“I don’t know. Don’t mindfuck me.” I exhale exasperatedly, my eyes still closed as I try to concentrate on the feeling. “It’s your pinky.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Positive?”
“Yes. Wait…it’s your middle finger.”
“Open your eyes.”
I look down and spot his pinky, then feel my stomach burn with wanting him to keep touching me, and to hide my reaction, I laugh.
“Your instinct was spot on,” he says.
“Then I blew it. Now me.” I reach out for the pen. “Okay, so close your eyes.”
He does.
I look at him, trying to determine where to touch him and with what. I pause and just look at him. I can’t take the heavy feeling I get in my chest, like there’s a giant pressing his foot on my ribcage.
God, he’s so gorgeous. I’m just having the time of my life with him tonight. It was always easy to talk to him, I always craved his company, but it was hard to endure it without feeling all these same things I’m feeling now.
I’m older now, a little less scared of them, a little more curious about them to fear leaping in…so here I am, gazing at his chiseled face, his strong features, his nose, his forehead, and his full plump lips, and even the blond tips of his eyelashes resting against his cheekbones.
I lean over, and press my thumb to his lips—like he did once—and then I press my lips to my thumb and ease my thumb downward so that my lips are touching, intimately pressing, against his full, perfect mouth.
So yeah, I kiss him—a peck on his mouth, feeling happy, carefree, light.
Maybe high on the enjoyable evening.
As I ease back, he opens his eyes. So do I.
He clenches his jaw, cups my face, and opens my mouth, tilting my head to kiss me harder.
“I need to pee,” I say, and I giggle-groan when I realize I said that out loud.
I leap to my feet in my urgency.
He chuckles and shakes his head, his eyes raking me, head to toe.
I head into the guest bedroom, do my thing, then I step out to the large sink area and wash my hands. My gaze is trapped by the view outside the bedroom. I feel him approach like a tension pulling at my belly.
“Come to bed, bit,” he whispers in my ear as he drapes the shoulder of my dress an inch down my arm. “My bed,” he specifies, kissing the round curve of my shoulder.
He turns me to face him with one hand, and I’m breathless when I see the look in his eyes as he leads me there.
He releases me inside his bedroom, walks to pull the curtains closed, then slowly turns to watch me stand in the middle of the room. I’m so nervous and yet so eager I can’t breathe right.
“Come here.”
I do, because he asks and because I want to, very much.
He pulls me close.
“You’re driving me crazy, you know,” he says, his voice so sexy and husky.
“I know. You do the same to me. You’re a mirror.”
“Am I? Can you see how gorgeous you are to me in the way I look at you, huh?”
I can’t get enough of his looks actually, but I can’t talk.
“Can you see how much I want you, bit?”
He strokes a hand down my side. My body has never responded like this to any sort of stimuli, living or not.
The first time he tried to kiss me I was afraid and yet so excited about it, I tossed and turned all night, picturing what it would have felt like and what he would have tasted like. Well, he tastes like rain and cinnamon and mint. I’m surprised how delicious the combination is.
I lean closer. My nipples hardened like pearls. I meant to only kiss him like we did the last time, but his hand goes to my breasts, cupping one gently as he holds my face in his other hand and kisses me some more. I’m shivering, and I don’t know why because I’m not one bit cold. My walls are down, my fears are gone, my reservations gone. Nothing remains but his touch and his mouth, and when he steps back to look at me—just his eyes remain. Gold-green, endless, and fiery with protectiveness, possessiveness, and lust.
There is nothing else but here, this room. The feelings. The sounds.
I’m shaken.
Chasing my breasts in and out.
What is this?
I don’t know but I know I shouldn’t be scared anymore.
I know that he knows I want something that could possibly lead to more. That he is the man I could see myself having more with.
I want it so bad—more more more—I tremble for it.
He strokes his hand down my sides.
I stand here, shivering. Already his, in most every sense. Listening to the hush of his silence and touch.
I stare at his figure in the blackness.
Among all the shadows, the dark, living substance of him.
Strong, highly vibrant and alive.
I inhale and his scent pours into me.
His eyes watching me.
I’ve never seen a darker green, darker gold, darker look in him.
“Hold me,” I whisper. His arms come around me.
Memories bubble up, of him.
Carrying boxes for me at Kelly’s.
Chasing some guys who were trying to catch my attention at the cafeteria.
Looking at me when I visited the shop.
Looking at me as I left school, as I arrived at school, in the halls.
And me…thinking of him, almost too much.
Christos is looking at me now, my body still dressed but somehow my soul completely bared to him.
Christos pulls down my dress and exposes my breasts, his hand guiding it down my hips and farther down, still, to pool at my ankles. He eases my bra off, and cups me in his hand and sucks my puckered nipples, and I reach out and stroke his hardness over his slacks.
We don’t kiss on the mouth. I don’t know if it’s to avoid any more intimacy or to enjoy the feeling of the touches—everything so intense, building and building as his fingers trail over my bare skin.
He starts kissing my mouth, all while he removes his shirt, unfastens his pants, and sheaths himself. His cock suddenly presses to my entrance —and then he’s lowering me down on the carpet and pressing in.
I’m so full I can’t breathe for a few seconds.
And still, I want more of what he is. What he has. Of him.
I hum deep in my throat as he moves in me, stretching me to the limit, filling me to the hilt. I feel the muscles of his back bunch up under my fingers.
He licks my throat and rises up to his elbows and watches me; his eyes are wickedly dark and sexual as he drags his hand down my sides and squeezes my ass, pulling me up to take all of him.
We’re starting to move out of control, faster and faster, my nails in his back, and his mouth everywhere. He whispers something against the tip of one of my breasts, but I can’t make it out over the harsh sounds of my own breathing.
He’s mounting me, moving in me, and this is how I want to burn, for him to burn with me.
Raw and primal and physical.
We’re moving, making mating sounds, sounds of heat and lust.
He pulls out and then back in, and I arch my back and raise my hips and roll my head side to side as the pleasure keeps building. He grabs my hips and takes what I so willingly offer, driving into me with the most delicious, measured but really hard and fast thrusts.
I take him in me and he takes me. I don’t know who takes and who gives here. But Christos is taking me and giving me all I want, even as he takes my everything away from me.
He says words that are hot. Wicked. Wicked Miss Kelly.
It’s a dance of bodies and a battle of control as we make love, one neither wants to win or lose.
Then he’s coming—he’s coming with me, and soon he’s lying beside me, his arms around me, his mouth on mine, our breaths too fast for us to speak.
And me.
I lay here and stroke my hands over his hair, memorizing the texture. Feeling so alive every one of my senses is acute, feeling so connected I don’t remember being without him.
Maybe we’re not perfect, but right here, I feel perfect for this man and him for me.
It just feels as if maybe, by accident, or delusion, or some miracle, or by divine planning, we’re just…right for each other.
Like I always feared, and partly hoped, we’d be.
Bryn
We didn’t sleep much; neither of us seemed to need it. I get up when I smell coffee; it mixes with the smell of him on the sheets. I slip into his sweatshirt, then pad down to the kitchen. It’s Sunday, so his service has the day off. It’s just him, in the kitchen, with coffee brewing, making eggs.