by Robin Devereaux
(09/21/05)

Nadi's mouth is wrapped around Vincent's cock. "Mmmmmmm," she says between licking, biting and sucking. "Mmmmmm, my honey man, my butterscotch..."

Vincent doesn't particularly care for Nadi's terms of endearment, but he does like her mouth on his cock, so he keeps his damn pie hole shut. He keeps it shut while he digs his fingers into the tree roots lumping up out of the soft earth, digging in, hanging on, pulling his knee up, breathing out in a rush. He sucks her name back into himself, deep, biting his bottom lip until it bleeds.

It is late July, and they're lying on an old chenille blanket in the dappled sun of late afternoon. Even the birds are still and fat. The pines overhead nod in a lazy, intermittent breeze and give off an astringent green smell. The sun winks off the Harley. This is one of their favorite spots along the trail; the ground here is sandy and soft. They've been coming here since late in May.

Nadi's soft black hair falls across Vincent's belly like silk, and she brushes it back with one hand, not missing a stroke. She looks up at him then, his cock between her pretty pink lips, her eyes at once sweet and devilish, like she intends to swallow his soul and he will like it. He looks away, a low moan deep in his throat. He's kneading the back of Nadi's neck, which is slick and damp from the heat. There's a line of sweat on her brow, twinkling like tiny jewels. She's taken him in now all the way to the back of her throat, which she constricts with little swallowing motions, her tongue doing delicious things to his shaft. Grasping...releasing...releasing... Then she swallows his come, lapping at him like a cat.

How cat-like Nadi is, with her slanted eyes and limbs that stretch and roll. The way she languishes in the sun or purrs, almost literally, when Vincent strokes her. The roll of her wide hips when she walks. The way she licks the rim of her coffee cup in the mornings, looking over the edge at him, talking with her eyes. His Nadi, his little cat, his puss.

She lays her face on his belly and snuggles in, her body stretched out between his legs. Her skin is soft against him, her naked breasts and arms. Her lips are still wet and swollen. She strokes his thigh and closes her eyes, her sigh blending with the sighs of the pines around them. Vincent puts a hand in her hair absently and stares up at the patterned branches against the sky. He strokes her head and Nadi purrs, kisses his stomach suddenly, and climbs up to lay her head on his shoulder. She drapes an arm and a leg proprietarily across him.

"Do you love me?" she asks. She whispers it into the crook of his neck, her lips like moths on his skin, sending a shiver down his body.

"No," says Vincent.

"Why not?"

"I wish you'd stop asking me," Vincent says, pulling his hand free from her hair.

"Well..." Nadi says, nuzzling him, moving her hand in lazy circles down his belly. "Maybe sometime you will change your mind." She moves her hand lower, then lower still, caressing the base of his cock, stroking the baby-soft tender spot between there and his balls, her fingers like feathers. Vincent feels himself growing hard again. It's always good in the woods, feeling his cock grow hard like the root of a tree.

"Not likely," he tells her, as he flips on top, sliding himself into her like a key in a lock. "Not likely." He says it again as she wraps her legs around him, digs her sharp nails into his ass and, with an animal grunt, thrusts herself hard against him. Just the way he likes. Just the way he likes.

"Vincent, I can't breathe," Nadi says. They've been here for a while now, in her dark little bedroom smelling of sandalwood and sex. A few candles are burning low on the nightstand. Vincent and Nadi lie on their backs, not touching, staring up at nothing.

"What do you mean?" Vincent says this flatly, with an impatient what-the-fuck sigh, for Nadi is very obviously breathing. It's difficult to understand what she means sometimes. She goes places in conversations the way a cat that has been sleeping will suddenly jump up and leave a room for no apparent reason. This confuses and annoys him.

She says nothing, just turns over and rises from the bed, the little dent of her spine, the little Y of her ass still glistening with sweat, her hair damp and mussy. She pushes her breasts out, pulls her shoulders back, eliciting a dull pop as her shoulder blade knocks back into place. She pads toward the bathroom, her big, soft legs moving gracefully like a dancer's. Vincent watches her bottom undulate as she walks away. Vincent hears her turn on the shower. He rolls over on his stomach, stretches to listen to the water run. Nadi sings softly to herself under the spray of water, some mixed-up version of Lover Man Where Can You Be?, half words, half humming.

