Content warning: The story contains mature material, including graphic descriptions of consensual non-violent sex and ‘mild’ language.
“Lizzie, my poppet, we are going to a concert!” Jill saunters into Lizzie’s shop shaking two tickets in front of her in a flamboyant gesture, like a fan of a lady-in-waiting for Madame de Pompadour.
“Exciting.” Lizzie smiles to her widely, carefully placing an orchid in the vase. She is pondering between aspidistra and aralia leaves, and asks absentmindedly, “Whom are we listening to?”
“Paladins of Mimameith!” Jill announces as if it’s the best of news, and Lizzie lifts her brows. That sounds rather outside of her comfort zone. Although that is the charm of friendship with Jill, it’s like letting a tropical storm give directions to your Prius.
“And that would be…?” Lizzie inquires carefully.
“It’s some sort of Norse Metal, lots of growling, men with eyeliner, and growling…” Jill’s voice is dreamy. “Oh the majestic growling! Deep in the chests…” Jill impersonates something that sounds like a very big vacuum cleaner to Lizzie’s ears. “They are going to be yelling on the stage, sweaty and angry. There might be splashing some sheep blood over the stage and biting off bats’ heads there too.” Lizzie assumes she looks slightly nauseated because Jill rushes to reassure her, “I’m taking the piss, love. No blood and bats. But a lot of yelling, and large men in black leather.” Jill seems very pleased with herself.
“And we are going there why?” Lizzie asks in a squeaky voice.
“Because I need to bang the drummer.” That’s Jill in a nutshell for you.
On the way to the concert Lizzie asks Jill what exactly Mimameith is and receives an answer that it is “some sort of mythological shite, they are all into that Norse tosh.” Jill isn’t a fan, that much is obvious by then, but apparently she happened to see their other concert, “with that prick from Manchester, you know.” Lizzie doesn’t remember the prick from Manchester, but she nods. And googles the band. And starts worrying. What did she get herself into?
At the beginning it seemed like a lot of fun, almost like a fancy party for Halloween. Jill stuffed Lizzie into a leather mini they borrowed from Jill’s cousin, who is in middle school by the way. Lizzie is aware she has little to offer in the bum and tits areas. They got her a black tee with a large sequin skull, from the same cousin, and Jill assaulted Lizzie with the content of her make-up bag. In Lizzie’s modest opinion she looks like a racoon. A vampire racoon, because besides the black eyeliner and smokey grey eye shadows she is also now sporting red lipstick.
Google deftly offers Lizzie lyrics, and she is even somewhat pleased with them. At least they make sense to her. The band’s hit number one, “Misty Mountains” sounds even romantic. That is before she youtubes them, and gets the taste of what she will be subjected to in half an hour. By the time they get in, squished between other fans clad in leather, all black, members of all genders all looking like the aforementioned vampire racoons, Lizzie is mildly terrified.
The concert starts, and Jill was right, there is a lot of yelling. And growling. And indeed very large men in leather. Lizzie points at the drummer with her eyes and questioningly lifts her eyebrows. He’s massive, his head is shaved and tattooed, arms like logs, mutton chops moustache. Lizzie is silently asking Jill whether the latter is sure, and Jill theatrically licks her lips covered in dark purple lipstick. Lizzie shrugs. She has had so little experience with men, she hardly can claim to have any taste in them, but for her… definitely, no. The band members all have some barmy Norse names. Thor, the drummer Jill is currently ogling like a red velvet cupcake, is roaring and his hands with sticks are a blur. If asked and given no choice but to pick one, Lizzie would go for Philip “Slaughter” Johnsson, the bass player, and the nephew of the band’s front man, John “King” Tomasson, also known as Thorin, which is loosely translated from the Norse as Darer. Lizzie didn’t try to memorise the information from their Wiki, but her photographic memory didn’t leave her any choice.
Altogether, Lizzie’s only aggro is a constant concern whether she will be left deaf from all these decibels. She has no ear for music so she doesn’t need any soft and catchy melody, and even she understands they are not that bad. And again, the lyrics are rather good. Something about ‘hollow halls beneath the wells’ and ‘dungeons deep and caves dim.’ And also she is still slightly worried that there might be some sheep blood.
The concert is over, the front man is yelling some goodbyes into the mic, the audience is yelling demanding more songs, and Lizzie joins everyone’s enthusiasm just for the kicks. Jill grabs her hand and starts pulling her to the stage. They have agreed in the cab that if Jill gets a pull – meaning if she is invited backstage – Lizzie will leave and catch herself a cab. Lizzie is almost certain that that’s how the evening will proceed. Jill is wearing her little black dress. It is very little. Also, Jill has glorious tits. To be honest, Jill has glorious everything. The drummer stands no chance.
