"I look at your pants and, I need a kiss."
"Not just a project." Claire kneeled back beside John and moved her mouth down to his chest, where the chocolate was melting, and her tongue lapped at him there, all over.
"Also dessert," she said, and licked a trail of syrup up his chest. "Your skin is a little salty, it's really good with all the sweet stuff. It's kind of, like, gourmet." She giggled, it sounded a little nervous.
"I'll give you salty sweet stuff—oh, fuck, Claire, what the fuck are you doing?"
"Is it bad?" She sounded panicked.
Somewhere in the swirling, John heard his voice swearing and saying no, and then yes, and then who the fuck knew. Claire seemed to get the idea of "not bad" from this, for which John Bender was very grateful, because his lips were struggling with some kind of words, but who the hell knew what they were.
All he knew, the single, only thing, was that Claire Standish's lips and tongue were all over his chest. Until they weren't, because they were on his neck, sucking and biting the way you could tell, someone was trying to leave a mark. He loved that, that his skin would say that Claire had been there, way clearer than he could speak at the moment.
She pulled back.
"Is that too much?"
"Hell no. That all you got?"
Which got his chest bit hard, just like he'd wanted, and he strained against the cuffs and the metal bit him, too, and it was just, exactly right.
John Bender said something he hoped expressed that sense of rightness.
It must have been ok, because Claire giggled into his skin, saying she loved chocolate covered cherries, and she couldn't believe she was doing this.
John made as if to bite her back and warned her to have some manners and leave some candy for him, and she laughed, saying he was already getting more candy than he deserved, and the whole scene was so them, he thought he might come from that alone.
Then she put another chocolate in her mouth and bent toward his mouth and they ate it together for a while, tongues and sweet and goo. And the cuffs, always, a sharp metal reminder at his wrists.
"Enough dessert," she said when chocolate was done. "This relationship is terrible for my diet."
"Seriously," said John, regaining admirable control of words, he thought, "your diet includes raw fish wrapped in seaweed. It has nowhere to go but up."
"Seriously," said Claire, "dessert's over." Her hand trailed down towards his jeans again, and John's words took another holiday.
"It's time to get to work on that other project." She took a deep breath. "I can not believe I'm doing this. If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I will never learn how to give head. And I'll chain you to Brian and swallow the key."
"My lips are so motherfucking sealed, you can't believe it."
Then her face was near his again, wide-eyed and interested. "So I did some research for this project? And I'm pretty sure I could make you come by massaging you under your shorts while I suck on your nipple. What do you think?"
And her hand was in his boxers, skin on skin.
"I don't know," he gritted, "give it a try."
First just her hand. "Wow. I've never touched one before. It's kind of—smoother, softer than I thought."
"Trust me, Claire, not soft."
She laughed. She was having fun. Thank fucking God. This felt like heaven. In fact, suddenly it seemed like the only thing bad that could ever happen to John Bender was that Claire would stop what she was doing. So if Claire Standish had fun touching his dick, that was fucking great entertainment news.
"No, I mean the skin. It's soft. Over the hard. And ooh. These feel kind of funny."
On some plane of his existence that was barely functioning, John registered that Claire Standish was touching balls for the first time, and they were his, and that was awesome.
But mostly, he just felt great and wanted more.
Fine. They feel funny. Whatever. More.
He opened his eyes, which he seemed to have closed. Claire was looking at her hand in his shorts. She hadn't even taken him out all the way, though she could for sure see some of him.
She looked so interested. Like he really was a science project.
Well, he wasn't about to complain because she was clearly instinctively really a star student in the hand job department. And he was seeing stars.
But somewhere, he made a firm resolution to have her writhing and begging for something from him, a lot beyond interested, at some point before they left this motel room.
Claire's hand was out of his shorts, then. Which was bad. She got up again. Which was worse.
John bit back a swear and shut his eyes. Maybe she just needs to pee.
But then, the girl was back on the bed, and the hand was back in his shorts, and now—it was slippery.
