Fit

She chalked the first one up to it being their first time. Memories of the kissing and the touching, echoes of the words “I love you” still fresh in her ears, the anticipation of knowing they would explore more that night - she was sure this was the cause for that instantaneous rush when he first slid inside of her. She felt his body against her, let her hands roam freely, and came again and again before he convulsed above her, crying out, muttering “Jesus Christ” as his body arched and twisted, trying to bury himself as deep inside of her as he could go. He lay there exhausted and in a daze, and she still shook as she stood, noticing the flush on her face in the mirror.


When it happened the next time, and the time after that, that slow build followed by the involuntary clenching of her muscles as he slowly entered her, his eyes locked on her face, smiling with her as she went over that edge, she knew it was more than a first time thing. He fit, as if his body was perfectly molded to hers on the inside, designed to touch every millimeter of nerve endings, and rest against her most sensitive spots. Again and again, she relished in that feeling each time they made love, and purposely took her time each time she sank down on him for the first time. The only thing better than savoring his body entering hers was watching his face as he reached his own climax, his cock buried inside of her, his hands on her hips as she slid against him, feeling him pulse as he cried out, abandoning herself to a final orgasm before she collapsed on top of him. Feeling him still inside of her, as the residual spasms subsided, she smiled into his shoulder. He fit.

* * * * *

In the dark before dawn, the images haunted her, and her hand moved feverishly to find that release. Craving that feel, that fit, that she could only get with him, her fingers worked through the wet folds and across her hardened clit, feeling it edge closer and closer, but not quite there. Frustrated, she sought more recent memories, ones she’d tried to fill that void with, and her orgasm inched closer, thinking of different hands and different mouths and different bodies. And then, at that critical moment, it was all him: his hardness buried inside of her, touching those nerve endings deep inside, fingertips digging into the soft skin of her hips, his eyes liquid blue, the curses falling in harsh whispers from his lips and filling the air between them, her release, timed with his, leaving her heart racing. Without realizing it, she cried out in the dark by herself as her fingers stroked and soothed her swollen lips, her other hand clutching the bed. Her ragged breathing turned into audible sobs, and tears wet the pillows.

* * * * *

The sun filtered in, rousing her from more images, and she could still feel the damp spots on her pillow. She lay in the silence listening and feeling. Her hand reached out into the empty spot, remembering how his warmth felt against the cool sheets. Her other hand rested against her chest, feeling the ache in her heart, as if missing a piece. She pressed her fingers into the soft flesh, until she met the resistance of her ribs, feeling her heart beat under them. She could almost feel the empty spot, a vacuum of emotion. Knowing that the only thing that would fill it – that would fit – was him.

Scared

Words, full of hints and promises and innuendo. She liked the words as much as anything; the mental energy they expended over drinks and shared glances while they discussed everything under the sun. The words had depth and fire and life and she felt her pulse race beneath her skin, regardless of the topic.


Then one night, after dinner and drinks and countless words, he kissed her. Turned her around, his arm around her waist, and kissed her, his facial hair tickling her lip. She kept her eyes lowered, catching her breath, but her mouth instinctively sucked his lower lip into hers, her tongue playing carefully with his. She almost forgot to exhale.

*****

The words still captivate her, but there is a point where the words taper off, and a glance and a smile tell her he wants more, and she finishes the drink and follows, his arm wrapped around her waist. This night, especially, she needed him, and he sensed it. His kisses were insistent, but his words gentle, murmuring against her neck, the vibrations giving her goosebumps and making her groin ache in that familiar way. He whispers “baby,” says her name over and over, tells her how beautiful she is and how good she feels. And when he pulls her on top of him, and slides inside of her, she stares down at his eyes, the gold flecks illuminated by the bedside lamp, watching him smile when her orgasm overtakes her. Again, and again, until spent, she collapses beside him, warm and covered in one fluid or another, and he whispers to her more while he strokes her hip.

