This story is also available at this location on The Archive of Our Own, where all my current stories and comments can be found. I am no longer updating this site.

Christian really likes fucking Kimber. Truth of the matter is, there’s a lot to be said for fucking a woman who knows exactly when and where to bite (the earlobe, the stretch of neck just underneath, definitely not the chin). Who knows him well enough to anticipate his moves just enough to make them easier but not enough to make him feel boring, who comes readily but doesn’t require the same damn thing every time.

Kimber’s very flexible. She may be a psycho hose-beast (he hasn’t forgotten being tied up and cut on, though it’s a lot less traumatic to remember than it was to experience, now that he knows what a real psychotic can do), but she’s his psycho hose-beast. She’s high-maintenance only in ways that he knows how to handle. And her understanding of fidelity matches his – which is that it’s a concept for audio equipment, not Christian Troy.

Because Christian just loves pussy. Loves it enough that it’s probably going to kill him one of these days, whether via a sexually transmitted disease or a seriously disgruntled husband/boyfriend. He just hopes he dies pretty (and sated).

It’s not that he hasn’t pondered whether his relentless pursuit of poontang is some sort of reaction to the fact that he let Mr. Troy pay to give him handjobs, some desperate attempt to assert his heterosexuality in spite of that. He has to consider the possibility; he’s not that fucking well-adjusted.

But Christian sincerely believes that he’d be a pussy-hound regardless. Even if his worthless natural parents hadn’t abandoned him to the state and the state hadn’t paid Mr. and Mrs. Troy to take him off its hands, he’d want to fuck his way through the beauties of the world. Women taste good; they smell good; coming inside them feels good. Their come-faces are a little ridiculous, but his is too – he’s seen it in a mirror often enough to know. It’s that bit of vulnerability that makes fucking more dangerous than jerking off, a counterpoint to the greater intensity of the pleasure.

Anyway, if voluntarily unzipping his pants for Mr. Troy when he was a kid didn’t make him gay, being ­ assaulted by the Carver didn’t have anything to do with his sexuality.

Even if he did kind of blame Sean for it. There’s no denying that Sean’s insistence on treating the Carver’s victims led directly to Christian’s assault. Typical Sean, his passive-aggression forcing everyone else to take action, letting Sean act all surprised and self-righteous, like he never meant that to happen, like it was just some accident.

The only thing that makes it bearable is that Christian is reasonably certain that Sean wouldn’t have survived it if the Carver had picked him instead. Or (and this is the terrifying thought he’d never share with Sean or Julia, that jerked him out of the first sleep he’d managed after the assault) if he’d picked Matt. Christian is really the strongest of them, he knows, at least this way.

And now that fucking Costas and his smirking and nodding, as if he saw who Christian really was. Surgeon’s hands going where they had no business being. Christian knows it isn’t his fault that Costas made up some bullshit about thinking he was bisexual. He’s been cruising for more than twenty years now without another man trying to pick him up, which shows that Costas is delusional – he probably thinks Sean is a closet bisexual too. Seriously, taking Sean to a frat party and getting him drunk? A fairly old and moldy seduction technique, and one to which Christian had never needed to stoop even when he was throwing the goddamn frat parties. His girls always spread their legs for him without needing beer courage.

The only good thing about Costas was that he had helped pry Kit away from Kimber, and given the fallout from that at work, it would maybe have been smarter to enlist Sean. He would have tried that, too, if Sean wasn’t such a fucking open wound at the moment. Kit wouldn’t have had the slightest interest – Sean would have been too easy for her to crack. And probably too hard to convince to join the party in the first place.

Sean’s powers of denial had always been considerable – Christian was willing to bet he thought that what happened in New York stayed in New York, as if Christian hadn’t seen that Sean was just as willing to use a woman for sex as Christian himself. Suggesting a repeat of the sharing would likely have led to another self-righteous Sean explosion/lecture, and Christian did not have the energy right now.

So despite the wandering finger, Costas had been the better choice, and at least now Sean had got a chance to see the real viper beneath the smiling face. Now if only Sean would admit he’d screwed up by inviting a third into the partnership, they might make some real progress.

Yeah. He’d have better luck hoping for Kimber to win the Nobel Prize in Chemistry.

Whatever. He’s in bed with Kimber, letting her do the work this time, shimmying above him with her head thrown back and her very perfect breasts bobbing with every thrust. Like the breasts, the moans are part artifice and part natural, and who would want to sort them out when they’re both getting off on it?

And it’s not that he has performance difficulties, but he keeps getting distracted by all these thoughts. Kimber has come three times, once with his hand, once against his thigh, once on his cock (that one costarring his fingers, because vaginal orgasm is a myth but Christian Troy’s prowess is not). Christian is still hard and not likely to get any relief soon.

He’s considering faking it – they are still using condoms; they will always use condoms as far as Christian is concerned – when Kimber starts to talk.

“This feels good,” she whispers, dipping her head so her artfully styled curls tumble around her face. She’s talking to him, but also to the imaginary camera that follows her around. Christian would never admit it, but he admires Kimber’s total consciousness of appearance. “Usually I like being underneath you, feeling you push me into the mattress, but sometimes I like to be on top.”

He’s not paying so much attention until she starts to talk about what she’s liked about the style of other men. Not the ones in her movies, that’s not really sex as far as she’s concerned, but previous lovers – even when they made her come, they were not as good as Christian, she assures him, and blessedly she skips Bobolit entirely.

“Sean, Sean was sweet,” she says. “He always worked so hard to make sure I was having a good time.”

He looks up at her and sees a flash of something – satisfaction? – cross her face and disappear into her mask of enjoyment, her eyes slitted near-shut, her cheeks pink with exertion.

She tells him everything – how Sean took care of the doll, how he took care of her just like she was that doll, greedily seeking his own pleasure then reversing himself completely, enslaving himself to her desires. “A man like that, when he feels guilty, he’ll do anything for you,” she says, rubbing against him. His hips snap up faster, faster, finally getting somewhere.

“He’s so confused,” she says, “and it made him treat me really well.”

Christian reaches up, grabs her arms, pushes her into a better position. Kimber moves her legs along his thighs, smooth tanned flesh against him, not silk or satin but woman, just what he wants.

“Being with him made me feel closer to you.” She’s looking down at him, panting with exertion. He feels the tips of her nails, shell-pink, pressing into the skin of his chest. “He’s important to you, so he’s important to me.”

He closes his eyes – even though he hates to do that – and stiffens into the last, overwhelming rush of pleasure, fucking her, feeling her as he fucks her, his hands clenching on her hips, and she falls silent, which is even better because the noise in his head is subsiding too.

Kimber knows what he is and what he wants, and she plans to give it to him.

And what more, he thinks before sleep slips over him like anaesthesia, can a man ask from a woman?


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