Trashed (14 page)

I can’t breathe, can’t do anything but shake and whimper and moan, and eventually his mouth pulls away from my pussy and I’m being bodily moved up to the top of the bed, and he’s beside me, looking down at me.
 

“Ho—holy shit,” I gasp. “Holy shit.”
 

I look up at him. His mouth is shiny with wetness, and I’m mortified to realize that it’s my essence on his face, smeared on his skin. As I watch, he wipes his palm across his lips, and then his forearm, and I blush. He smirks knowingly, his palm skating across my stomach, up to my breasts. He brushes his index finger over my nipple, and I flinch, so sensitive even that slight, gentle touch is almost too much.
 

I rake my gaze over his broad shoulders, his thick pectoral muscles, his tree trunk-huge arms, the heavy sculpted slab of his abdomen, and then I see the thick ridge of his cock bulging the stretchy gray fabric of his CK boxer-briefs.
 

He’s watching me watch him.
 

I turn toward him, reach a hand out, rest it on his side. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. I run my fingertips over his firm skin until I come to the elastic band of his underwear. Can I do this?
 

My emotions are a jumble. I’m not a virgin because I don’t feel desire, or because I’m a prude, or because of religion; I’m a virgin because I experienced things that caused deep wounds inside me, left thick scars and impenetrable walls between me and the world. I’m a virgin because I don’t trust anyone to not hurt me. But I feel desire. I feel need. I ache. I’m lonely. I’m a twenty-two-year-old girl with the same hormones and drives and appetites as any other, but so far my fear and distrust has won out.
 

Now, somehow, for reasons I don’t understand, desire is winning. Attraction and desperation is winning. Adam is all man. He’s huge and strong and sexy and beautiful, but he’s also kind and funny and reassuring and down-to-earth despite his fame and wealth.
 

And I want him.

I want to touch him. I want to see what he looks like totally naked. I want to see his cock. I want to touch him. I want him to kiss me and get lost, and I want to get lost in him. I want to drown myself in this with him, future and consequences be damned.
 

I want to conquer my fear.
 

So I caress my palm over Adam’s chest and stomach and shoulder, and then push him down to his back, and I sit up. Hooking my fingers in the elastic, I let out a long breath, lick my lips, and pull his underwear down. I have to stretch the waistband away from his body to free his erection, and then he’s lifting his hips for me and drawing his foot out of one side, and then kicking it away.

I’m naked with Adam Trenton.

He’s still, watching me, and only his eyes move, flicking from side to side, then down to my breasts and between my thighs, and back up.
 

My gaze is locked on his cock. Holy hell is he big. Tall, thick, and straight, standing erect, pointing away from his body ever so slightly. My pulse is crashing thunder in my ears, my hands trembling ever so slightly. Or maybe a lot. Adam seems totally at ease, one hand tucked behind his head, the other resting with proprietary familiarity on my thigh.
 

The fingertips of my right hand trail down the slight dusting of dark hair on his chest and stomach, but I chicken out and skirt his crotch, dragging my fingers down his thigh. His posture is loose and relaxed and confident but, jerking my gaze from his impressive erection to his eyes, I notice that his expression is as shuttered as mine is, as if he’s feeling a weltering wealth of emotion and has as many walls up as I do. Maybe I’m reading too much into his blank expression, but I don’t think I am. I summon my courage and draw on my desire, bring my hand back up his opposite thigh, to his stomach. He tenses, sucks in his stomach as my hand nears his erection. His eyes narrow, his nostrils flare. The hand tucked under his head clenches into a fist, and the hand on my thigh squeezes, and then relaxes.
 

Hovering over him briefly, I finally let my palm descend, and the thick, veined, dark organ is in my hand. I close my fingers around him, and he inhales a long, deep breath. I’ve got him in my fist, now, and his flesh is hot and smooth. It’s exactly as hard in my hand as it looked, yet also softer, silkier. Like satin cushioned around a core of steel. I slide my fist down, and the bulbous head emerges from the top of my hand, straining. I touch my thumb to the very top, and find it springy, squishy. A bead of wetness oozes from the tiny hole at the tip, and my thumb smears over it. Adam’s jaw is clenched, his breathing coming in deep, even inhalations. I move my hand up, and then back down, and Adam’s hips lift slightly. He likes this. I mean, duh, I knew—intellectually—that he would like it, but knowing it mentally is not the same as seeing as his reactions, feeling his stomach tense and his thighs contract, and feeling his hips lift into my touch, seeing his eyes go hooded and hot.
 

