Harvest of Sighs

Chapter 9-3

With a coy little hum, she trails her own fingers up her leg, ghosting them across her p***y. “He’ll be busy mingling.”

“He said he wanted to show us off,” I say. “He’ll want you on his arm.”

“He wants you on his arm too.” She’s teasing herself now, tracing the seam of her cunt, showing me where I could f**k.

“I’m not going, Poe,” I say, my eyes on her fingers.

“Everyone’s coming. Even Becket. I don’t want you to be the only one not there.” Her finger slides under the elastic edge of her panties and then slowly draws them back. Shadows hang like a second dress around her, but I can still see the unmistakeable glisten of her s*x. I can see the small, wet place where I need so badly to be.

“I won’t feel left out,” I promise on a rasp, running my own hands up her thighs now. I have to touch her, I have to feel her wetness for myself. And she lets me, moving her hand so that I can push a thumb inside her.

We both inhale at the same time—her from the invasion, and me from the pure, tight feel of her. There’s nothing softer than her p***y. I remember thinking that the night I lost my virginity to her, I remember thinking that if I’d known how good it felt to f**k, I never would have been able to wait so long.

“Let me,” I say. Beg. “Let me inside you.”

“Come to the gala.”

“Poe,” I groan.

“I’m not going back to how things were before,” she says, rocking into my hand. I slide my thumb free, meaning to stop touching her altogether, but then she lets out the saddest, sexiest whimper, and I can’t bear it. I push two fingers back inside, my entire body humming as she arches to me, my skin aching, my balls drawing tight.

“I’m not going back to all of us leading separate lives,” Poe says. “I won’t do it.”

“You and Auden won’t have to change anything. And if you want to—I mean, I still want to be with you.”

“I know,” she says. “I know you do. I want to be with you too—I love you. And I love him. But we didn’t want two or three separate relationships, Saint. We wanted one.”

“Yeah,” I say. Bitterly. “We did.”

“Auden was wrong to lie, but surely—”

I keep stroking her with firm, steady f***s of my hand, but now I meet her gaze, lifting my eyebrows. “Surely what, Poe? You can’t be okay with—”

“I am,” she interrupts. “I am okay with it. I’m pissed Auden lied to you, but you sharing a father doesn’t bother me.”

“Because you’re not the one committing a sin.”

“You don’t believe in sin,” she says.

And I don’t answer. I no longer know if I believe in sin or not. I don’t know what I believe in.

It used to be Thornchapel.

It was supposed to be Auden.

I don’t know what I believe because I barely even know how I feel.

No. No, that’s not true. I do know.

I feel like someone’s come in with embroidery scissors and started snipping around my heart.

But the feeling eases when Poe puts her hand over my chest. I drop my head to the top of hers, and we breathe together for a moment—her palm against my bleeding heart and my fingers touching her in her sweetest place. Wordlessly, she reaches for the fly of my jeans, and I let her. I let her pop open the button on the waistband, I let her unzip me. I let her tug my pants around my hips and free my shaft.

My breath hitches as she gives me a light, barely there caress.

“Do you have a condom?” Poe whispers.

I do. I pull my fingers free and fumble in my back pocket to give it to her, and she makes a total mess of trying to open it, and I try to help, but my fingers are slick and the inside of the condom packet is slick, and we’re both suddenly giggling with how stupid it is, until finally she’s rolling the latex over me and I’m not giggling anymore, I’m not giggling at all. The pressure of her hands, the slippery insides of the sheath—I’m exhaling in short, rough breaths, barely able to hang on.

“Can’t wait,” I grunt. “Need to now.”

Poe doesn’t stop me; there’s no talk of the gala or Auden or anything else. She slides her hands around my hips and squeezes, digging her fingers into the top of my ass, and it’s just the kick of objectification and ownership I need to be truly lost. I shove inside her and groan, unable to bear how tight and warm she is, unable to bear being without it even for as long as it takes to pull out and stroke back in again.

She doesn’t seem to be able to bear it either, because whenever I separate my hips from her thighs, she grips me harder, urging me closer, so the mating is close and urgent. I band an arm around her waist and fill my free hand with her curvy, plush bottom, and then I hold her tight to me as we move.

“More,” she says into my ear. “Use me.”

Except it’s the two of us using each other, it’s the both of us ordering, taking, seeking. A circle of selfishness creating a circle of submission. She commands me to f**k her dirty, she spurs me on with greedy hands and so I’m the one being used, cheapened, enjoyed solely for the thick c**k to be ridden. And it’s freedom. Because inside Poe’s body, with her teeth on my neck and her eyes fluttering, the pain of the last two days eases somewhat.

The embroidery scissors around my heart stop snipping. There isn’t the raw, angry despair coiling in my stomach. There isn’t the cold, whispering voice that now I’ll be alone, that I’ve always been alone, that I’ll die alone.

There isn’t the dull, bruising pulse of Auden’s name in the back of my mind, thudding in time with my heart.

With her, I remember how I felt just a couple days ago, crashing through the trees and wildly in love. With her, it’s always summer.

I use the hand on her backside to grind her against me in just the right way, keeping pressure on her c**t, and then I lower my mouth to her ear and confess all sorts of filthy things to her. That I think of her when I f**k my toys at home, that I had to lock myself in the library bathroom and jerk off last week, just thinking about her pretty t**s, about how soft they are and how tight her berry-pink n*****s get. I tell her that I never want to stop f*****g her, that she makes me feel so good I can’t stand it, that I want to come on her backside, on her belly, on her cunt. I want to make her as dirty as she makes me, I want her to know what it’s like to crave f*****g like craving food or air or sleep.

With my desperate words in her ear, she comes—a fast, mean orgasm that has her clawing my back and squirming wildly in my arms. Her legs tighten around me, her cunt gives me those irresistible little flutters, sweet squeezes as if she’s trying to suck my orgasm right out of my body.

I follow her immediately, sinking into that soft heat over and over and over again as I spill jagged, urgent pleasure into the latex. The orgasm is almost crushing in how good it feels; each heavy pulse sends waves of selfish bliss everywhere—tightening my thighs and tingling in my toes, racing up my spine to the nape of my neck and then buzzing down to my fingertips. Everything is dizzy, hazy, brilliant, and sweet. And for a moment, nothing hurts. For a moment, I can almost imagine a life where a day without Auden doesn’t scratch scars onto the skin of my pathetic heart.