Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

River

PART OF ME EXPECTS Clark to push me away. A scared little piece of me fears he’ll storm off and tell everyone how inappropriate and unprofessional I’ve been. What possessed me to take a risk like this? It could lose me more than just this retreat, and Clark and the organizers and everyone else would be completely in the right to be furious with me. I should never—

Clark closes the distance between us while my mind is still whirling. The moment his lips meet mine, every frantic thought abruptly silences, like shutters slamming closed against a howling gale. The world quiets. The lakeside disappears. Everything simplifies to the warmth of his mouth against mine.

Then he jerks away.

Clark sits back as though stung and slaps a hand over his mouth, his eyes wide.

“Oh God,” he says. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

He makes as though to leave, but I grab his wrist, keeping him cross-legged before me and pulling his hand away from those wonderful lips of his all at once.

“Wait,” I say.

Clark is shaking his head. “River, I’m so sorry. That was inappropriate. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I’m the one who’s the teacher here. You did nothing wrong.”

“But you’re so young .”

“I’m twenty-three. Does that bother you?”

Clark flounders. “I’m thirty-two, almost a decade older than you. Does that bother you ?”

“No.” The answer comes easily. I look right into his eyes as I say it. Never once has his age crossed my mind during this. “What are you really scared of?”

His eyebrows draw down, but the anger isn’t for me. He battles himself before my eyes, his uncertainty warring with his desire to obfuscate so he won’t have to face himself. And maybe it’s technically inappropriate, but as a teacher, as a person who works with bodies, it’s so clear to me what will get him out of his head that I can’t stop myself.

I tug on his wrist, drawing him back to me. Clark doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t flinch when I cup his jaw. He doesn’t retreat when I guide him back to my lips.

His hand lands on my thigh, as though he’s bracing against this, yet he sinks against my mouth. I hold him here longer this time, but not by any force. The mere presence of my hand against his cheek is encouragement enough, and that only makes it clearer how much he needs this, how much he wants this.

I want it too. I want it so badly it’s like a punch to the gut.

I tilt forward, easing him back as I do. Only when he’s lying on his back on his yoga mat do I allow our lips to part. Clark blinks up at me, but the rise and fall of his chest betrays the desire building inside him. How long has it lurked? How long has he pushed it away? I won’t let him keep running, not tonight.

I slide a hand under his shirt, greedy for bare skin. Perched over him, I can reach all the way to his chest, and when I flick my thumb almost accidentally over a nipple, Clark gasps.

“What are you doing?” he manages.

“Touching you,” I say. “Should I stop?”

I’m desperate for him to say “no,” but I’ll stop if he needs me to, if this is too much too fast. I don’t know how long it’s been for him, but clearly no one has had their hands on him in a while.

Clark swallows hard and says, “No. You shouldn’t stop.”

I leave my hand on his chest as I bend down to kiss him again, and wonder of wonders, Clark’s hand slips timidly into the hair spilling over my shoulders. Even that gentle caress sends a shockwave of warmth through my body, and I press harder to deepen the kiss. It never seems like enough, this timid meeting of lips. I want to lick into him, I want to search him, but I hold myself back, overwhelmed at even this scant glimpse of him.

When I pull away, we’re both breathless, and I’ll admit that’s a bit gratifying. I was afraid it might only be me gasping for air after that kiss, but Clark gazes up at me, his hand lightly combing through my loose hair, his lips softly parted, and he’s just as out of breath as I am.

As much as I could soak up that expression forever, this is far too tenuous. I’m scared to stop touching him for too long, scared the walls will slam down in my face again. Before they can, I slide the hand under his shirt down his body, savoring the warm skin under my palm. When I reach his sweatpants, I keep going, palming over him. He responds, hips pushing at my hand, cock hardening under my touch. He’s so eager to respond, like this reaction has been waiting inside his body for years . Maybe it has. Maybe he’s denied himself that long. The thought horrifies me, but I can’t undo the past. All I can offer is a better future.

I slip my hand easily under the band of his sweatpants. I leave his briefs between us, taking this one slow step at a time, but when I palm over him again, it’s even more obvious how easily he’s responding to me. I rub my hand over the full length of his hard cock, cupping him for a moment when I reach the bottom. Clark shudders, and for an instant it’s like I’m holding all of him in the palm of my hand, his whole body perched precariously on my palm.

I stroke back up him, watching the reaction ripple through his body. He breathes deeper and arches, his eyes fixed on whatever he can see of my hand. He’s losing control, and it’s plain that scares him, but I won’t let him fall. I slip my hand out of his pants, giving him a second to breathe, and tilt his chin up so he has to look into my eyes.