Vincent stretches on the bed, the sheets still hot under his skin. A breeze stirs the curtains, which brush over him like cool dry hands. Lulled by the sound of the water (because it can't be anything else, no, not her humming, not her sweet whispery voice, no) Vincent falls asleep.

When the weight hits him it knocks the wind out of him. His whole body is seized in a spasm of shock, everything happening too fast to comprehend. A naked, hot, wet weight, something hard and sharp in his back, making it impossible to move, the bitey smell of her gingery body lotion, the slick, slippery hand suddenly on his cock, pumping, hot, wet breath in his ear. Her wet hair drags on him as she is pumping, pumping him hard, the base of her clenched, lotioned hand slamming into his groin. His balls contract; a slippery thumb slides into his ass, massaging little circles inside him; slick fingers stroke under his balls, and she is rocking, pressing down hard on his back.

"It's like that...it's like that...it's like that," she whispers through clenched teeth, over and over, and he's nearly crying out, it's happening so fast. It hurts and it's good, but it hurts and it's good, and he's not even thinking, just feeling, just feeling...and it hurts. It's good, so good, and she is pressing down hard, hurting him, her thumb inside him vibrating, circling, stroking inside him, her slickery hand pumping faster, faster, all her weight on him, stabbing into him with her knee, and he can't move. He's trapped and he's gasping, and he can't, he can't, he can't...

"Nadi...I..." He's drags in a breath like a raw cut, and then he's exploding over and over, over everything, over her hand, all over himself, "...I...can't...breathe!" His lungs are tearing, and just when he thinks he's dying, he's spent, stomach, legs, and lips quivering.

Then Nadi is stroking him soft, like he's all baby skin, like he's tender and bruised, like he's pink from burns recently healed, stroking him soft, with those slick, slick hands, the spicy, gingery smell of the lotion wafting up from his hot, hot skin, and her sweet hands stroking. She's crooning, almost humming, whispering, and Vincent is still trying to breathe, even though she's no longer on him. She's spooned against him now, her belly, her mons, her legs curled gently around his buttocks, stroking his skin, sliding her hand down between their bodies, rubbing a slippery silky finger up and down in the crack of his ass, reaching around and petting him like a lost pup. "Shhhhh...honey man, shhhh..."

After a beat Nadi says, "See how it feels?" Her voice has gone suddenly flat. She's still holding him, but it's like a dead person is spooning him from behind, somebody dead but not yet cold. It makes him shiver. "Shhhh..." she says again. "S'all right..." It takes him a moment to realize his face is wet. He's glad she can't see that his eyes are leaking.

Nadi won't ride solo. She's tucked behind Vincent, the big bike rumbling between their legs; Nadi has one arm wrapped around Vincent's middle, her crotch jammed tight against Vincent's ass. He can feel the heat of her, can feel her breasts pressed against his back. She rides with him the way she fucks, becoming part of him. It is as if the firing of his synapses signals her muscles as well as his own. Her body becomes an extension of his as they roll down the road. Vincent tries not to think about that too much.

Vincent turns onto the county road, then cuts onto the smooth dirt trail that winds back toward the seclusion of the lake. He parks the bike and Nadi jumps down, hangs her helmet on a handlebar, throws her jacket down. The air is stifling, hot and still. Nadi pulls her t-shirt off over her head and throws it across the saddle of the Harley. Vincent has walked down the little slope to the edge of the lake, which lies still and clear as a mirror.

Nadi is wearing only her jeans and a black see-thru bra. She runs her hands up and down Vincent's back a few times, then starts pulling his shirt out of his jeans. Vincent stares across the lake, stock-still, but his jaw is working, his back teeth clamped together like a vise. Nadi reaches under his shirt and runs her nails up his back. She slides her body down him from behind like a pole dancer, lifts his shirt, runs her tongue up his spine, licking sweat and salt and desire.

"Wanna come play, honey man?" she says, her voice throaty as she reaches the base of his neck with her lips. The skin on Vincent's arms pricks up in goosebumps, his nipples tighten. His cock is already hard but he makes himself breathe slow, in, out, makes his hands be still. Nadi is insistent, reaching around in front of him, unzipping, touching. They don't bother going back to the bike for the blanket this time, but just shed their clothes. Then they are in the shallow water, Vincent sliding into her hot folds, releasing his pent-up breath in a rush, into her heat, the water gouting up between them as they rock together, splashing their faces.

