insides sizzle whenever I think about it. I’ll be able to look in the mirror and see where he held me, I think, and then I just have to sag against the back of my seat.

He doesn’t let me hold the pose for long, however. He just hauls me back up, until I’m on my knees. And once I’m in a position he likes – facing the rear window, arms on the back of the seat, legs slightly spread – he does something even better than the rest of this madness.

He shoves my skirt up.

There’s no careful, inch-by-inch removal here. He simply yanks at anything that gets in his way, and that includes my skirt, and my shirt, and my panties. The first ends up around my waist, as I mentioned. But the second, ohhhh, the second one. I could swim around in the way he goes about that.

He gets a grip on one side and pulls – and most of the buttons pop. Then he simply slides his hand inside, roaming over my breasts in this really greedy way. By the time he’s done, the cups of my bra are no longing covering me, and I’m shivering all over.

And that’s before he goes for the third item on my list:

My panties.

I think I expect him to really rip that item of clothing. He’s getting progressively worse as this goes on, so it doesn’t seem like a far-out assumption – and in fact I’m bracing myself for it. I’m imagining the pain of the elastic as it briefly digs in. I’m wondering if that will leave a bruise too.

And that’s when he eases the material aside, and slides his fingers all the way through my soaked folds. Just like that, so smooth and sudden I can hardly accept it. Is he really touching me there, or did I want it so bad I invented his hand on me?

I’m going to go with the latter, because oh, it feels so amazing it can’t be real. There’s just something about the way he did it that flips all of my switches. My panties were a minor inconvenience that he barely registered, on his way to getting what he wants.

And what he wants is my pussy, hot and wet in his hand.

I
know
he wants this.

He
tells me
he wants this.

‘I can’t wait to feel this slippery little pussy around my cock,’ he says, while I quietly die of desire. I’m not sure if it’s the ‘slippery’ or the ‘pussy’ or the ‘cock’, or a combination of all three. But they definitely do something to me.

How could they not? He’s never really spoken like that before. Oh, he’s said sexy things, sure. And in all honesty, he could read the phone book in that accent and I’d be melting. Yet nothing – and I mean
nothing
– beats him saying filthy words out loud. Nothing beats him talking about his own cock as though it’s an actual part of him, instead of something he hardly acknowledges. Usually he pretends he has no desires at all.

But now he seems pretty keen on letting me know. Even if I set aside the hand on my breast and the fingers he’s just sunk knuckle deep into my pussy, I can’t possibly overlook what he’s doing against the curve of my hip. He’s rubbing himself over me, though really it’s more than that. Rubbing suggests something fairly innocent.

This is not innocent at all.

This is him rutting and rutting at me like a bull in heat. I can actually make out the shape and length of his prodigious cock, even though he still has all of his clothes on. It feels heavy and solid, and somehow so much ruder for all the material around it.

Like it’s a secret, I think. Like he’s secretly aroused, and can only let me know through this long, slow insinuation against my body. He’s not allowed to say, and he can’t strip, so this is all he’s got.

Though, God knows, it’s enough. I think I almost come when I first feel him doing it – and I definitely skirt close when he finds my clit with his thumb. He just flicks over it, as he keeps up that long, slow roll against my hip. Never increasing the pace. Never showing me too much.

But always showing me just enough. He’s really and truly excited, and he wants to do this, and he’s happy to come apart for me. And all of those things make a swell of feeling rush through my body – almost an orgasm, but not quite. I’m right on the edge, and just need a little more to push me over.

Maybe a bit more of that stroking over my swollen clit. Or a kiss to the back of my neck. And oh, I’d kill for one of his thick, rough fingers sliding into my pussy.

So I suppose it’s lucky, really, that he gives me all three. He presses down with his thumb over my stiff little bud, and when I shiver – that’s when I feel his hot, wet mouth on the back of my neck. It’s the first time he’s really given me a kiss of any kind – if you don’t count his tongue stroking and stroking through my wet folds – and of course the sensation is electric. I think I actually gasp over the feel of it.

But the gasping is a little premature. I should have saved it up for the third and final thing on my wish list, and not just because of the sweet, unbearable slide of something easing into my slippery pussy. There’s also the shock, oh, God, the glorious shock of suddenly realising that he’s not touching me with his fingers.

He’s using his obviously condom-clad cock.

He’s going to actually fuck me – though I don’t know why that’s so stunning. He did say he was going to. And I guess he came kind of close the last time we were together. Yet still, the idea overwhelms me. I say his name three times in a row, like I need to somehow grind the sense of him into me.

I need to know that it’s definitely him doing this, despite knowing that it couldn’t be anyone else. I can smell his cologne, light and rich at the same time – and that body couldn’t belong to any other person. All I have to do is lean back a little and I can feel how heavy and solid it is. I can feel how it surrounds me, as he slowly pushes inward.

And oh, man, am I grateful for it. I can sag against him when the pleasure proves too much, which happens often. In truth it’s already going on, because, good God, it is incredible to feel him sliding into me. He’s as big as I remember and as thick, but he doesn’t force his way in. He rubs and urges and insinuates, until the head of his heavy cock just parts the way.

And then rocks, ever so slowly, until he’s all the way there.

It’s blissful and agonising, all at the same time. Blissful because of the feelings – that thing opening me up, then pressing and sliding against a thousand different nerve-endings – and agonising because of how deliberate he suddenly is again. He’s slowed right down, just when I want him to keep going, keep charging forward, keep using me like this.

I needn’t have worried, however.