*****

She’s not sure how many times they repeat the routine. She lays beside him again, the air cool against her damp thighs, but this time the words are serious. Knowing her heart is lighter, he opens up, whispering against her neck again. The bravado of a man whose days are measured dissolves, and he murmurs into her shoulder “I’m scared.” He feels warm and alive, but in the silence, she can hear the clock ticking, and she wraps her naked body around him tighter, her cheek against his face, her hand stroking his head. He holds her tight, hands skimming over her sides, and she can feel the moisture at the corner of his eye. Her heart breaks, for an instant, then heals over quickly before he sees. “Stay here with me tonight,” he whispers, which breaks her heart all over again.  Makes her want to say "I love you," even if the words might break her heart more than it already is.

She kisses him, smiles at him, but catches the clock out of the corner of her eye. Her time is measured too, though not in the same way, and she steels herself for the hard part of leaving, even if it is only temporarily. The goodbyes are long, and the words sweet, though it still hurts a little when the door closes behind her.

*****

She holds the tears back until she’s alone in the car. Not sure whether driven by her own fears, or his, she leans her head against the steering wheel, as a sob racks her body, and pleads to whoever might be listening in the dark before dawn, “Please.”

Breathe

The winds are harsh and spray is cold, and you are deafened
Between the crash of the waves and the silence between.
Waiting for that one ship in the night to realize
It needs you to lead it back to a rocky shore safely;
Like a weathered lighthouse, you stand,
Your beam sweeping across a dark and turbulent sea.

When all you want to do is get on your hands and knees,
And pray to an unspecified god that logic prevails,
Against fear and emotion and desperation,
And doesn’t get crushed beneath the weight of inertia;
Your head whispers “it will all work out” but the voice quakes
While your heart begs “please” into the suffocating silence.

You close your eyes and try to still your fears.
You whisper “here” into the darkness
Hoping he hears above the storm
And finds his way home to you;
Wanting to help him steer
When all you can do is breathe.

Tomorrow

She could still see his face when he asked, struggling with the internal debate.

“Do you ever ask yourself how it ends?”

It didn’t matter that she had; the question still felt like a punch in the stomach, even after having time to digest it. It was a logical question, and she was a logical girl. He was only voicing what she knew was an inevitable question.

Here in the dark, with just her own head replaying the conversation, she felt that tightness in her chest. It was too late to be ambivalent, and for as much as she told him “you just need to tell me when it’s time to stop,” she secretly hoped that day would always be some other day. Remembering his face, she was pretty certain he wanted that to be some other day too.

There was a point when “stop” wouldn’t have hurt. Right now, she couldn’t remember when that point was anymore. She only knew that she wanted one more tomorrow. And the price she’d pay for one more tomorrow would be a little more hurt, eventually.

So she lay back on the pillow, closed her eyes, opened her heart a little wider, and admitted to herself that she cared enough to deal with the pain. Even though it could hurt more tomorrow that it could hurt today.

She felt the tear slide down her cheek; heard it hit the pillow. “Tomorrow,” she thought.

Satin and Patent

It was our compromise to be together. He sat half naked in bed, wearing only a t-shirt, flipping pages of the report, making notes. I grew restless of my presentation and set it aside; I needed to get my things ready for an early morning departure. I tried not to think to hard about it; his scent still lingered in the room, in the sheets, on my skin. Tomorrow it would be gone, except in my memory. I kissed his cheek as he read, then hopped off the bed.

The room had a chill; I slipped the little pink satin chemise over my head. He glanced up for a moment and smiled, then looked back down at the papers in his lap. I tidied up the room, packed up a few things, laid out others for the morning. I gathered laundry in a bag; realizing we wouldn’t be going out again, I decided to throw the pink panties I was wearing into the bag as well.

I pulled out my shoes, to set beside my clothes for tomorrow; the darling little brown patent leather sling-back, peep toe pumps. I slipped them on again - I never tired of how delicate they made my feet look or how great the angle of the heels made my legs look.

“Want to see my new shoes?” I asked, bending over to pick up some more of our scattered clothes.

“Come here.” It was a command. Soft and gentle, but firm, like all of his. I walked to the end of the bed. “Are you wearing panties?” he asked. I shook my head from side to side.  A grin flickered across his lips, then disappeared. “Come here and show me your shoes.”

I walked all the way around to his side of the bed where he could see. “Those are so sexy, baby.” His voice lowered, a huskiness to it. “Come here. Turn around."