“Clark,” I say, “I can’t wait to make you feel good.”

Confusion flickers through his face. I don’t let myself indulge the pang of sorrow that inspires in me. I slide my hand back down his body instead, and when I reach his sweatpants, this time I slide my hand past both elastic bands.

The confusion melts away the moment I grasp him bare-handed. Clark sucks in an even deeper breath, one hand reaching reflexively for the arm propping me up. He hangs onto me while I start stroking him, scared too go too fast when we have nothing with us but our bodies. Besides, slow is great. Slow is wonderful. Slow lets me feel every inch of him even though I can only see the tip peeking out of his pants.

I let my hand drag his clothing down a bit as I pump. It’s gradual, almost accidental, but Clark doesn’t complain. When I release him to tug at his clothes with intention, he lifts his hips, letting me expose him there on his yoga mat. The stark reminder of why we’re both here — me as a teacher, he as a student — doesn’t stop me from getting my hand back on him, or from drinking in an eyeful of his thick, beautiful cock. I could do so much more than stroke him, but I’m matching myself to his pace and his needs. At least for now.

I catch a little pre-cum at his tip the next time I stroke upward. I drag it down with me, wishing I could lick it off him, almost shaking from the need to restrain myself. I’ve obviously lived my life with far fewer restrictions than he has, which makes his concerns about our ages even more ridiculous. I’ve probably got a lot more experience than him, no matter how much younger I am. It shows in how he shudders every time I stroke downward, in how his breaths shake, in the aborted way he hitches himself toward my hand while clearly holding back.

“There’s no one here but us,” I say. “Let yourself go.”

He shakes his head a little, like he wants to argue, but I squeeze him harder and pump faster. He groans between his teeth, the first real noise he’s made this entire time, and his hand grips me so hard it almost hurts. My aching cock is also starting to hurt, but I can deal with that myself. My only demand for Clark is that he let himself feel this moment; my own needs can come later.

At least, I thought they could, but Clark reaches for me, fumbling and urgent. I don’t know if it’s fairness or an urge to unravel me the way he’s unraveling. Either way, he undoes the drawstring of my loose pants in one swift pluck, then he’s grabbing me, his hand hard and firm on my cock.

I gasp, eyes threatening to snap shut. When Clark starts pumping me, I can’t fight it anymore, and they do close. I hang my head, hair spilling over my shoulders and onto Clark’s chest as his hand works along me.

He can’t reach me as easily as I can reach him, and eventually he releases my arm and props himself up on his elbow so he can grab all of me. That wrings a moan out of me, a far louder noise than Clark’s bitten back grunt. I have no qualms about my own pleasure, and Clark’s hand stroking along me is a pleasure I never thought I’d be fortunate enough to experience.

Our pace picks up, both of us beyond words as friction and heat well between us. It’s like a cloud cocooned around us. If the night has cooled, we can’t feel it as our body heat crashes together and our hands pump.

I find myself pushing my hips at him, and Clark is doing likewise, jerking his hips up into my hand. It doesn’t seem like the friction bothers him, so I grip him harder, giving him a good, hard, swift stroke. His voice breaks free at last, one high, ringing cry before I’m catching his warmth in my hand and stuttering my hips at his fist to follow him. The sound of his voice carries me to the edge until I’m crashing over it with an answering moan. I grip at the grass like it’s tangled bedsheets, color sparking behind my eyelids.

I never would have believed a dry handjob could hit me this hard, but this goes beyond mere mechanics. When I open my eyes and find Clark panting beneath me, my body swells with an emotion so much deeper than physical satisfaction.

“Thank you,” I say.

“For what?”

I ignore the mess in my hand as I lean forward and kiss him. This could be the only time I get a chance like this, but God, how I hope it’s not. His lips are soft and open, his mouth even warmer than before. Clark lets me kiss him long and deep while this cloak of comfort and satisfaction lies heavily atop us.

I pull away reluctantly. The sun is setting, and a chill pierces the veil of body heat that protected us. We clean our hands off as best as we can in the lake, and Clark lets me walk him back to the lodge house. We don’t talk the whole way, and it seems with every step, he draws a little farther away. By the time we return to the artificial lights of the lodge, he says, “I should probably go in alone.”

I don’t argue. I don’t push. Me and the other instructors have private cabins a short way from the lodge house, so I let Clark go on alone. But I linger there in the dark of the forest trail, watching until the artificial lights swallow him up.