He was trying to pin her eyes with his, but she wouldn't let him. She didn't want him to see her cry, so she got up off the cheap, wooden chair in front of the bed and went into her bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Her upper thighs were still slick and her body was telling her brain it needed to cum again. But her brain wasn't having it. She turned on the shower and escaped into the stall, her palms planted against the wall as she lowered her head into the spray. Wet hair hung down around her face like tendrils of midnight. Tears forced their way past her clenched eyelids as she pulled her hands back to her body and touched her swollen nipples, rolling them in gentle twists.
She felt like a dark, foreign thing inside her skin. She tried reaching back through herself to a time when her mind had still been flexible, but she couldn't find where it was. Harte would leave town in the morning, and after he was gone for a while – piece by piece – maybe the rest of who she was would come back home. She was trying to hate him for going away. It was supposed to make it easier, she kept rolling back time to the few minutes before when she'd been furiously drumming the pads of her fingers across her clit as she arched forward, waiting to see his desire boil over in an explosion of cum.
It was Monday, and like every Monday for the past three years, he'd come to see her at her cramped apartment. They spent some time sitting like people who'd known each other longer – and in a different way - saying the kinds of things that needed being said to somebody, but nobody usually listened to.
And they would look at each other like the king and queen of some endangered species in a dwindling rainforest. Every time Harte looked like he was about to tell her he loved her, she'd start touching herself to distract him enough to shut up.
In all that time they'd never touched once. Watching. Only watching.
Sparrow loved him too much to tell him so. And if she ever fucked him she knew he'd never leave town.
She knew he'd been with others, just as she had, but they never talked about such things. They just watched each other with a mutual craving for the disaster she would never allow.
A feeling of weightlessness came over her in those private moments in the shower. Her nipples thickened in the rough clamp of her rolling fingers, until her body felt made of pure sensation. The rising warmth in her pussy radiated throughout her. Despite having cum not long before, her hand moved down her body to cup her mound. She raked the damp furrow with a long finger. The lips parted easily as she teased herself, feeling a new flush of nectar. The pulse in her clit was already growing strong again.
"Harte ... oh, damn you, Harte," she sighed. A barely audible whisper as the fingertip circled her sensitive nub.
She forced herself to stop massaging her clit, and shut off the water. She hastily wrapped one towel around her body and wrapped her wet hair up with another. When she stepped back into the bedroom, Harte was lying on her bed, having moved from the chair where he'd been sitting before.
He was still naked, and had piled all the pillows to prop himself up, allowing his legs to splay forward across the bed. His big, ripe erection was jutted up against his cobbled abs while he casually fondled his heavy balls with his left hand. In his right, he was holding Sparrow's panties to his face, the ones she'd tossed on the floor earlier. His eyes were closed, and Sparrow froze in her tracks when she saw how lost he was becoming in her scent.
"Put those down," she said. The iciness she wanted to throw into her voice ended up sounding like something else. Like there was something stuck in her throat.
He inhaled deep and loud, then opened his eyes. "Sometimes you make me so angry I want to talk to you like you're a man."
"Be my guest."
"Trust me. It's better I don't."
She watched him a moment, giving him a chance to surrender to his anger, wishing he would. Get it out and get it over with. But he didn't. He just closed his eyes and inhaled another bodyful of air through her panties. She resented the way it made the lips of her pussy quiver. She forced herself to walk calmly to the vanity and sit. It was either that or jump on that imposing cock and ride it until she forgot her own name.
He opened his eyes and tracked her as his hand shifted away from his balls to grasp his thick shaft. He held it up straight, slowly stroking. Sparrow pulled the towel loose from her long, damp hair. The harder she worked at appearing calm and unaffected, the harder her pussy ached and throbbed.
She watched him. He was watching her, much as he had before, but there was something different in his eyes, as if a different force were beginning to take over inside him. She would have been hard pressed to come up with a name for it, but it made her broiling pussy feel like it was oozing all over the seat.
It took a moment to find her voice, and when she did, it seemed to come from somewhere deeper in her throat.
"Harte, you're looking at me funny," she said. "You never looked at me quite that way before."
He set her panties down beside him on the bed, still stroking slowly, but his grip on his cock was firmer. "Yes I have," he said. There was a steely resolve in the sound of his voice. "And you know it. You've seen it a thousand times."
Sparrow glanced away and peeled the towel off her body. The room was stuffy and close. It stank of rubber and diesel from the street below, but the scent of lavender bodywash was fresh on her damp skin. She sat with her shoulders proudly squared, pushing her prominent breasts forward and pulling her long, smooth thighs apart. Her heart raced as she spread her slippery pussylips with her fingers, massaging her slit while Harte watched. His chest looked like a living sculpture as it heaved with a deep groan.
"It's a dangerous look, Harte," she said. She could barely push her voice past a whisper. As much as she'd always been so aroused by his body, the look in his eyes made her want to explode around the finger dipping inside her sheath. She drew it back out slowly and sent two fingers back in on the next stroke. Her fingers were soaked, sliding so easily in and out of her pussy.
"I have to fucking go away tomorrow," he told her. "Without you, and you know how much I hate that. I don't know which one of us is the bigger idiot – me for leaving or you for not coming with me. So if you think I'm taking one blessed step without saying how much I love you then think again."
His cock looked even bigger now, if that was possible. Glistening ooze was seeping over his distended crown.
"You know how it is, Harte," she insisted weakly. "It always had to be like this. So just watch out how you look at me. Watch what you say. And whatever the fuck you do, watch out what make me feel."
"No ... I'm kind of beyond wanting to be careful. After tomorrow, I don't know when I'll even see you again ... or if I do you'll be going around with someone I can't fucking stand even if I don't know him. So you can come over here on your own ... or else I'll come over there and get you."
"Harte," she sighed, clenching her eyes shut briefly. "Fuck."
She stood. Her long legs felt shaky as she approached the bed. She crawled onto the mattress and spread her thighs. Her body trembled as she watched him move onto his hands and knees to bring his face to her open pussy. She could feel the heat of each breath hitting her.
"God, you're beautiful," he groaned. "Your skin makes me think of burnt cinnamon. I have to burn the taste of you into my soul or I'll never have the strength to leave." He planted a hungry kiss on her gaping slit. His tongue teased quickly into the aperture of her channel and then back out. Sparrow mewled like a jungle feline.
Harte's tongue moved slowly up her slit, finally drawing in on the aching swell of her clit. He slipped a thumb inside her sheath and started rolling the tip of his tongue around the hyper-sensitive nub. Sparrow's spine arched and her nails dug lines across the sheets.
She'd always told herself she'd do anything for him, even give him up to let him get away for his own good, but as he made love to her dripping pussy her mind began to spin off into the knowledge of what she knew she was letting go. She was grinding against his mouth and fingers as they lit a fire in the core of her spirit. His tongue and thumb smoothly swapped places, and she suddenly lost the power to think about anything but the slick scrape of his thumb and lips over her pussy. She felt alive and beautiful and needed.