The second he’s inside me, something shifts. It’s like he knew he had to be careful at first. Anyone with a cock like his would have to be careful. But once I’ve taken him all and am obviously insanely happy about that fact – panting and mewling and twisting like a maniac – he returns to that feverish, frantic state.

His hand snaps up to grip the back of the seat – knuckles white with tension, one bicep so firm and hard next to my head. But it’s a good thing he does, really. I need something to hold onto, when he finally cuts loose. His arm is my safety bar for this ride I’m suddenly on.

And I cling to it. I have to cling to it. His first thrust is so jolting my teeth snap together, and his second is even better. It hits places I’d only previously read about in implausible books, and a moan just gushes out of me – too loud in this silent space.

But I don’t care. How could I? He’s driving into me, and besides:

He’s not being quiet now, either. He’s breathing so hard it would probably qualify as grunting, if he was the kind of person to do something like that. And after a while of this fierce and furious pounding, he actually
becomes
the kind of person to do something like that. He makes noises – real and actual noises. They’re all breathless and hard won, as though he has to strain and strain to get them out, or else strain and strain to keep them down.

And then he says my name, and I’m lost.

I’m already shaking. The hand I’m holding onto him with is sweaty and spasmodic, like it can’t decide if it should grip him close to the elbow or further down towards the wrist. And I know I’m crying a little. I can taste the salt on my lips.

But there’s still that other level of abandonment. There’s still a place of complete pleasure, where I’m sobbing and begging and twisting against him, close enough to orgasm to almost taste it, but not close enough to get that relief. No, no, I need something else to get to that perfect point.

Something like him speaking.

‘Ah, yes,’ he says. ‘Come all over my cock.’

And I do, I do, oh, God, I do.
Of course
I do. I can hear his gorgeous voice – fraught with his own pleasure and desire – and his gorgeous voice is saying things. He’s talking about his cock again, and about coming, and most of all:

He knows I’m almost there. He can probably hear it in my newly urgent moans, and see it in each shudder and twist – or at least that’s what I think until he speaks again. After which, I don’t think anything at all. ‘Oh, I can feel your sweet pussy tightening around me,’ he says, and my brain goes on a much-needed vacation.

My body takes over, shuddering through an orgasm so intense I can hardly stand it. It’s just like before on the bed – I try to get away. I buck and twist and attempt to climb the back of the seat, and the way he fights me just makes it worse.

His hands go to my hips, holding me in place. Then, just as I’m processing this sensation, he uses that grip he’s got to pull me back and back and back onto his cock, until I’m reeling. I can’t breathe. I can’t make the sounds I want to make. They’re all stuck, and when they eventually emerge they’re too much like a throttled grunt.

I sound like an animal.

Though he doesn’t care.

‘Yes yes yes, do it, do it,’ he says, in a tone that sends me inside out. It’s as guttural as my voice currently is and almost too low to hear, like he can’t expend too much energy on talking. He has to really focus on fucking me and fucking me, all the way through this orgasm and right into the next one.

Which comes as just as much of a surprise to him as it does to me.

‘Oh,
szeretett
, are you coming again? Are you? Tell me. Say something to me,’ he demands, but it’s the desperation in his tone that really makes me want to answer. His voice almost breaks around ‘say’ and ‘something’, in a way that makes me wonder:

Has he been waiting all this time for that? Has he been waiting for my words? I think he has, but if so he has to know: I’ve never been much of a talker. I’m always at a loss what to say, or mired in worry that I’m saying the wrong thing. What if I talk about cocks when someone is wanting a pussy?

What if I go too far?

And then I realise:

There
is
no too far with him.

‘Fuck my pussy,’ I say, and he hardly flinches.

He does moan for me, however. And he grabs my shoulder, as though he needs something extra to hold onto. He needs to stabilise himself, just like I did – and oh, that thought is so very welcome. There’s absolutely nothing better in this whole world than Janos Kovacs truly going to pieces.

And it’s definitely happening now. He can’t seem to stop himself moaning my name, though I know he wants to. Each syllable is thick and throttled, punctuated by an increasingly shaky thrust. He can hardly contain himself any more.

And I just have to lean on that a little.

‘Yeah, that’s it, fuck me,’ I say, then bolder, and louder: ‘Oh, God, I want you to come so bad, oh, I want you to fill me, yeah, fill me.’

Though I swear I don’t expect him to actually do it. I thought it was just me who bent to the will of words, but apparently not. The second I’ve said it I feel his hand tighten in the material of my shirt, and his body stiffens.

But that’s not the best part.

No, the best part is the sound he makes, oh, God, the
sound
. It’s got this note of disbelief running through it, like he can’t quite credit that this is happening. And when his body jerks and this orgasm really takes hold, he calls out my name. He draws it out like a plea, one sweet syllable at a time.

With that unknown word on the end:
szeretett
.

Though I don’t need a lesson in Hungarian to know it’s an endearment. I can tell it’s an endearment from the tone of his voice, so soft, and sweet. And when I glance back – just to see how he looks when he comes, just to watch him give everything up for a second – I know for sure.

His eyes are dark with feeling, so obviously full of tenderness and love I couldn’t pretend otherwise if I tried. I don’t want to pretend otherwise. I want to revel in his honest-to-God emotions, and for a while I do.

Before I realise that there’s something else there too. It’s just flickering around the edges of all of those warm feelings, and at first I can’t quite place it. It’s lost amongst the stuff that makes my heart catch fire, though maybe that’s more my fault than his. I want to focus solely on them for just a moment, despite knowing that I can’t.