There was a God, and he loved John Bender, all appearances to the contrary.
She'd brought oil. Her hand was slick, and warm, and now squeezing harder, and it was and the best thing he'd ever felt.
"I heard chafing can be a problem," Claire explained softly.
John tried to communicate his total lack of a problem with anything that was happening.
Which apparently got through, because then Claire's mouth was back on his chest, tongue and teeth swirling. Her hand was back in his shorts, gripping and sliding, in a rhythm now, and then her other hand was in his hair, twisting, and that hurt so fucking good, it was like there was a line of pleasure and pain that went from every point of contact, tying him in knots of getting exactly what he wanted and wanting more at the same time.
Someone was whining and moaning and swearing and it was him.
Project was going well.
No one, no one had ever made him feel so good. Not ever. And it wasn't even his cock that was getting the blowjob. She was blowing his chest, somehow.
She was blowing his fucking mind.
And then she paused, John caught her eye and she looked shy, again, like she needed reassurance. But John couldn't manage much. He rolled his eyes and panted that she was definitely hired, which might technically not be the correct thing to say in these circumstances, but it seemed to do the trick.
Because she kept going, which was really all he cared about at the moment.
Things were just so good. His entire torso was wet from her mouth and sticky from candy. Her hand was slick with oil and had a great sense of rhythm. John was in love with Claire's hand, suddenly.
He was in love with Claire, too, and she was making love to him, the way she somehow, incredibly, knew how to do, the way she'd thought about doing based on what she saw in him, watching, listening, seeing. Like only she could.
And obviously doing some kind of high-achiever studying, too.
"Oh, my FUCKING GOD!" His voice was a kind of roar.
John felt like he was levitating off the bed and straining against the cuffs, and then ache and itch and swirl and blast-off, and then gone, not even in the building, just so, so, so good.
Like he really let go, fell and floated and let someone catch him.
And when it was over, and he was panting, looking at her, and she was looking at his stuff on her fingers like it was a very interesting part of the science project gone well, and he started laughing. He just felt so good.
Totally, totally relaxed and good, with the virgin examining his cum, both of them still half-dressed.
"What?" She asked, but she was laughing, too.
"You'd laugh, too. Do you know how good I feel?"
Claire bit her lip. Shy again. "No."
"You're an amazing goddess genius algebraically accelerating S&M virgin porn queen."
Claire giggled. "So is that good?"
John was laughing so hard, the cuffs bit into him again, and he found he'd had enough of them. Plus he wanted to hold his S&M virgin girlfriend.
He knew he'd had some worries before, about something, but he couldn't imagine what they had been.
"Babe, can you take these off now?"
"Yeah, sure—just—hang on a second."
Claire took her finger, trailed it in his mess that was all over his belly, and put her finger in her mouth.
Jesus. Fucking. Christ. He'd only been speaking the truth. He'd never need porn again. He had visuals for the rest of his life.
"Hmm," she said again.
"Jesus H. Christ, Claire, you are so sexy, it should be illegal."
And she just beamed. Like teen-age, high school-girl beamed. Like she'd gotten an A on her project.
She took the key from the table by the bed and undid the handcuffs. John stretched his arms. His arms were sore, but that was just a great reminder of what had happened. He felt incredibly, incredibly relaxed.
"Hey, Claire, can you take your shirt off and come here?" His speech was a little slurred, but he definitely wasn't drunk. "I'm probably sticky, and I don't wanna get that cashmere bra dirty, but I want to spoon the hell out of you."
"Um, yeah—" she paused, and John couldn't see her face. "But…I forgot to bring pajamas. Do you have an extra t-shirt I could sleep in?"
He smiled, then shook his head, then said yes, it was in his bag.
Claire blushed, grabbed a shirt, and scurried into the bathroom.
She could cuff him, make him scream and lick his cum off her fingers, but she was embarrassed to take her shirt off in front of him.
He felt like he would never figure Claire out. But right then, John Bender felt like he'd be happy to die trying.