I walked over, and stood beside him. I turned slowly, my back to him. He lifted the edge of the chemise, running his hand over my ass. “Turn around,” he said quietly, pulling my hips. I turned to face him. “Show me the shoes,” he commanded, not letting go of me, slipping one finger between my legs. I stood on one foot, and pulled my other foot up to my side, trying to keep my legs from trembling while he teased my wetness.

He let go of me long enough to push aside the papers in a neat stack. Then he reached for me again, his hands sliding under the hem of the chemise, caressing my ass. “Come here,” he said, pulling me toward the bed. I reached down to slip off the shoes, but he stopped me. “No. Leave them on.”

I crawled on the bed, straddling him. Placing a knee on either side of him, my shoes turned carefully outward so as not to scrape him with the heels. He raised the hem of my chemise, looking up into my eyes, then held my hips, settling me over top of him. I felt him slip easily inside of me. He paused, savoring the connection again, one that never seemed to lose its intensity. “What do you call this,” he asked, stroking the pink satin covering my breasts, making my nipples rise under his fingers.

“A chemise,” I breathed.

“You look beautiful in this chemise,” he murmured.

He reached down to stroke my legs, touch my shoes. I leaned down to kiss him, and he let the edges of the chemise drop, draping our hips where they joined. He pulled at the neck, sliding it over my shoulders, letting it drop around my waist, exposing my breasts to his view. The satin puddled across my hips, covering him as well, resting lightly on my heels at his side. He grabbed my feet again, holding my heels as he stroked.

The movement came natural again, like it had the first time, and every time. And the reaction came naturally too, like it had the first time, and every time. And when it was over, I lay exhausted on his chest, breathing hard, sweating, everything hot to the touch. Except for a cool pool of satin, and brown patent leather.

Three

You sat back in the shadows, where I could barely see you. A candle burned on the nightstand; moonlight was the only other light in the room. But I could hear you breathe, groan, shift in your place. I knew you had to be stroking yourself, but couldn’t quite see it. I could only see him, over me, sheen of sweat in the candlelight, stroking, his face intense. I could see him glance over at you now and then, sometimes a hesitation in his glance.

He moved his hands to cup my breasts, squeezing the nipples; I heard your sharp intake of breath and felt myself clench around him. He looked in your direction, then leaned down to take the nipple in his mouth, sucking fiercely, and I arched up, ready to explode. His stroke and his mouth took me over that edge in seconds, and I reached up to hold the headboard with one hand, and raked my nails down his back with the other.

He pulled back, his cock slick and shiny in the moonlight, motioning me to turn over. I turned in your direction, seeing your face bathed in moonlight, catching your eye and the smile at the corner of your mouth as I took my position on my hands and knees. He rested a hand on my ass while he positioned himself; I locked eyes with you as he slid inside. Although your body was still in shadow, I could see your neck and shoulders flex as your hand gripped your cock, stroking downward. You closed your eyes for a minute, tipping your head back, your hair falling away from your face. I watched your jaw clench, and then saw you rise from the chair and step toward the bed.

I felt him pause as you approached, your cock smooth and hard, right there in front of my face, close enough to feel the heat radiating from the shaft and the swollen head. You reached out to touch my cheek, brushing my hair back behind my ear, tracing your hand down my jaw, and tipping my face up to you. You looked into my eyes, but your request was to him.

“Please,” you pleaded quietly. Your finger traced my mouth, and I opened it, involuntarily, catching the tip of your finger and sucking it. “Please. I need her.”

I held my breath, waiting, and my muscles clenched around him involuntarily when I heard him his “yes” between clenched teeth. He pounded his cock harder into me, as if needing to prove possession. You looked down at me, smiling, letting your cock graze my cheek. Then you dropped to your knees in front of me, your face only inches away from mine. You pulled my head close, making our foreheads touch, running your hand up and catching the back of my hair, pulling me close for a deep kiss. You broke away, holding my head in both hands, pulling my hair around our face like a curtain. You kissed a trail to my ear, whispering the whole way.