I twist my fist around his thickness as I bring my hand down, and then twist again as I bring it slowly back up. The clear fluid beading at his tip is all over my hand now, and smeared all over the thick, soft, broad bulb the head of his cock.
 

“You’d better stop,” Adam says. “Or this is gonna end real fast.”
 

He was that close to coming? I didn’t realize it would be that easy. Part of me wants to keep going, wants to make him come. I want to watch that happen, and know that I did it. Maybe I’ll get that chance another time. For now, I let go, and then he’s lifting up, his torso leaving the bed, his mouth finding mine, his tongue thrusting into my mouth, and heat fills me. Energy sluices through me, desire floods me. My hands find his chest, his shoulders, his arms, caressing the great muscles, tracing the contours and indentations.
 

I’m on my back, somehow, and I don’t mind it. I like his bulk above me, like his mouth on mine, like the warmth billowing from his skin. I like the press of his body on mine. I feel his knee slide across my thigh, press down on the mattress between my legs, and then his other knee does the same, and we’re devouring each other’s mouths, his tongue wrestling against mine, seeking and scouring and I’m giving as good as I’m getting, lost to the kiss. Pressure coils low in my belly, and my hands come alive, scraping over his back and now finally I find the courage to grab his ass, and I find it hard and taut and I like it, like the way it feels in my hands, so I spend time caressing him there, exploring, kneading, down to his thighs and back up to his spine, and then return to palming both cheeks in my hands.

His knees nudge my thighs apart, and my heart crashes in my chest.
 

It’s happening. It’s going to happen.
 

And I want it to. I’m going to let it.

Not just let it, but welcome it. I’m going to go into this eyes wide open, knowing that I may never see this man again, but I’ll have this with him. There’s still fear boiling deep down, but it’s buried and subsumed and weakened. Adam’s gentleness and patience and his obvious attraction to me, his compliments, his reassurance, his understanding of my reticence to answer questions, all of this has weakened the hold of fear, has undercut the hold of the past on me.

Now, I’m alive, and I’m ravenous for Adam, I’m buzzing with energy, my skin tingling with the feel of his against mine.

I feel his cock against my inner thigh, and his mouth leaves mine. This is it.

I look up at him. And instead of pushing into me, he moves back. “Touch yourself, Des.”

“Wh-what?”

“I’ll be right back,” he says, slipping backward off the bed. “Now let me see you touch yourself.”
 

“Why? Where are you going?” I’m losing my heat, the pressure, the need. Fear is bubbling back up. Where is he going, why is he leaving, why does he—?

He’s back on the bed and his hands are on mine, and he’s pushing my fingers between my thighs, and I feel a zing of electricity as our joined hands find my core, and then our fingers circle my clit and I gasp, and his fingers move into my opening, and I moan, and I push my fingers inside me beside his, heat billowing and pressure clenching and clamping and spreading, and I close my eyes and my head falls back to the pillow. I barely notice him leave the bed, focused on the building crescendo, and then I hear a crinkling of plastic. My eyes flick open to see him ripping open a condom, rolling it over himself.
 

My eyes go wide with apprehension now, as I see once again exactly how fucking massive his cock is, and I wonder if this is going to hurt. I’ve always heard it does the first time. I’m not afraid of a little pain, but I’m worried I’ll give away the fact of my virginity.
 

I have absolutely no intention of telling him I’m a virgin. None. He doesn’t need to know. He only has this one weekend here, and then he’s going back to Hollywood to make his movies and I’ll just be a memory. That’s fine. I know what I’m getting myself into. I don’t want this to be a big deal. It’s long past due, and he doesn’t need to know, and there’s no way I can explain it all to him.