There’s a crowd of girls hollering and waving their arms near the stage, and Lizzie understands that they are Jill’s competition. Killian “Demonoid” Johnsson, that has just finished his crowd surfing and yelling cheerful obscenities into the sky, comes up to the edge of the stage, his radiant white toothed grin beaming in the short black beard, and his eyes are scanning the pool. Lizzie is standing behind Jill, who is holding her hand firmly, not allowing other girls push Lizzie. Demonoid’s eyes fall on Jill, and he bends down and stretches his hand to her. She yells something to him, probably signalling her gratitude, and quickly turns to Lizzie who is preparing to wave to her goodbye and wish her luck, when suddenly from the corner of her eye Lizzie catches the front man of the band move on the stage. The girls around her start squealing shriekingly, and then he shouts something in Killian’s ear and point at her with his long index finger.
Lizzie is immediately concerned for her eyes and hair considering the death glares the girls around her fix on her. She gives Jill a panicked questioning look, and Jill yells, “Common! Yes or no?”
And throwing any sound judgement aside, Lizzie nods.
Jill steps to the stage, and letting go of Lizzie’s hand she stretches her arms up. Demonoid Johnsson picks her up under them and pulls her on the stage. At that moment Phillip Johnsson steps to the edge, and some other girl rushes ahead, probably to at least touch the ends of her idol’s long hair. Lizzie has been admiring the mane for a while, the waves are silky and thick, like liquid sunshine. He bends down completely ignoring the poor chick and stretches both hands to Lizzie. She grabs them, and he pulls her on the stage. She is slammed into his chest and lifts her eyes at him. He smiles to her widely and then pushes her towards the stairs going backstage. What did she get herself into?
There’re sitting on leather sofas in a dim room, music of the same sort that was just on the stage is blaring from speakers, and Jill is drawing some squiggles on the upper arm of the drummer. All band members are covered in tattoos, and Lizzie skews her eyes at the neck of the man sitting near her. John “King” Tomasson has black flames licking the tendons on his strong neck, disappearing somewhere under the collar of his black tee. Tattoos go down both his arms, all black and crisp. He is sipping Jameson from a tumbler and is openly studying her.
He has remarkable eyes, bright blue, and even without the eyeliner, that somehow suits him, they would still be framed by black, from thick fluffy lashes that are plain amazing. The hair is long of course, down to the shoulder blades, thick dark waves, and there are silver strands above his forehead – although it’s probably too early for him to go grey. Maybe he bleaches them.
Lizzie is endlessly uncomfortable. Her back is unnecessary straight, and she’s squeezing her knees. He of course spread his. The bloody leather mini crawled up, and Lizzie is really trying not to touch her naked knee to his leather pants.
“What do you do?” He is now looking at her neck and shoulders, it feels like some warm liquid is being poured on her skin, and she swallows with difficulty.
“I am a florist.” She looks at him askew, and the corners of his lips twitch. And then one of his thick black eyebrows slowly crawls up, in a whimsical angle, and she suddenly feels very hot. These are those very bedroom eyes they mention in films. “I mostly make wedding bouquets.” Lizzie rambles when she is nervous. And she is very, very nervous.
He leans closer, turning the side of his head to her, signalling her he can’t hear her properly. Of course he can’t. The music is deafening, there are about thirty people in the room, everyone is getting increasingly more pissed. Jill is dancing in the middle of the room, and Lizzie shortly envies her friend’s lack of stage fright. Jill doesn’t mind being in the center of attention. To be honest, Jill fancies it. Currently both of the King’s nephews are dancing with her, and she grabs the braid at the side of the younger, dark-haired one’s face and twirls it around her finger. The man sitting on the same sofa as Lizzie is smirking. Other girls that were gifted with the pass here are scattered around the room. Some are chatting with the band members and the crew, some are dancing, everyone is sipping drinks, and Lizzie feels completely out of place. She is intolerant to alcohol, and the familiar feeling creeps in her mind. Like the room starts spinning while she is static, and soon they all will propel somewhere to the stars in space, and she will be left behind. She turns to the man near her and prepares to yell some polite excuses – given she knows it really doesn’t matter because he can’t hear her anyroad – and then he suddenly jumps on his feet and yells.