“Tell me how much you want me . . . tell me how much you want to taste my cock . . . tell me you want to suck on my cock . . .” Your breath tickled my ear and I whispered a frantic “yes” to each of your questions. You held my face tight against yours, whispering into my hair, your fingers tense. “Tell me you want me. Tell me . . . tell me you love me.” My heart clenched at the same time my pussy did, and I held my face against yours, whispering in your ear, “I love you. I love you . . .” You muffled the last words as you crushed my mouth with a kiss, whispering “I love you too” into my mouth, the words only we could hear.

Then you stood, still holding my face, guiding your cock into my mouth. My eyes locked on yours as you slid further inside my mouth, letting his thrusting motions push my mouth farther and farther down your engorged shaft. I heard him groan, and felt him pull out, hot thick cum spattering my back and my ass. Watched you gaze flicker over to him stroking his cock behind me, but only for a second before returning to my face. Then you watched me, my lips wrapped around you, and nodded your head. I could feel your cock expand in my mouth right before you came, and watched your jaw clench. You hissed through your teeth as you came; “I love this . . . you . . . “ and I could taste that salty, sweet fluid at the back of my throat, feel your fingers run through my hair, watch your eyes close. You pulled out of my mouth and knelt again, kissing me, running your tongue inside my mouth as if to taste every last bit of yourself. I let myself lay on the bed, my head next to yours, fingers playing with your hair. Perfectly content.

Tattoo

They were still laughing about it as she slipped the key in her room. Everyone else was still off doing their own thing and wouldn’t be expecting them to show up for another few hours. Somewhere during lunch over gourmet burgers, between the first beer and the third, they had agreed that a fake tattoo was a good idea. Given that several in the crew had real ones, maybe no one would be as surprised as the two of them imagined they would be, two beers into the discussion. But they’d managed to find a place that did pretty nice faux artwork after lunch, and she’d promised him honors of getting the first photo before the nights festivities and the good chance that it might wear off quickly.

He excused himself to use the bathroom, and she tucked a few of the other packages she’d grabbed along the way. A few beers had a nice way of numbing men’s intolerance for shopping, and she’d grabbed a couple souvenirs and gifts on the way back from lunch with little protest. She was tucking the last item in her suitcase when he came out of the bathroom, and she giggled when she looked up.

“I know it’s stupid but I totally have this ‘naughty schoolteacher’ feeling now . . . my 7th graders would die if they knew I had something like this!”

“No worries,” he said. “It will wear off in a couple days and you’ll be back to Miss Prim and Proper . . . they won’t even know the difference. Of course, I still haven’t seen evidence of just how ‘naughty schoolteacher’ you got . . . and I think you still owe me the exclusive photo op, don’t you?”

She felt herself flush, a little, hesitating. The room felt incrementally smaller, even though he was still standing in the same place. “Of course . . . has to be someone I trust. You have the camera?”

He held it up for her to see. “You still didn’t tell me where it is or what you got. Butterfly on your shoulder? ‘I heart Mom’ on your arm? Aces on your butt cheek?” He stood, smirking, waiting for her.

She laughed. “Aces on my butt cheek . . . nice. I’m sure there is a pun in there somewhere about aces getting cracked . . . but beer and burgers are making me fuzzy and I don’t have it ready for you.” She laughed again, and he laughed with her. “No silly . . . I got . . . well . . . I got a tramp stamp.”

His eyebrow arched, and maybe his smile faltered for just a second, but then he grinned. “What’s it say?”

For something silly and temporary, she’d actually debated quite a bit. Thought about getting the name of some hair metal band, to be funny. Or something equally stupid, like “Princess” or “Juicy” stamped low on her back. In the end, she’d opted for something aesthetically pleasing, with classical scrolls and loops that tapered downward in a delicate triangle. Even with a pair of low slung jeans, only a hint was visible, and was covered by her long fitted shirt.

“You have to come see . . . but over here, by the window. Lighting is better for pictures.” He walked around the other side of the bed, to the sitting area by the window. She stood next to one of the chairs, fidgeting a bit. “You ready?”

He nodded, and she turned around, lifting her shirt up in back, exposing her waist and lower back. “I only see a couple bits . . . your jeans cover most of it.” She looked back, and sure enough, it wasn’t possible to see much of the design at all. She bent over slightly, feeling a little silly, and he said “That’s a little better . . . but you’re not going to get much in the picture, you know.”

