The Waif and the Stray

"Jude."

His face comes into focus over mine, hands scrabbling to find mine, forcing his fingers between mine. All mine, even if just for these precious few minutes.

Shoulders flexing as he kisses me, dropping his face into my neck, re-establishing his smooth, steady rhythm, pinning me to the bed. Just as I think I can't take anymore, heart and lungs bursting, he gasps; a shock of electricity bounces between us, his grip of my hands tightening as he grinds into me, setting me free. I lift off, soaring and swooping high into the heavens, even as he earths me. He shouts, my name gritted out like a prayer.

And then just us, breathing hard, chasing it, the elation bubbling between us. Shaking. It's long moments before he shifts, reluctant to move. Eventually he rolls until we're both on our side before tilting his hips back. As before, it makes me wince, and he apologises with soft eyes and a gentle brush of his hand over my thigh. We lie together until I'm almost drowsing, even though it's still light outside.

But, "I need to wash this stuff off," I explain, finally pulling myself up onto an elbow, not really wanting to move at all.

"Mmph," he grumbles, sounding equally sleepy, then stretching. "Are you going to be sore?"

I flop back to the bed, flushing fast.

"Hey, I'm only asking. I went slower this time," his voice hovering over me.

I cover my face.

"Louisa? I know you don't like talking about it, but there's some things I need to know, ok?"

I groan like the kid I'm trying not to be.

"Look, it's been good for us so far, or at least I think so, but I can't know for sure how it is for you unless you tell me."

I snort derisively. Good? That's what he calls it? Good isn't even a quarter of it.

"Well ok, it's been more than good. Hasn't it, Lou?"

I peer at him from behind my hands. His handsome face is etched with hope and something I can't put a name to.

"Better even than I thought and I was pretty optimistic about us," he adds, quietly.

I sit up. He's not joking, he's serious. Time for me to grow up.

"I don't feel sore, Jude. And anyway, it's more just -- um, tender than sore. Because it's been a while for me and you're --" I look at him with as much meaning as I can muster.

"And you're tiny," he finishes, the beginnings of a smile curling his lips.

I blush again, but he catches my hands, sitting up and somehow manhandling me into his lap, awake now, the smile widening.

"But it's good for you, is it?" a wink, fishing for compliments now.

"Yes. It's good," I grudge out the words, until surprising him completely with, "Best ever."

He hugs me closer, a rush of happiness. "Me too," he whispers, not very quietly.

I absorb that for a second or two. "Really?"

He sits a little straighter, runs a lazy finger along my thigh. "Yeah. I ain't going to lie about that, Lou. This is fantastic with you. Maybe because I've wanted it for so long."

I think about how brash he seemed at first. Confident, like he knew he'd get what he wanted. Me.

"How long?"

"Since day one, Lou. Day One. But I worked out you was a quiet one. Wary, too, and I'd need to be patient."

"You make it sound like breaking in a horse."

"More demanding than that."

"Demanding? Me?" I scoff. I want to ask him if he thinks it'll be worth it. Instead, "Sorry, but I really gotta wash this stuff off, Jude. I don't like the smell of it," I complain.

"We'll try other brands, maybe we can find one that's better."

"Maybe. I was thinking, are you registered with a GP around here?"

"Yeah, course --" and then he cottons on. "Oh. Like, for an alternative?"

"Maybe, yes."

"Well, fuck, that's gonna ruin me," he exclaims, flopping back to the bed, rolling his eyes like a right drama queen. "My stamina's gone to shit with you."

I cough, laughter caught in my throat, leaving him to his dramatics.

I'm still smiling by the time I make it back to Jude's room, feeling cleaner, hair tamed into a long braid, clambering back onto his bed and giving him a happy kiss. He slings an arm over me and returns the kiss with interest. Then rolls out of the bed, into a pair of shorts and out of the room.

The plumbing in his house creaks the same as in mine. I lie back, pinching the cotton of his duvet cover between my fingers and thumb, thinking back to his sweet, silent loan of -- what -- just a few weeks ago? I bunch it up and curl myself around it, allowing myself to acknowledge how much Jude means to me, and how much I don't want him to go away again. I know it's selfish and probably childish, but I hate it when people leave. I beat the duvet into shape, letting myself enjoy the scent of him in his bed, squirming my body deeper into it.

"Hey," he whispers, almost a growl, sliding in behind me, naked and glorious. "You ok there, or should I worry that you're punching the shit out of my bedding?"