He’s watching me, and I wonder momentarily if he can read my mind, if he can see my thoughts somehow, because he’s watching me and his eyes are so sharp, so intelligent, so perceptive, seeing so deeply into me that surely he can perceive the source of my nerves. He’s kneeling between my thighs. I’m no longer touching myself, lost in my thoughts, in my inner discourse.

And then his fingers find me, and I gasp as he rubs a fingertip against my clit. He circles twice, three times, and then delves his fingers into my opening, and I’m sucking in a harsh breath as lightning rips through me. My hips lift, and he circles, and lightning strikes again, and I’m moaning, then he delves in and finds a spot deep inside me that has me gasping a whimpering groan and lifting my hips clear off the bed.

And then I’m coming again just that easily, that quickly, grinding against his fingers and moaning and I feel him over me, rip my eyes open and fix my gaze on his pastel green eyes, and I know now is the moment,
now
—

I’m spread open, his cock is a hot and hard pressure at my entrance, and he’s watching me intently. I whimper as he inches forward just a little, whimper from the aching burn of accommodating him. Oh, it hurts. It
hurts
. I’m breathless from the pain, but I’m still coming, his fingers are at my clit and circling to milk the waves of orgasm from me but it can’t bury the burn.
 

I’m filled. I can’t take it, can’t take it…he’s on me and over me and
in
me, and I’m full to bursting, crazed by the sensation of being entered, penetrated, pierced.
 

But it’s not frightening. His eyes are gentle and sure, watching me, and I think he has to know this is my first time, but if he does he hasn’t said anything and I don’t think he will.
 

He’s not even fully inside me yet, but he stops, his face showing the strain of holding back. Now that he’s stilled, my muscles have a chance to learn him, to stretch, and the burn fades, or morphs into something else, something hotter and deeper.
 

“Okay?” he rumbles.
 

I nod. “Yeah. Yeah. God, yeah.” I palm his butt, pull at him. “More.”

And I’m not saying that for any other reason than I want
more
. The ache and the burn and the looseness of post-orgasm is turning into something powerful inside me, and the intensity of his presence above me, his eyes, his hand fisted in the pillow beside my face, his other hand now finding my boob and rolling my nipple to make me gasp, it’s all conspiring to make me desperate for
something
, for
more
, for him.
 

For this.
 

Sex.
 

I’m having sex.
 

With Adam Trenton.

He leans on an elbow, supporting his weight on one arm, the other still toying with my nipple. His mouth finds mine, and his hips move toward mine, and he’s pushing deeper.
 

He pulls back with his hips, and then surges forward and I feel a brief, sharp, pinching spasm of pain, like something tearing, but it’s so quick that by the time I gasp, he’s all the way inside me and the pain is gone, not even a memory and he’s sliding back out and his eyes are on mine, a curiosity in them.
 

I kiss him, lifting up and wrapping my hand around the back of his neck, pulling myself toward him to push my tongue into his mouth and he’s moving now, slowly, and it’s so good,
so
good, a burn and a stretch and a fullness and a sense of utter completion, being filled with Adam as he moves, draws out, pushes in, and the burn is pleasure now, such pleasure.
 

He’s going slowly, and each withdrawal makes me whimper from the loss of him, and each surge to fill me makes me groan with relief to have him back inside me.
 

“Oh god, Adam.” I can’t help saying it. I want him to know I like this. He has to know, from the sounds I’m making, but I want to say it. “So good. You feel so good.”
 

He buries his face in my neck and pushes deep, and I gasp a shriek at the depth of his thrust, at the surge of ecstasy of having him so deep. “You’re so fucking tight, Des. God, you feel perfect.”

He withdraws, and I move without thinking. I wrap my heels around the backs of his thighs and pull him back toward me. “No, I need—oh god…”

“What? Tell me what you need.”
 

“You. Deeper. More. I need more of you, Adam.” I blush furiously to hear myself talk that way, to say that, but he growls and leans back to sit on his heels.
 

His cock is stretched away from his body, and I wonder how comfortable that can be, and what he’s doing, and then…oh—oh Jesus. He rises up onto his knees, takes my thighs in his hands and slides his hands under my ass, lifts me, drags me toward himself. And oh god, I’m absolutely
stuffed
with him, he’s all the way in me, surely he can’t go deeper—