“What do you suggest, Mr. Photographer genius?” she asked, straightening back up.

“Unbutton your jeans,” he responded, very matter-of-factly. Stared her straight in the eye, waiting to see if she’d flinch. She raised an eyebrow, and felt compelled to swallow. “Unbutton your jeans, so there is a little more flexibility, then lean over the chair with your back arched. That should let them slide enough to show the whole thing off.”

Her fingers went instinctively to the button on her jeans and paused; her mind went, unbidden, to another brief series of thoughts that had nothing to do with the current situation or any known reality, except that he was standing only a couple steps from her. She glanced at him again, and saw him swallow now, almost as if he’d read her mind for that nanosecond.

She undid the button, and turned around, leaning down and resting on the chair. She reached back to settle her jeans a little lower on her hips, nearly down to the lacy line of the low rise panties she wore. “Better?” she asked, looking back at him. He was staring, his breathing shallow, one hand holding the camera casually. He reached out with his right hand, and she felt his fingers trace the pattern, burning their own pattern in her skin. “Nice,” he whispered. She felt the gooseflesh start to rise.

His fingers hooked her waistband, tugging another half inch, and her skin kept the memory a few seconds longer. He positioned the camera and snapped a few shots; he’d look at the camera now and then, make a quick adjustment, and shoot again. “There,” he said, his voice softer.

She stood up, buttoning the jeans again, a leftover warmth on her skin where his fingers had brushed lightly. She exhaled, realizing she’d been holding her breath the whole time, which made her a little light-headed. When she turned around, he glanced up from the camera screen to her face, and she noticed a little color had crept into his face. “Very nice,” he chuckled. “Want to see?”

She moved close to him, leaning over his shoulder to view the small LCD screen. This close, she could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, smell the hotel soap he’d used to shower with, mixed with the warm, yeasty smell of beer from lunch. She took a deep breath, smelling more, and reached over with one hand to tilt the camera so she could see better. She touched his fingers in the process; he didn’t move them.

He flipped through the shots, pausing to show her, and she realized he had a good eye for lighting and framing, capturing the curve of the small of her back, the intricacies of the temporary design. One particularly good shot seemed just perfect, and she exclaimed “That’s nice!” as she turned to face him. He turned at the exact same moment, his face close enough to hers that she could feel the heat radiating from his cheeks, their breaths swirling together in the small space. Until she stopped breathing, waiting. Feeling the electricity crackle, the small hairs on her neck at full attention.

He closed gap, brushing his lips against hers, testing, and her mouth responded without hesitation, brushing back, opening slightly, his top lip fitted between her own. A small noise startled her, until she realized it came from her own throat; his response was muffled as he fit his mouth tightly against hers, his arm coming up to pull her body against him. She let herself meld to his chest, let his tongue explore her mouth.

The knock on the door and the muffled “housekeeping” made them both jump and pull away. His lips were flushed against his pale skin and she had a hard time pulling her eyes away from his face. She turned and went to the door, cracking it slightly to send the hotel staff away. Certain they could hear her heart beating. She closed the door, leaning against it, watching him across the room. Waiting for the next step.

Sweet Dreams

I stepped out of the cab, and saw him standing in the lobby, the suit traded in for slacks and a sweater, topped by a leather jacket. He smiled, and I joined him at the concierge desk.

“It’s just us – he bowed out. Work to do,” I shrugged. He glanced down at my briefcase; I hadn’t had enough time to stop by my own hotel.

“Do you want to leave that here? We’re going to walk to the restaurant.” I nodded, and he said “We can put it in my room.” He turned and motioned me toward the elevator. I paused only for a second, a small nagging feeling, and then felt a little silly. Particularly when he opened the door unceremoniously, waited for me to drop it inside the door, then pulled the door shut behind us as we stepped into the hallway.

We talked about work and life as we walked, our breath making little white puffs in the night air. He’d chosen a small Italian restaurant. “It’s two now, not three,” he said to the hostess, who led us back to a small table for two against the wall. We caught up on stories; meeting his wife, dumping my crazy ex-boyfriend, living in Australia, our kids, his career, my new role. The waitress came by, decanted the wine, and proceeded to make sure we never saw the bottom of the glass until they cleared away the last of the pasta and salmon and crusted bread. We ordered coffee, unwilling to stop the conversation, and they cleared the tables and closed down the restaurant around us.