"I'm fine."

But he knows better because he aligns his body perfectly to mine and holds me firmly in both arms. "I have to go back, Louisa, but I will come back here to you, I promise."

I sigh.

"Do you believe me?" he asks, pulling himself up so he can see my face.

"Yeah, I believe you. I -- I'm just not great at people leaving and all that."

"Mmm, how can I make it up to you?" shifting me around until we're facing each other. "I don't know how long they'll need me. Maybe you could come and visit one weekend?"

I cough out another startled laugh. "Really?"

"Yeah. Then you could see what it's like to have too much family," he teases me, running a fingertip over my cheekbones. "They'd be fascinated to meet you."

"Fascinated? I'm not a zoo specimen."

"I didn't mean it like that. But you'd be the only girl I've ever taken to meet 'em. No lie," he says, all sweet and earnest.

Well, that makes me warm inside. "Is that true?"

"Course," a small pause, before, "They're sorta traditional about stuff like that. No sex before marriage and all that. Not to play the gypsy card too hard, but it's how it is, you know?"

"Yeah, I know since I googled it. Does that mean all your brothers and sisters are married?"

"It does," grinning at me like I'm a pot of double cream. "I'm an old man, according to them."

"For being single?"

"For not being married with kids already under my feet and more on the way."

"I see. How come you're not married? Isn't that what your parents would've wanted for you?"

"I'd been out of the life for too long. I mean, they asked me if that's what I wanted, but I couldn't see it being for me, and I said no."

"They were happy about that?

"Yeah. I reckon they couldn't have been anything else, not since they'd decided I'd live out with Nan."

"A sad old bachelor, then?"

"Yep, that's me. Now then, how else can I make it up to you?" he pretends to give it actual thought before snuggling up closer. "What about some more brilliant sex?"

"More?"

"Oh, so little faith," he teases, easing away from me, casting his eyes downward.

And, yeah, he's definitely perking up. I'm fascinated and turned on by how unselfconscious he is with me. He shifts his hips.

"You like this, eh? Lou? Tell me what you like? Talk to me."

His tone is coaxing, seductive, and sends my mind into orbit, words queuing up in my dry throat, dizzy to be let loose. I swallow.

"This?" he asks, touching himself lightly, "Or without any touching?"

I'm too enthralled to talk back. When he sits up I follow him. When he gives himself a long stroke, I follow his movement, holding my breath. Wanting so much to ask him not to stop. But then he does.

"Hmm. Let's see what really turns you on," his eyes wide open and so clear.

I bite my lip. And watch him as he slowly caresses himself, his fingers curving, flexing, strong and delicate at the same time. Something about the contrast between his hands, seen every day doing the ordinary things in life -- handing me a mug of tea, holding out his inhaler for me to see, pressing down a piano key -- and the usually unseen flesh in his hands, is just really doing it for me. I can't take my eyes away. Until he stops, his hand dropping to his thigh. I look up to find Jude's gaze fixed on me.

"God, but that's good. Too good," he stops. "You like that," eyebrows rising.

I nod.

"One day, you'll tell me exactly what you like about it," he reaches out with his hand but before he reaches me, I pull at it and kiss it.

He offers me an odd smile, taking his hand back, rubbing it across his chest. I watch, puzzled. Until he runs a finger over his own nipple. And back again.

"Hmm," an eyebrow arching, "is it my hands you like, not just this?" as he strokes his cock again.

I shake my head even though that's a lie, and take his hand back. A light kiss of his fingers. Which I do a second time when his hand flinches. I smile at him and he smiles back.

"You can ask me what I like. Anything, Lou, anything."

"You like this?" I ask, with another kiss.

His turn to nod. I lick the callouses on his fingertips and the pliable skin in-between each finger, loitering a little over the thin white scar in the span between his thumb and forefinger, watching his pupils dilate. He runs two fingers along my lips before pushing them inside my mouth, dipping his head down to kiss my neck, whispering to me how much he's loving this. I swallow a moan, knocked out by how much of a turn on it is.

"Yeah, that's it, girl, find what makes you happy."

He withdraws his fingers, brushing my lips with his. Lightly at first. Then with a lot more concentration until for some reason we're both smiling too much for proper kissing.

"You make me happy." And, so, those words just marched right out there. I actually press my hand to my mouth as if to push them back in.

And then I'm engulfed in him as he practically knocks me down to the bed, rolling us until I'm trapped beneath him.

