God help Nimue if I ever got her alone.
As usual, it only took a minute or two, barely long enough for me to pull out my handkerchief to finish inside of, and it was over. Pulsing, shameful relief.
But that messy culmination seemed forever ago now, with Nimue in all her lissome glory in front of me.
Looking at me, really looking at me, with unabashed appreciation.
This was not good. It didn’t matter that she was eighteen, that she was literally my soul mate—both my career and my morality dictated that I leave her alone. I needed to leave her alone; in every sense of the phrase, my life depended on it. But it was so hard to remember why with her right here. With that lavender scent tempting me closer and closer…
“Your sister left,” I said, trying to rally and leave. “If you’re looking for her.”
Nimue put a warm hand on my chest. “I’m not,” she said. “Looking for her.”
I tried to take a breath. I tried to say something, I tried to move. I tried, I did, I swear.
When her lips met mine, she tasted of the flavored lip balm schoolgirls wear, a taste I was surprised to recognize from my last two years Stateside.
“Dr. Pepper,” she laughed against my lips and pushed me backwards. “It’s Dr. Pepper flavored.”
Somehow I found myself sitting on the low sofa with her straddling my hips, and even with her doodled-on sneakers digging into my thighs and her lips tasting of soda-flavored lip balm, I was the one without any experience. I was the one getting my first kiss. And the gentle brush of her lips on mine was exactly as I remembered from before—hesitant at first, then growing warm and sure as we went.
She moved my hands to her hips, to her waist, and finally up to her braless breasts with their thick nipples poking my palms even through her shirt, and all the while she rocked her firm, hot cunt over my hips, managing to line up her seam with my erection just so, and I would have come right there and then if she hadn’t stopped.
But she did stop.
“Do you have a condom?” she asked breathlessly. “I’m on the Pill, but you know.”
Did I?
Know?
“I don’t have any,” I told her honestly. I’d never even bought any; I never needed to. My desire began and ended with Nimue, and even after I’d found her, I’d tried to stay away.
I wish I could say that the pause for a condom stopped the twenty-seven-year-old man from fucking the girl in the Catholic school uniform, but it didn’t happen that way. A condom was found in her room, and on her messy bed, she took my virginity. She pushed me back and eased herself onto my thick, latex-covered shaft.
I came immediately. She just laughed. “I thought older men were supposed to have stamina.”
I debated about how much to tell her, and settled for the truth. “I’ve never had sex before.”
Her eyes grew round. “Like…never?”
“I’ve never wanted to,” I told her honestly. “Not until you.”
And that was the moment it all changed, really. The moment it went from being about her fucking the sexy, older Brit and falling for the man himself. I fell too, and of course, it was a mistake.
The creativity of people who want to fuck but who should not be fucking is limitless.
She came to my hotel room, I snuck into her bedroom. We stole away at Vivienne’s lavish parties. I embraced the awful skeeviness of our ages and picked her up from school, and then we’d fuck in my car, my suit pants tugged around my hips and her plaid skirt up around her waist.
I may have been new to sex, but I was an eager student, and she barely needed to say anything aloud before I learned it. Where she liked to be licked and where she’d rather be sucked. When she wanted slow grinds and when she’d rather have fast, hammering thrusts. I held nothing back, left nothing trapped inside my imagination, and in the short time we had together, I visited every filthy, delirious act upon her body that we could dream of. I bit her, sucked her, spanked her, tongued her, fucked every place on her body that she wanted fucked—which was all of them. I couldn’t even care that I’d become the stereotype of the man chasing after teenage pussy—I knew the truth and had known it for fifteen hundred years.
It was only ever her. It was only ever going to be her.
The end happened all at once, or so it seemed at the time. Now, looking back, I can see it from almost the very beginning. The first time I met her at her school, she spilled out of the front doors next to a young man who was carrying her book bag and for whom the term strapping was invented.
The knife in my guts was dull and cold.
My visions hadn’t helped me here, hadn’t bothered to warn me or prepare me. Of course they didn’t last time either.