“We are done here! To Hilton!” His booming low voice has a magical effect on the room. Everyone as if freezes for a mo, and then the music is turned off, the bottles and other scattered belongings are being picked up, and people are hastily getting ready to leave. Lizzie feels like she’s in the center of a tornado, she blinks frantically trying to understand what’s happening, and to find Jill in the crowd, when suddenly a heavy long arm goes around her shoulders and she is being led out. She is mumbling something, and then she finds herself deposited at the back seat of a limo. She’s squeezed between the King and his Demonoid nephew who has some curvy blonde on his lap and judging by where his hands are they are not going to be playing Scrabble once everyone arrives to the hotel. Lizzie turns and looks at the King. He’s watching the lights of the night city rushing by the window. His older nephew is sitting in front of her talking on the phone, and two chicks near him are whispering and sniggering. Lizzie thinks she is going to leave once they arrive to the hotel.
The limo stops and the nephews fall out of it, two girls hanging on the blonde one. There’s an obvious threesome coming up here, and Lizzie is shortly glad she is not coming there with him. But what is one to expect from the rocker type, right? Lizzie starts clumsily crawl out, she’s short, and the limo is a Hammer. She’s also painfully aware that she’s flashing everyone with her knickers in that ridiculous skirt, when suddenly the King moves into her, cups the back of her head and pulls her to his lips.
The kiss is mind-blowing. He really knows what he’s doing. She starts shaking in about three seconds; he’s controlling, and his second hand lies on her chin. He tilts her head where he wants her. His tongue is quickly in her mouth; he thoroughly explores her lips, teeth, and palate, and she realises she is moaning. Her hands are clenched in fists and suspended in the air in a ridiculous panicked gesture.
“If you are going in with us now, we are shagging,” he announces nonchalantly, her chin is still locked between his thumb and index finger, and his other hand is tangled in her hair at the back of her head. His pupils are dilated, and she looks at his lips. The line is surprisingly soft, and she really likes the contrast with the black beard. She nods, and he lets her go, she feels like she might collapse without the support of his hand. He climbs out of the car on the other side, he is so massive it’s like getting out of a Beetle for him, and she is still sitting inside panting.
“Lizzie?” He is already on her side, leaning into the open door, and she didn’t know he knew her name. She puts her hand in his, and he pulls her out.
They have the whole floor in the hotel, and the large parlour between the bedrooms immediately turns into a wild do. He leads her in by the hand, plops on a sofa in a dim corner, and pulls her on his lap. She suppresses a squeak. He’s scorching, she initially assumed it’s the adrenaline and all the jumping and yelling he did during the concert, but apparently that’s his normal temperature. Room service is ordered, more booze is circulating the room, and he wrapped one arm around her. She is tense, and he pulls her to him and suddenly nuzzles her neck.
“You are so strung I can put you on my guitar.” He has a very sexy voice, and then his lips graze her earlobe. “Blimey, just look at that little ear. All burning…” he’s murmuring, his breath brushes her helix, and then he catches it between his lips. She shudders and then looks at him askew. “You should have a drink, love, relax a bit…”
“I can’t drink, I’m a ginger,” she croaks. The fingers of his other hand gently stroking her side are distracting. He has very beautiful hands, long strong fingers, very masculine wrists, and she’s trying to breathe quieter. She feels like everyone can hear her panting.
“Oh? So it’s the real colour?” He pushes his hand in her curls and sort of scratches the back of her head like she is a cat. “Ace.”
She can’t stand it anymore. She starts sliding off his lap, mumbling something about a washroom, the stupid skirt screeches on his trousers, and then she flees.
She is splashing cold water on her face, forgetting that she’s for once wearing makeup. She has to deal with smears and streaks of black now, and it distracts her a bit from the panic. She has never done it – and although she knows she’s more or less safe, since Jill is here and she let couple of her friends know where she is, and again it’s a common practice – she’s bricking it. And then she understands she’s going to go through with it. And then she jerks her chin up. It’s not like she is in relationships with the bloke, and he does it all the time, so she’s just going to enjoy it. And if he is not good she can always get up and leave. It’s not like she’s married to him and has to spare his ego. Right?
She returns to the room, and he looks at her over the rim of his glass. His eyebrows twitch in surprise, he probably thought she bolted. She decisively marches to him and climbs on his lap. Both arms go around her this time, he’s indeed massive, and she presses her lips to his. She might not be the most experienced out of them, but again, she doesn’t owe him anything.
He gets up as if she is not hanging on him for dear life and starts walking towards one of the rooms. She has to say the kick opening the door really works on her fanny. The nonchalant kick closing it makes it even better.
He throws her on the bed, she quickly turns around and studies the bed. He’s standing in front of it, and she hears a low rumbly chuckle.
“That’s our first night here. The sheets are clean.”
“Are you?” She sounds bolder than she feels.
He is so bloody chill! He toes off his boots, the large silver buckle on his leather trousers clanks, and she quickly scoots back on the bed. He pulls the belt out and throws into the corner of the room. She was terrified for a second, and he noticed.