"I make you happy?"

"Yes," I concede, sort of loving the look on his face.

"You make me happy too, Louisa."

A weird little noise flutters out of my throat.

"Yeah, I like that, too," he mutters, rearranging me, fitting me around him. "I like all the noises you make when we're loving and fucking."

And, God, I nearly boil over. Turns out I like to watch him, and I like his dirty talk. A lot. I'm pretty sure more noises scamper out of me, betraying my eagerness for him. He drinks it up.

"Yeah, girl. How about it?" sitting up, daring me.

I shuffle closer, very aware of his eyes on me. Watching me. Something else I didn't think I liked, and, well -- so much for my self-knowledge.

I take him into my hands. Gently, but even that sends a shiver through him, a short, wry sound which, when I look into his face, means he wasn't expecting my touch. Even if it's barely a touch at all. More a presence. I imagine he must be able to feel the warmth of my hands, but only just. A light drag of a few fingertips along his length forces another, longer, shiver through him. And now I'm the one trying to keep my need to laugh at bay, my lips twitching with disobedience, my fingers pretending to linger with idle intent, drawing out the gentle torture for him. The hairs on his thighs drag under my touch, his muscles quiver the further I move, in to the crease, over the curve of his hip then back. Lower. Under. Again. Air escapes from him in an impatient rush, except I sense him holding back, indulging my exploration.

As I finally close one of my hands around him, still gentle, strands of hair fall over my shoulders, coming out of the braid, loosening down my back. The tips tickle my skin, unbearable, like pinpricks. As if he can truly hear my thoughts -- can he, because I'm really beginning to think he might? -- he brushes my hair away from my face, twisting it into a rope in a vain attempt to tame it, letting his hand drop away as the task becomes plainly pointless. It blows me away how he sits for me, back to the bed board, arms relaxed at his sides, not needing or wanting to control what I'm doing.

When I kiss him, he opens for me without hesitation, his trust so complete it's like vertigo, a sudden thumping drop in altitude. I meant for the kiss to be gentle, but he reaches for me with hunger and desire, hard and soft, his hand pushing at the base of my skull when I ease off, just a fraction, not wanting to let me go. I like this too, when he shows what he wants from me. Our breath chases down our faces, tumbling and mingling together. If we were glass we'd be fogging up. But we are flesh. Hard and soft. So hard and so soft. He makes a low, choppy sort of noise and for a second or two I think he might be coming. He twists his head, breaking the kiss, inhaling deeply. Neck flushed.

I look down at where I'm holding him, stroking him. That's when his hips lift, arching up into my hold. How such a tiny movement can have such a profound impact on me is totally mysterious. Catching that moment when his body can't help but respond feels magical. I repeat the downward stroke. A loud exhale, rattling a little. I look up.

"I ain't gonna have an asthma attack, don't think that, girl," he grins, his eyes soft, unfocused, "but, fuck, I might come if you carry on doing that."

I give him a squeeze for that, which he takes like a man, another more conscious lift of his hips, as if to defy my attempt to control him. Crawling backwards on my knees, he watches, his eyes narrowing and, as I bend, using both hands on his thighs to steady my descent, he scoops at my hair again, holding it out of the way, clear of his view. His body's response is bewitching; barely restrained excitement, twitching and shivering. I'm entranced.

I dip a fingertip into the liquid that's been gathering on his crown before licking it into my mouth.

"Jesus," he whispers, urgent and shaky.

We both moan as I open my mouth and take him inside. He feels hot, making me wonder if I feel cool to him. I swallow as much of him as I can, which isn't that much since I'm not exactly expert at this, but I can feel he likes it anyway, still restricting his movements, not wanting to overwhelm me. He lays a hand lightly on the back of my head and that one simple act of affection nearly makes me cry. He strokes my hair, long fingers delving into it, separating it into strands, rubbing light circles into my scalp and down my neck. I squeeze my eyes tightly, pushing my tongue around him, giving him my love, feeling his pulse.

"Jesus," he whispers again, "Yeah, just like that, with your tongue. Fuck," almost a private commentary, the words thrown out with each uneven, grainy breath. "Oh, my girl. Lou. Fuck."

His fingers tighten up in my hair until I realise he's pulling me away.

"You have to stop if -- I'm nearly there," he blows out in a rush.

I release him. Not that I wouldn't mind him coming in my mouth, but I don't want it to be over yet.