The conversation on the way back turned silly, and we laughed, over and over. I swayed in my heels, caught one on a cobblestone, and almost fell against him, catching myself at the last minute, which made me giggle more. We walked back to the lobby and as I followed him to the elevator, I had a sudden rush of heat. He pressed the elevator button and turned back to smile at me, finishing an anecdote from our previous exchange. Oh my god, I thought to myself, he looks really good. I could feel my face flush; I hoped he thought it was the wine or the flush from the cold outside. The most ridiculous thought entered my head; I hope his doesn’t try to kiss me, because I think I’d have to kiss back. Although every so often the words got scrambled in my brain, and came out ‘I hope he tries to kiss me’ in my imagination. I tried to silence the thoughts as we approached his door; he was focused on the key.

He opened the door and walked in, leaving it open for me. I tried to keep my focus, and reached for the briefcase, near the door. “So taxi down front?” I asked, pausing inside the doorway. This was it, I thought; I am helpless and can only respond to whatever he does next. Hope he doesn’t kiss me. Or that he does.

He smiled. “I’ll walk down with you.” Maybe it was just him being polite. Maybe he knew that was the safest way to spend a few more minutes together. We walked back to the elevator, and I felt slightly relieved, but disappointed, and still on edge. He walked me to the entrance, asked the bell captain to call a cab. When the cab arrived, he leaned down, kissed me on the cheek, his skin soft and warm, smelling faintly like soap. My head was still swimming as I sank into the cab, smiling up at him and waving. Closed my eyes while I gave the cabbie directions.

I don’t remember breathing until I lay on my bed in my room; a huge exhale of relief or missed opportunity, or wine and gnocchi settling in my stomach. I logged onto my email and ripped off a quick thank you. In minutes, his response came back, polite and appropriate, but signed “Sweet dreams.”

You have no idea, I thought. You have no idea.

Power

He is powerful: bending her will to his, bending her body to his, shaping her pleasure, her position, her submission with his hands. Tonight, she has a request. “Give me power.”

“Tell me how,” he says, amused.

“Hold my hands,” she whispers, smirking. “Don’t let go. Direct me with your mouth; direct me with your body. But don’t let go of my hands; you can’t direct me with your hands.” She smiles at him, expecting protest. His eyelids lower, but he smiles and agrees.

She holds her hands up; he links his fingers with hers. He moves closer, kissing her gently, kneading her fingers slightly between his. He backs her up against the wall; she can feel the faux chair rail pressing against her rear. He kisses her more insistently now, pressing his hips into her. It is just like she imagines: his warm kisses, becoming more fierce, his tongue seeking hers, his body pressing against hers.

He stretches her arms over her head, never letting go of her fingers. Now he is sucking her lips hard, nearly drawing blood. He sucks her tongue into his mouth; it feels like he might rip it from her mouth. His hips buck against her; the chair rail pushes back. He pushes one leg between her legs, grinding his thigh into her crotch.

He pulls her hands down to shoulder height, and tears his mouth away from hers. He begins kissing her neck, gently biting at the skin, nipping her ear lobes. She is frantic, her head turning from side to side. Each time she exposes the skin on her neck, he attacks, raking his teeth against the fragile skin. He slides down, puts his mouth directly over her breast, through the thin fabric of her shirt. He breathes against the fabric; the heat reaches her skin just as he bites down, pinching her nipple slightly and making her cry out. He covers her mouth with his, kissing her hard and deep. He pauses, leaving her breathless, but only long enough to relax before he bites down on the other breast.

Now he kneels, pulling her hands down with him, at her side. He uses his teeth to move her sweater, biting her exposed stomach. He moves his mouth farther down, breathing into her mound through the thin fabric of her skirt. Her hips move to meet him. He uses his teeth to scrape against her through the skirt, and she grinds her hips into his mouth. She is panting now, and he uses his teeth and their linked hands to pull the elastic waistband over her hips, leaving her standing in the small lacy panties with her skirt around her ankles. He uses his mouth to push aside the fabric of her panties, sucking her wet pussy into his mouth forcefully, making her cry out again.