“I am not into that kind of stuff. Unless you ask really nicely.” There is laughter rolling in his voice, and she inhales. She might be jittery but she came here herself.
And then he pulls off his tee. She forgets about her nerves. The chest is glorious. The tattoo covers all of it, the left shoulder, and even top of his stomach. He is also covered in thick black hair, chest and a stripe going down the stomach and disappearing somewhere in the now open leather trousers.
“We need a durex,” she squeaks, and he smirks. She knows she still sounds bossy, even though her eyes are probably twice the normal size. She reminds herself she doesn’t owe him anything, it will only happen on her conditions. He suddenly turns around and walks back to the door. She jerks on the bed. Did he change his mind? She won’t do it without condoms of course, but she understands she’s disappointed. Terrified or not, she really wanted him.
He sticks his head through the door and roars into the parlour, “I need johnny.” There is loud cheering in the room, and Lizzie feels her cheeks starting to burn. Someone probably throws him a box, he catches it with one hand and then comes back slamming the door behind him. His nonchalance is killing her.
He walks to the bed and presses one knee in it. He throws the box on the bed near her and then stretches his hand to her, “Come here.” His tone is soft, and she rises on her knees and crawls up to him. He cups her face and snogs any sense out of her. He’s towering over her, she needs to drop her head back, and she tentatively runs her hands on his sides. He is hot, and wide, and then he jerks.
“I’m ticklish, love.” His eyes’re smiling. “So either grab, or keep your hands to yourself.” She gives him a defiant glare and rakes her nails on his back. One eyebrow jumps up, and he lunges at her. She is suddenly pressed in the sheets, and a sharp exhale is smacked out of her. He’s very heavy.
He is sliding down her body, his hands are on her ribs, then he pushes her tee up and presses his mouth to her stomach. She gasps, he draws a swirl on it with his tongue. She feel painful blush spill on the cheeks again, she just remembered she’s wearing an un-sexy sports bra. She clenches her jaws and meets his eyes. He picked her from the crowd, she doesn’t owe him anything, she repeats the mantra in her head. He slightly shakes his head and pushes his fingers under the elastic of the bra and covers her tits. He presses the nipples between the index and middle fingers, not too hard, and she closes her eyes. It feels brill. He rolls then between the fingers, and then the thumbs join in, brushing the undersides of her unimpressive breasts.
“I like your tits, they are sweet…” He’s murmuring into her stomach, and then one hand escapes her bra, and he pushes it under her arse. The fingers find the zipper, there is a little whiz, and he’s pulling the skirt off her. And then she remembers the knickers.
She jerks, momentarily distracted from the magic of his hot palms on her oversensitive skin – she’s tingling head to toe. He is laughing openly now. The knickers are cotton, bikini, peach coloured, in blue polka dots. She really didn’t expect anyone to see them. Her snarkiness, which has been asleep since he pointed at her from the stage, is suddenly awake.
“These are my favourite, so… belt it…” Her line is lacking in confidence, but he stops laughing and licks his lips instead. That doesn’t make her feel any more at ease. Neither does him pulling the second hand from under her bra and hooking his fingers on the edge of her smalls.
“Bum up!” he commands, and her hips jump up on the bed. The knickers fly following his belt. She frantically tries to remember how her nether regions haircut doing, when he covers her with his mouth. She makes an odd noise she herself wouldn’t be able to describe. Something between a death cry of a chicken, and a happy piglet squeal. He sticks his tongue inside her and swirls it. He’s going so fast that she has stopped understanding anything, and might have gone blind. The thumbs of his large hands are stroking her inner thighs, and she realises he opened her legs, half bent in the knees, and is stoking them. And of course then he places them on his shoulders, she feels his smooth back under her calves. She is so at sixes and sevens that she doesn’t even understand if she is enjoying it, or is mildly terrified of it. He seems to notice.
“Not good?” he purrs, completely not thrown off by it, while he’s placing a row of kisses on her stomach. She’s utterly not sure where her next line comes from.
“I am just memorising all details for when I retell this to all my friends.”
He lifts his face and starts guffawing. It’s loud and merry, completely unrestricted, he has bright white teeth, and she’s watching the crow’s feet in the corners of his squinted eyes.
“Blimey, you are a treat. I was right to pick you.” He shakes his head a bit and then kisses her knee. “What do you want now, love?” Sounds like he’s asking her what she wants with her cuppa.