Vincent pulls her out into deeper water and braces himself on the sandy bottom. Nadi wraps her legs around his waist, taking him deep into her. Vincent grabs her ass in both hands. He leans back as Nadi pumps him, his hair trailing in the water behind him, the sun scorching his face. Nadi is breathing ragged, panting aloud.

Then Vincent realizes it's not her hoarse breathing but his own. Nadi is saying "Vincent...Vincent...Vincent..." as she begins to come, pulsing around him, grasping his long hair in her hands, pulling his face close to hers. She explodes, hissing through clenched teeth, looking straight into his eyes, her legs trembling around him, "Vincent...I love you...I love you...I love you..." Vincent squeezes his eyes shut, his legs rubber. He unloads.

Nadi clings to him. She's crying a little now, having said the forbidden. She can't look at him. Her face is buried in the crook of his neck, her breath hot on his skin. Vincent stares, lips slack. They are still frozen together, entwined in the warm. He is still inside her. Still inside. It's too quiet now, all the sound sucked out of the atmosphere. Nadi pulls away from him a little, tucking her head under his chin and not looking up into his face. Her voice is shaky and small. "Do you love me?" she asks. The question lingers in the air like smoke.

"Goddammit," Vincent whispers like air hissing out of a tire, his eyes still blank, unblinking. "Goddammit," he says again, but he isn't talking to Nadi.

When Vincent finally admits to himself that what he feels for her is deep and disturbing love, he cuts himself off from Nadi as brutally and completely as the severing of a limb. He's surprised that she's not surprised, that she doesn't leave weepy messages on his voicemail, show up at his job or his favorite bar. One moment he's in her too-soft antique bed, buried deep inside her (which turns out to be way too deep) then he's up and out the door as soon as they've finished fucking (loving, Goddammit), planning not to see her again before even he consciously realizes that's what he's planning.

She says nothing when he goes, doesn't call out his name (and he loves how she says his name, Vinnnn- cent, all silky off her lips, but don't think about that), it's almost as if she'd known what he'd decided. She probably does know, he realizes, had been expecting it all along. (Do you love me, Vincent? I can't breathe...)

A few days later Vincent parks across the street at nearly the same time the ridiculous fucking Escalade David drives pulls up in front of her house. David gets out, springs around the back of the Escalade and, ever-the-gentleman, opens the passenger door. He already has his hands all over her as Nadi slides out of the vehicle, slides down his body. He's standing so close she really has no other choice, and Vincent doesn't even realize that he's been holding his breath till now (Vincent...Vincent, I can't breathe). She looks so good, and David is kissing her neck and she's laughing (it tickles when you touch her neck, she likes that, it makes her wet, it makes her come) and then they're walking toward the door, David's hand possessively on the small of Nadi's back, sliding down to cup the cheek of her ass. Vincent makes a low sound in the back of his throat.

Vincent wants to break David's fingers, wants to grab his pointy little sleekly-shorn head and slam his clean-shaven face repeatedly into the hood of his pretty, boy-blue SUV. He wants the fucker's blood on his hands, he wants to make him cry and attempt apology through his broken, bloody mouth. Yeah, he wants the fucker's blood on his hands, and then he'll put those bloody hands on Nadi while he's fucking her, fucking her, making her say Vinnnn-cent...Vinnnnn-cent (all breathy and catching), do you love me? Do you? as he's slamming into her (HIS Nadi, HIS little cat, HIS puss). He feels sick to his stomach. His hands are clenching on the steering wheel, his knuckles white and bloodless.

Vincent watches them walk to her front door, Nadi unlocking it with her key, David propelling her, going into the house past her in a too-familiar way that Vincent doesn't like. She turns to close the door and sees Vincent. She stands there for a moment, looking directly into his face. She wavers as if she might bolt across the street and jump back onto his bike, into his lap, into his soul. Then she steps back. She stares into Vincent's face, then shrugs. What else could I do?

The door swings closed, the light from inside growing smaller and smaller until it’s suddenly gone.

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