His fingers are kneading, squeezing, cutting off the circulation to her hands. “Touch me,” she manages to whisper. He pulls back, looking up at her slyly. “I can’t,” he says, shrugging, holding up their linked hands. “Your rules.” She can barely breathe, barely think.

Her desperation makes her give in, and she releases his hands. There is a moment of silent tension, expectant. He rises, takes both hands and lays them on either side of her face, kissing her gently. She’s trembling from the effort of standing still. She kisses him back, waiting.

Then he grabs the rest of her clothes, fluidly stripping her. She hears a seam give; she doesn’t care. She’s naked before him and he tears his own clothes off, standing before her, hard, his eyes dark. He spins her around, and pushes her down on the bed. She falls, and he’s straddling her before she can do anything. He puts a knee between her legs, forcing them open, falling heavy on top of her. Penetrating her, but not before he grabs her hands, holding them high above her head, pinned to the bed. She’s wide-eyed, expecting the hurt. But she’s wet, and he slips in easily. She feels only a dull ache with each thrust, though it’s starting to build to that edge. She struggles to pull her hands free, to hold him, to bring him closer. But he keeps her hands pinned, kissing her hard, so she can hardly breathe. He’s thrusting harder and faster; she writhes beneath him, trapped, her hands useless. She feels the wave coming; she wants to say something. But his mouth covers hers, absorbing her cries and her frantic attempts at speech. He moves faster and harder, and then she’s lost, the blood pounding in her ears as the pent up tension releases. She feels him tense, feels his hands holding hers tightly. He pulls his mouth away to look down on her as his own orgasm rocks his body, making him groan.

He collapses on her, exhausted. She waits for her heart to slow. As she attempts to pull her hands from his, hoping to wrap her arms around him, he tightens his grip on her hands, stretching her arms farther above her head, trapping her. He kisses her gently on the neck as he sprawls across her, in complete control.

A Touch of Possession

His hand rested on her shoulder and she felt his fingers slip through the fringes of her hair where it touched her collar. In the dim lights of the patio, he stood behind her, talking to one of his counterparts about the afternoon seminar, while she watched the guitarist on stage. His fingers slid up her neck, and into her hairline, and though the night air was still warm, she felt the goosebumps rise on her skin. He paused, leaning down to ask if she needed her drink refilled; his hand instinctively tightened around her neck as his words stirred the hair against her cheek. She held her breath until he left, closing her eyes and swallowing hard when she felt the shift in the air as he walked away.

She stood, stretching, and twisted her neck from side to side, concentrating on making her heart slow in time to the music. The others stood, kissed her casually on the cheek one by one, and walked away with a wave. She turned back toward the stage, watching, but not really hearing the music. The soft click of his shoes on the wood deck signaled his approach moments before his left hand rested low on her back and his right hand reached around her body, placing a drink in her hand. His fingers trailed against hers as she took the drink, and she took a deep breath. “The others just left,” she said, not really knowing what she expected his response to be.

“If you like the music, we can stay,” he said, his voice measured and low. “Or bring your drink. We can hear the music from the balcony.” She knew he meant his balcony, even though he’d never actually asked the question. The executives had the suites with the balconies; she just had one of the inside resort suites with no particular view.

“Let’s hear this one song,” she responded, sinking back down into the seat. He remained standing, behind her, and his hand came up to rest on her shoulder, almost possessively. He squeezed her shoulder, then she felt his fingers at the edge of her neckline, slipping inside the fabric, grasping her collarbone then tracing it up to her neck. He had to be able to feel her chest rise and fall rapidly with her breathing, she thought, and she took a big gulp of her drink, hoping it would take away the edge. By the time the musician on stage finished his piece, there was nothing but the remnants of her ice cubes floating in the glass. She pondering listening to another song, but the musician rose, taking a break, and she knew she couldn’t just sit here. Or even wanted to.