She is not sure what the options are. Except she really wants to see where this line of black hair on his stomach goes to. She just doesn’t know how to ask. She carefully pulls her legs from out of his palms and sits up on the bed, and after a moment of consideration she pulls off her bra. It was bunched up under her arms, and was probably squishing her small tits even more. They already have a complex, no need to humiliate the poor tidbits anymore. He’s smirking, that’s a feral grin if she has ever seen one. She actually hasn’t, but she’s certain that’s what they look like. One corner of the lips is lifted, the eyes are fixed on her, and there is a herd of goosebumps galloping down her spine.
She decides actions speak better than words, he is lying on the bed on his stomach, his lower half is hanging off the edge, and she moves back on the bed beckoning him with one finger. She is not playing coy, her throat is choked, and nothing but a pathetic croak would come out, were she to try to speak. He moves quickly, like the hackneyed large animal – it’s not so mildly terrifying – and he’s kneeling in front of her. She pushes her hand down the trousers – in for an inch as they say – there are no pants, but she honestly didn’t expect any.
And that’s when she decides she has been very, very stupid. The cocks she had the privilege of seeing and especially holding in her hand before were… well, inadequate, in comparison with what she is encircling in her fingers down his leather kecks. She reminds herself she doesn’t owe him anything and strokes, enjoying the hot silky skin and the size. Once it’s in any proximity to her fanny, it’ll become a proper issue, at the moment it’s a blessing. He grabs the back of her head and pulls her into a kiss. And then he cups betwen her legs and starts stroking her fanny, the tips of his fingers moving like on the strings of a guitar. It’s utterly distracting, but she’s still holding on for now. She grabs the waist of his trousers and pushes them down, helping the cock with her second hand to slip out unscarthed, no need for violence. They stay like that for a few seconds. It’s probably uncomfortable for him, he is so much taller; and predictably he pulls his hand back, splays it on her back, and topples her on the bed.
His hands and lips wander on her body, there are licks and bites, some are not too gentle, but everything seems ace to her. At some point he pushes his long index finger in her fanny and swirls it there, rubbing the walls, quite obviously testing the waters. If he wanted to know if she’s randy, she is. She suspects her moist might be dripping down his wrist. And then he grabs her hips and flips her on her stomach. There is some movement behind her, she is completely bladdered, she guesses he is pulling on the durex, and then he lies on her, elbows on the sides of her head. She pushes her hand back and grabs his cock. Caution is advised at all times. She feels the ridge of the condom under her palm, and she gently strokes. He chuckles again, she would give him another glare, but he’s already grabbing her hips aligning them and pushes in.
She was right, he is way too big! She whines, and he is slowly rolling his hips into her. And then he starts getting up, pulling her after him, and now she is on all four. He puts his knees widely on the bed and then presses her hips together with his hot palms, making her lock around him.
He’s shagging her for a while, her curls are sweeping the sheets in front of her, and she’s trying to keep her voice down. She actually never can, she is a screamer and could never do anything about it. And his cock’s so long, thick and hot, that after a while she just gives up and her hollering is probably heard somewhere where all locals are penguins. She thinks she might be close, and then he comes with a growl. They fall on the sheets, and they are both panting, her breath comes out in some daft mewls. Neither of her ex’s could make her sound like that. And she didn’t even come!
He pulls out, rolls off the bed, and stumbling disappears in the ensuite bathroom. She hasn’t yet gathered her wits and started panicking regarding what she’s supposed to do now, when he shows up, starkers – with a body like his she’d be that confident too – and he starts pulling at the duvet that in hotels they for no particular reason always tuck in the sides of the bed so that if you don’t want to impersonate a letter in a tight envelope you don’t want to crawl under it. He manages to lift one side, and grins to her. She’s trying to look above the waist.
“Common, climb in.” She obediently does, he liberates the other side of the duvet, and slides under it as well. She doesn’t know what to say but thankfully he pulls her to his lips again. After a few minutes she’s all heated up again, her hands are roaming his chest, the body is wide and heavy, but he is all muscles, and she starts to think that this is her taste in men now, and he’s pulling another durex from the box. And then she decides “what the hell.”
“I want to come this time,” she mumbles while he is sucking at her neck. There’ll be a bruise there.
“That would be fair.” He’s chuckling into her skin, and she pushes away from him and stares in his eyes. She reminds herself that she doesn’t need to understand him, just have fun, and she chews at her bottom lip.
“I rarely can, I mean from oral sex sometimes, but I can’t relax properly… And if I’m on top, but again…”
“You can’t relax properly,” he finishes for her, and she narrows her eyes at him. If he gibes now, she swears, she’ll climb out of this bed and… She doesn’t get to finish this thought in her head because he suddenly dives under the duvet – he is moving under it like a giant mole – and then she feels lips and beard on her lower stomach. He laughs there again.
“I can’t see anything, might miss the target, but at least you can make faces all you want.” He’s snorting, and it tickles.