"Fuck, get over here," he demands, bossy even while his head is tipped back to the head board, throat bared and vulnerable. And then, "Careful, who knows how many swimmers are in this mess already," showing me his shiny palm.

I shimmy as close as I can without touching, tantalising. He's right to be cautious. I can barely afford to feed and clothe myself, let alone a baby. We both sigh with the weight of temptation, and as our eyes meet, I see he's regained some composure.

"Come here," he repeats just as certainly, pushing me into the kiss with his hand on the back of my neck, kissing me as if he wants to lick his taste out of me.

I shudder the length of my body, long and deep. His cock twitches so hard it taps my stomach. Our hands collide as we both reach for him. His eyes flutter open, blackening. Opening for me. Again. And we both know there's no return for him now. He has to finish. Needs it. Even though my hand is inside his, I follow his lead now, his pace, the tension of his touch. His hips lift rhythmically and I think I might die from the delight and desire.

"I like this," I suddenly blurt, "I like this so much," wondering if I could make that sound any more gauche if I tried.

He groans as if I've cut him, shock and gratification in equal measure, hips arching, pushing himself into my hand with everything he has, hand gripping my neck.

"Yeah, say it. Say it, Louisa," he urges, panting.

Before I get a chance, he groans once more and I can feel it, as though he might burst, before he comes all over us, hands frantic, chest heaving, mashing his mouth to mine even before he's stopped cursing, his lips bruising mine. We kiss as the energy leaves his body, relinquishing him, leaving him to fight for recovery.

It takes him an age, and I watch. Yeah, I watch him as openly as I want to, no need to feel self-conscious about it if he's not. And he's not. He's dropped his head back, neck bared, Adam's apple moving as he breathes and swallows. Still wheezing a bit. He barely reacts when I soothe a hand over his chest, dark hairs still resistant to being smoothed down onto his damp skin. His hand comes to rest on top of mine, quieting it for a few more moments before he lifts it to his mouth. Warm, soft lips press to my palm, reminding me of that first night, of the thrilling contrast between his soft kiss to my palm and the hard, relentless rhythm of his own hand, kneeling over me, getting himself off.

"Christ, sorry. I thought I was gonna black out," a rueful look, the first uptick of a smile on his lips, eyes still loose.

I wait, watching the pulse at the base of his neck, a little transfixed by it. Awareness of my own ache dropping into my consciousness, my need separate from Jude's now. Just as he stirs, I start to move back, but he stops me, a hand around my hip.

"Hey, hey, where d'ya think you're going? We're not done here."

Tugging at me, wanting me to stay, to keep giving.

"Tell me, show me what you want me to do," he urges, eyes clear again, directing all his energies to me through those devastating eyes and confident hands, searching for me, searching for my pleasure.

I find his hand, smooth it flat between mine before tucking it between my legs, sitting up a bit to make room. The noise he makes as he slides into the wet is more arousing than his touch and I bite my mouth to hold back my own sounds.

"Don't do that, Lou. Tell me how you feel. Tell me," he murmurs, "Yeah, that's it, like that," as I tilt my hips, following the smooth, slow glide of his hand.

I grip his shoulders for balance because my legs are shaking so hard.

"Hold onto me," his voice clear even as his hand withdraws, a terrible absence, before he takes a hold of my waist in both hands, long fingers pressing into me, keeping me steady. "Lift your leg over -- yeah like that," and he rearranges us, sliding one of his legs between mine.

When I lower myself down, his hand is already pushing in-between my legs, resuming its work. My eyes drop shut.

"Aw, Lou, yeah. Good, ain't it?"

I think I manage a nod, but honestly, I'm overwhelmed. How pathetic am I that Jude's shuffling of us around to create a more comfortable position for me feels so important? Speaks volumes about my past sex life, that's for sure. Or about the boys in my past. I close my eyes, letting my gratitude for Jude overpower the memories. Letting myself really feel him, the rough and the smooth of his fingertips and palm, the bend and the flex of all those delicate joints and tendons and bones.

"That's it," he's coaching me, encouraging me with love in his voice, "use me, take what you need, Lou."

My eyes spring open and I'm surprised to find I'm looking down at him. He straightens up until he reaches my mouth with his, invading me, stroking me everywhere, in my mouth and as I grind onto his hand, his eyes intent, lifting his thigh under me, trapping me. I moan. Sudden mad beating in my ribcage. An early warning.

"Yeah," he whispers, his lips moving up against mine.