My Darling Arrow (St. Mary's Rebels 1)

I’ve never pouted. I do not pout.

But somehow, I’m doing it right now.

Somehow, I’m doing it for him.

“You are pouting at me, aren’t you,” he concludes.

He is right. I am.

And it feels so… provocative, so seductive to be doing that. To be pouting at the guy I love because he won’t fuck me.

Like he’s the man of the house and I’m a naïve teenager.

He is the man of the house though, isn’t he? He always has been.

Big and protective.

He even saved me from those girls and took me on my first motorcycle ride.

So I raise my eyebrows, feeling bold. “So what if I am?”

My boldness makes him sharper. It hollows out his cheeks and somehow juts out his jaw. It makes the blue in his eyes buzz and hum.

“Then I’d tell you to stop,” he rumbles out a warning; his hands on my waist shift and get under the vintage leather jacket that I’m wearing.

“I don’t want to.”

“You think you’ll get your way like this? You stick out your lip like a bad girl and I fuck you like a dying, desperate man.”

A throb, big and pulsing, clutches my body and travels down my scalp all the way to my toes trapped in woolen socks, and I twist my hips. I undulate between him and the wall and I do something really bad.

I do something worse than inadvertently pouting at him.

Staring at him through my eyelashes, I put my hand on his, where he’s gripping me at the waist and make him let go.

Well, make him is wrong; I can’t make Arrow do anything if he doesn’t want to.

But luckily, he wants to and he lets me.

Suspicion clouds his features but he lets me take his hand off my waist and bring it up. And then, he lets me put that large hand of his on my breast.

I don’t know what I’m thinking or what I hope to accomplish by putting his hand there but as soon as I do that, as soon as I direct his hand onto my soft, bouncy flesh, his fingers move on their own.

They close over my mound and he squeezes it, making me whimper and causing me to clutch his wrist.

It also makes me spill a bad secret. “I’m not wearing a bra.”

His eyes dip to my sunshine-yellow t-shirt and stay there. As if he can see. As if he can see my naked breasts and my hard nipples through the fabric.

“You’re not,” he rasps as he rubs his open palm on me, over the nipple.

Once. Just once.

And I jerk in his arms. “Yes. I never wear one. I… it makes me feel free and…”

He swipes his hand over my nipple again, still watching it, watching his fingers over my breast. “And what?”

“And no one has ever touched me there. Before.”

All of it is true.

I don’t wear a bra because mostly I’ve got my sweater on so I don’t need it. Besides, my breasts are average B cups anyway. And yes, no one has ever touched me there before.

Finally, he raises his eyes, his fingers still insistent and still squeezing. “What about panties? Are you wearing any panties?”

“I am,” I whisper, suddenly feeling how sticky they are, how wet and hot. “But it’s only a little thong.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“I-I like them. I have tons.”

“Because I bet that feels free too, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And no one has touched you there either, have they?”

“No. No one.”

At this, his fingers don’t show any mercy on my breast.

He plumps it up and squeezes it and molds it however he wants. He even uses it to pull me closer, like this virgin piece of flesh belongs to him.

Even though he clearly doesn’t want it. He clearly has aggression dripping out of his eyes and anger radiating off his fingers.

“So you put my hand on your tit and you tell me you’re not wearing a bra,” he growls, plucking at my nipple now. “You tell me you never wear one. And then you have the audacity to tell me that you love wearing a flimsy, useless string between your legs because it makes you feel free and no one has ever touched you there before. That no one has played with your nipples or squeezed your tits like this. No one has fingered that tight thing between your legs. Is that correct?”

That tight thing between my legs spasms at his rough, vibrating words.

“Yeah. No one.”

“Is this your attempt at seducing me?” he asks me with another squeeze of my breast.

When he asks the question like this, with almost a mocking tone, my cheeks burn with embarrassment. They flush scarlet with my inexperience and how young I might seem to him.

The little sister.

But I have done it now, haven’t I?

I have put his hand on my breast and I’ve told him all about my naïveté so even though every part of me is trembling, I raise my chin. “Yes.”