“Do chivvy on, would you?” She’s her usual lippy self now and sounds just as sarcastic as she planned to. It is indeed easier when he doesn’t see her, or to be precise when she doesn’t see him. He’s so fit she starts stuttering just looking at him. And then he gives a long lick across her folds. She moans and closes her eyes. He is thorough and very, very skilled, the pulps of his fingers are dancing on her hips and inner thighs, and soon enough she is wailing, he slips a finger into her, he has already found that very spot while they were copping off, and she comes like never before. Bright purple dots are dancing in front of her eyes, and she is mewling. He is making some strange movements there, and she realises he is wiping his beard on the sheets.
He shows up from under the duvet, his waves are sticking out in ridiculous angles, and she is too floppy to worry about anything. She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him down to her lips. She even doesn’t mind that she can taste what he was doing a moment ago. That seems to spur him, and he rolls on his back, pulling her on top of him. She is in anticipation too, she finds the durex box, crawls down his body towards the area of interest, and here it is in front of her nose. She’s holding a condom in her hand, but changes her mind and throws it aside.
She has never been good at this. It seemed mildly disgusting and hard work. He’s much thicker than her last boyfriend, and very much longer, but she’s suddenly enjoying it and lets him slide all the way down her throat. It constricts, he’s huge, and he groans loudly. She’s breathing through her nose and hastily remembers the articles from Cosmo. Hopefully there’s some truth in them. Not much, as it turns out, but she’s finding her footing, his breathing and raspy groans navigating her, and then he pushes his fingers in her hair and slightly tilts her head, changing the trajectory. She has already noticed the curve of the cock, and with his gentle guidance she achieves impressive results. He pushes her off him just before the end, and it happened so quickly that she’s disoriented, and also she apparently gets very randy from giving head, and she thinks she might actually come from it. She is splayed on the bed, he is kneeling over her, she is between his legs, and she grabs the base and starts moving her hand, hoping she is doing it right. Apparently she does, becasue he grunts and comes all over her chest. He drops his head back, his hips jerk several more times, she’s still holding him tight in her hand, and it’s hot and twitches in her palm, and then he starts falling back, and she lets him go.
There is a pause, and then once again he rolls off the bed and disappears in the bathroom. She once again doesn’t have time to gather her wits, this time maybe to get irritated that he left her in such state, when he shows up with a towel that he apparently soaked in water and gently wipes her. He then throws the towel somewhere over his shoulder and starts kissing her, his hands wandering all over her. He is less intense and more playful now, and she climbs on his lap.
He gets up and carries her to the bathroom. He is supporting her under her bum, snogging her so that her toes curl, while he’s blindly battering the tabs trying to make water run into the bath. She wholeheartedly approves of his initiative.
And then she realises his cock is rather insistently poking into her. She tears her lips off his and stares at him.
“Is it ever enough for you?” He smirks and kisses the corner of her lips.
“It’s more fun with you. I’m usually done after two.” She’s studying his face. She really likes the long straight nose and the whiskers above the tender upper lip, and then she shushes the sappy part of her brain. That’s not what it’s all about. She looks at the bath and then gives him a mischievous side glance.
“You still have a few minutes before the bath’s full.” He barks a short guffaw, walks back to the bedroom. He bends, she picks up a durex, and then he starts walking back in the bathroom.
“What?..” she mutters.
“There’s a nice mirror there.” He is completely nonchalant as usual, and she tenses in his arms. The last thing she wants is to see her skinny self at the moment and be reminded of her inadequacies. And the freckles on her shoulders. She was daft enough to forget sunscreen last week when they went to a park with Jill, the orange pests are all over her shoulders.
She realises he is attentively watching her, and she pouts. Why does it seem like he knows how insecure she is?
“You are ridiculous,” he mutters, they are in the bathroom, he once again kicks the door shut – she wonders if he knows what door handles are for – and then he puts her down on the floor and twirls her, pressing her back to his stomach. She realises they are standing in front of the mirror, and all her aforementioned inadequate self is on display.
Their eyes meet in the mirror, the top of her head hardly reaches his sternum, and he is bending down kissing her shoulder, still keeping their eyes locked. His hands graze her tits, he makes swirling move over the nipples with the tips of his fingers, she exhales loudly, then his hands brush down her sides, down on the hips, while he is slowly kneeling behind her. He’s kissing one of the buttocks now, and then he squeezes his hand in between her inner thighs and wiggles his fingers. She complies and places her feet a bit wider. His lips and teeth are creating some sort of magic on her bum, while one long finger slips into her. She raspily moans, her knees are shaking, and he’s slowly moving his digit in and out of her.
