his teeth.
“Do you remember last year, during our swimming sessions?” he asks, releasing my nipple and then running his tongue in a circle around it. “I couldn't get that swimsuit out of my mind.”
“It was a school-issued suit,” I murmur, remembering the tight blue one-piece I'd worn during PE last year. Barron was in my class, and I remember thinking how weird it was to see him shirtless and wet, and without any snacks or sketchbooks around him.
“But the way you wore it … I drew you in a hundred different positions in that suit, nipples peaked against the fabric …” He trails off again, sucking my nipple into his mouth as he settles his body between my legs again, grinding the bulge of his cock against the scalding apex between my thighs. “But I can only draw something I've seen.”
“Now you'll draw them?” I whisper, wondering if he's realized what he just said. “I can only draw something I've seen.” So all those images in his sketchbook, of me and him in the butterfly cave, of us kissing during the first Devils' Day party … Does he wonder where those came from?
“I'll draw them,” he says, looking down at me with a stark hunger in his face, years of repressed want spilling out of that dual-colored gaze. Barron cups my left breast with his right hand, kneading the tender flesh and rubbing his thumb across the pink point of my nipple. He drops his lips to my neck, kissing up my throat and along my jaw. The longer we go, our bodies pressed up against one another, the more I want him. “No condom, huh?” he finally says as our bodies grind together, seeking that hot, wet friction that we both need. “This'll be a first for me, I'll be honest.”
I don't let him know how much I like the sound of that. Instead, I sit up on my elbows, watching in earnest as Barron leans back on his heels, reaching down to his leather pants and opening the fly. His cock springs out, thick and heavy, pre-ejac beading on the tip in excitement. I sit up a bit further, reaching out to wrap my hand around the base. My black and red nails look ghastly beneath the silver light of the moon as I tease them along Barron's length, loving the heavy, desperate sound of his breathing.
He takes my wrist between his fingers and then leans forward, pushing me back into the floor and pinning my wrist above my head. Our mouths eat at each other hungrily as my right palm slides over the tip of Barron's cock, using the slick moisture as lube. He thrusts against my hand, his dick slipping and sliding in my grip as his moans fall against the sensitive skin of my throat.
He's a bit bigger than Raz or Calix, I think, trying not to squirm as Barron sucks on my neck, leaving hickeys that I don't have to worry about or figure out how to explain. Tomorrow, my red and black hair will be purple again, my skin will be blemish free, and my heart will very likely chip at the edge, leaving a sharp, ragged scar to tear up my insides.
I move my hand between my legs as Barron thrusts into it, the tip of his cock teasing me with the slightest hint of penetration. He shudders above me, moonlight falling across his slicked back hair, his tattooed chest, and that fabulous white coat.
When I release my grip and move my hand, his next thrust fills me up, his shaft slipping into my wet folds with little resistance; I'm more than ready for him. Sounds of pleasure fall from our lips, mingling together in the silence of the chapel.
“Fuck, you're tight,” Barron murmurs, closing his eyes briefly as he settles in between my legs. He's fully sheathed inside of me, my body stretching just a bit to accommodate his length and girth. There's no pain though, just a delicious feeling of fullness. Barron very carefully takes my other wrist and pins it beneath his right hand, holding both my arms captive with one of his own.
He looks down at me before he starts to move, making sure our gazes are locked, that I'm looking at him as the clapping sound of his hips thrusting into mine echoes around the quiet space. My face lifts up, my tongue running along my lower lip as Barron uses his other hand to slide down