“Look at yourself.” His voice is coarse, and she shakes her head. She’s squeezing her eyes, and he adds another finger. Her knees give in, and his hand on her waist tightens, holding her upright. “Look at yourself…” The voice is even lower now, almost a growl, and her eyes fly open.
There is blush burning on her cheeks, freckles are even brighter now, her eyes are dark, lips half open. There is pink flush on her body head to toe, and she’s mesmerized watching his finger slide into her. His other hand is on her hip, she can see the long fingers.
“You are looking the wrong way.” He peeks from behind her hip, and his eyes are dark as well. She meets his, and he opens his fingers on her stomach. “Watch your face…”
She obediently looks, and he starts pumping his fingers in her. She’s watching her own face, her lips open more, they are bright red although her lipstick has long been buried in his stomach, her chest is heaving, and all and all… well, she looks fit. It’s an interesting thought but she has no time to consider it properly. Orgasm explodes inside her, she gasps, it is so intense that she doesn’t even have any voice, and she collapses. He catches her near the floor and drops on his backside. She is a ragdoll in his arms, and he’s chuckling into her hair.
“Ready for the bath, little one?” Her eyes were closed, and honestly at this stage she isn’t capable of making any decisions.
He lifts her and seats them both in the hot water. There are bubbles, and she giggles. He is massive, furry, covered in tattoos down to his knees, actually there is one on the right calf too, there is still some of the stage makeup left around his eyes, and now bubbles! He smacks her bum, the sound is loud and juicy. He’s apparently well aware she is taking the mickey out of him.
He is leaning his back to the wall, one arm wrapped around her, another one, elbow on a bent knee, and she’s studying the long fingers hanging relaxed.
“So, what is it that you do?” he asks. She looks at him over her shoulder, her back is pressed to his chest, and she thinks she really likes the chest hair when it’s wet. And then the question reaches her mind. He hasn’t heard a word she said before. On the other hand, they didn’t meet through a matchmaking site.
“I am a pilot,” she announces, and he opens one eye.
“And I thought you make wedding bouquets.” There is hardly suppressed laughter in his voice, and she smacks his shoulder. He snorts.
“Why the hell then?”
“I couldn’t come up with anything else.” He arranges her on his chest, his tone’s lazy, and she tucks her head under his chin. “And I wanted to talk before the next time.”
“What?!” She tentatively shifts her pelvis and indeed, there will be the next time. She thinks she doesn’t mind, though she foresees a lot of discomfort in the next few days. “What do you want to talk about?” He has dropped his head back, and his eyes are closed again. She peeks, he looks like he’s sleeping. She feels daft. How is she even supposed to address him? John? Mr. Tomasson? Your Highness?
“Tell me anything about yourself.” His voice’s low and all molasses and chocolate syrup. So, not asleep.
“I have my own shop, and we make wedding bouquets. There’s honestly nothing else to tell.” It comes out silly, and she herself thinks her life sounds sort of pathetic. “Um… I am a very good cook, and I bake.” That sounds worse. The corners of his lips twitch. She pouts, he’s laughing at her. More blabbering ensues. “I am allergic to almost everything, and it feels like the makeup is eating at my eyeballs right now. My friend Jill dragged me to your concert, and put me in these slaggish clothes.” He opens his eyes slowly, there are jolly sparkles dancing in them, and she suddenly feels like covering up and fleeing. What is she doing? Sitting in a bath with some bloke she only met several hours ago? And a metal rocker for that matter. She has accepted by then that he seems to see all through her.
“Try washing them with black tea. It really helps with irritation.” She’s staring at him, there is still a bit black left on his lids, and even like that he manages to look mind blowingly fit. She decides to test the theory that nothing can tarnish his majesticness and gives him a nice foam wig.
He’s snorting like a pony, flakes of suds are floating in the bathroom, he is groping her, she is squealing. The next round is him standing up, holding her under her bum, they have hurriedly wiped soap off themselves, he is thrusting in her, she is mewling, pulling at his hair, and they come at the same time. It’s a surprise, she never could in a missionary position, although this hardly qualifies as one.
They step back in the shower to wash off the leftover soap, which leads to him groping her again, her squeaking and battering his hands away off her arse – a hundred percent not genuinely – running out of the shower, him chasing after her with a very convincing growl, and another round on the bed. She is lying on the bed, he is kneeling in front of it on the floor, her ankles are on his shoulders, and he’s biting the round bones on them. She ends up gently kicking his long nose to make him concentrate on the important stuff, and after they are done, and he takes his usual jog to the bathroom, she’s spread on the bed, legs dangling off its edge. She is beyond knackered at this stage, and even her usual fretty self doesn’t care what happens next.
Next he slides under the duvet, dragging her with him, arm across her middle, her extremities limp. She snorts from the image from National Geographics popping up in her head, but even she isn’t daft enough to compare herself to a gazelle and him to a lion, and he spoons her and nuzzles her wet hair. She can’t believe it! The big and scary arse rockers spoon! And nuzzle, apparently! She assumes she isn’t expected to leave since he happily sighs into her nape and after a bit of wiggling and unnecessary rubbing some parts to her he starts breathing evenly, and would you just look at that! That’s exactly what she is doing, she carefully turned around and is staring at him.
She’s really trying to suppress them, but one giggle nonetheless escapes. On one hand, she would have probably felt humiliated if he just had kicked her out. On the other hand, what else was there to expect? Definitely not him peacefully sleeping, holding on to her for dear life at the same time. She tries to move, she isn’t actually planning to get out of the bed, it’s more of idle curiosity, and he makes a funny snorting noise in his sleep and pulls her into him so tightly she feels a bit worried about breathing. He nuzzles her again, and seriously, that’s adorable, and mumbles something in his sleep. He looks much younger when he’s sleeping, fluffy lashes are lying under the eyes, lips are relaxed, no sardonic smirks, and she settles in his arms. She’s actually very comfortable and for once warm. She is skinny, she is always cold.
Lizzie decides to do a bit of ogling. She will obviously get out and call a cab soon, and she really doesn’t want to think about how it’ll feel to walk out of this room. There is still a party raging out there. Walk of shame at its best. She is asleep in ten and a half seconds.
She wakes up thinking Mr. Thornton, her cat has peed in her bed again. He’s only done it once before, she left him for a week with Jill when she went to California for a seminar, and he held a grudge. A week after the trip, when she finally relaxed, he crawled under her duvet and peed on her stomach. That’s exactly how she is feeling right now.
It’s not cat pee, it is the scorching breath of a six foot five metal rocker, happily snoring into her belly. He shifted during the night, his massive arms are wrapped around her hips, and his exhales are hot and damp. It is indeed like sauna under the duvet, he is charring, think furnace with a giant… uhem… She tries to wiggle out of his grip.
She honestly was planning to leave last night. She should have left as soon as he conked out, but the daft old her decided to ogle. He is just so… Everything! She’s tentatively pushing his arm off, purposefully not paying attention to how her hand looks on the black ink, and he mumbles something, and then grabs her tighter and pulls her down, under the duvet that is tangled around them. She struggles a bit, but he’s already kissing everything he can reach, his eyes are still closed, but parts of him are clearly awake. She shortly wonders if he’s even at least a bit conscious or that’s just morning.
“Lizzie, stop fussing.” His voice is raspy from sleep, and he gives her sternum a long lick. “Let’s do it couple times, and then we can talk, alright?” His voice shouldn’t be legal.
“I can’t couple more times,” she sounds very squeaky. “I’m very sore…” He finally opens his eyes and looks at her. The irises are cerulean, the lashes long and thick, and she thinks she must be completely bonkers, because she offers with a shy smile, “Oral?”
An hour later they are cuddling under the duvet – there’s no other way to put it – and he’s playing with her curls. Her cheek is pressed to his pectoral muscle, and she is tracing the lines of a tattoo with a tip of her finger.
“We are leaving tonight, to New York, and that’s the last leg of the tour. Do you want to get together when we are back in a week?” She lifts her head and stares at him. She wants to ask ‘just like that?’ but the words don’t come out.
“Um… That’s sort of… not me… I mean typical me…” He’s listening calmly, she imagines that’s how it ends. With her fleeing, and him shrugging it off. It makes sense after all, it was a one-off thing, something to tell her pissed girlfriends in a pub. It’s not like leather clad rockers date. He pushes his large hand and cups the back of her head. It makes her want to purr and curl into him. If only it were different…
“I want to try a constant thing with you.” He is still chill, but this time the eyes are not laughing. “You are wicked. And the shag was great. Do you want to be my girl?”
Out of context it would have sounded daft, and she’d be the first one to roar with sarcastic laughter over this, but she is not thick. She blinks and weighs her options. It might be slightly unorthodox, but she thinks she can adapt. There’s the question of tours, and groupies, and booze, but to thinks of it, no relationship’s perfect. She smiles widely and leans to his lips. She runs the tip of her tongue on the upper lip, under the black whiskers she couldn’t tear her eyes off since he led her backstage, and he sighs into her mouth.
“I do want to be your girl,” she whispers, and the large scorching palms cup her face. She climbs on him, stretching on his hot wide body, and they are kissing lazily. He’s chill, and she can be chill too. After all, she feels very safe near him, she has her own paladin now.