“Did you want to stay for the last set?” he asked, and she looked up at him. His blue eyes were dark, and his face was calm, waiting for her answer. She shook her head; he blinked his eyes slowly, turning his eyes away from her momentarily, and his mouth curled in that smirk she was so used to seeing across a board room table. Though this time it made her stomach flip, just a bit. He held his hand out to her for assistance; she held it carefully as she stood and stepped around the potted plants by the low seats until she was standing next to him. Still smiling confidently, he held his right hand in the direction of the exit, and she stepped slightly in front of him, feeling his left hand come up to rest on her lower back as they threaded their way through the last of the evening crowd.

It was a short walk to the guest suites and when they got to the point where she should have turned to go to her own room, she paused, turning to him. Without missing a beat, he pointed straight ahead to the view suites, and when they reached the base of the stairs at the entryway, he turned in front of her, shepherding her up the steps, slight pressure still at the back of her waist. His keycard was out and in the room door, without giving her any time to think.

The door swung open quietly, and she could smell orange and sandalwood, and some type of exotic flower. The lights were low, and housekeeping had turned down the bed and turned on the music. He stepped in behind her, closing the door, and removing his sport jacket, hanging it in the closet inside the room. She stood in the middle of the room, thinking the king-sized bed looked enormous, then looked away quickly, walking to the balcony doors which were open. She heard him open the minibar, and heard the clink of a bottle top and the “pop” of a release. He was beside her momentarily, holding two glasses of sparkling water, and he motioned for her to step outside. She stepped onto the balcony, careful that her heels didn’t catch in the wooden slats, and rested her glass on the thick wooden railing. The view was secluded, with trees and plants shading the immediate neighbors, but not impeding the view of the lake and the shoreline. The music inside was piped into small, hidden speakers on the balcony, and she felt him step up behind her, his hand around her waist, fingers on the waistband of her skirt, swaying just a bit in time to the music.

She turned to look at him, his skin flushed against the stark white collared shirt, moonlight reflecting in his eyes, and his eyes crinkled in a smile. “Is this ok?” he asked, and she wasn’t sure if he meant that she was here, that his arm was around her, or something more. She nodded, not quite able to form the right words, and he set his glass down next to hers. He brought his right hand up, letting it slip inside the collar of her shirt, skim over her shoulders and neck, coming up to rest on her cheek, his fingertips behind her ear. She felt her heart racing, wondering if he could feel the pulse under his fingers. “Is this ok?” he asked, letting his thumb trace her bottom lip, and she finally found the breath to say “Yes,” just the instant before his lips replaced his thumb and he fitted his mouth against hers, his hand still on her neck.

Her mouth opened instinctively, and his did too, and there was a pause before she felt his tongue brush against hers. She heard herself gasp into his mouth; his response was a low moan that sounded almost like he was purring, and she could feel the vibrations against her mouth as they kissed. Her body leaned in toward his, and his arm flexed around her, keeping her close. She paused to catch her breath, and a slow smile spread across his face. He stepped backwards, letting his hand trail down her arm, catching her fingers, pulling her with him. She stepped back inside, and as she did, stepped out of her heels, leaving them inside the balcony door. Now, she had to look up at him, and he stepped back again, until she could see the white linens of the bed behind him, and he reached out a hand for her, pulling her to him again. “Is this ok?” he asked, his voice huskier, and this time, she felt an involuntarily spasm in her groin. He leaned in, waiting for her answer, staring at her intently.

Her heart hammered her chest and she felt his hand playing at her waist band, tugging at the ends of her blouse, pulling it out of her skirt. When she felt it finally give, and the fingers of his one hand touch the bare skin on her waist, she caught her breath again. And then she heard her own voice, like it didn’t belong to her body anymore. Strong and confident, she answered him out loud in the room – “Yes” – and leaned in to meet his mouth. “Yes.”

Secret Valentine

No cards, no flowers,
No candlelight, no note;
No diamonds, no candies,
No words that you wrote.

I can’t hold your hand,
We won’t share a kiss;
You’ll dine with another,
What more will I miss?

Your voice in my ear
Might be silent tonight;
Not your scent, nor touch,
No arm around me tight.

So what do I have then,
That I can call mine?
If someone else calls you
Valentine?

Burned in my memory,
I have a glance,
Words, a touch,
An unexpected chance.

A long ago kiss,
A fire in your eyes,
Moments of passion,
Excited butterflies.

A walk on a beach,
Dinners together,
Echoes of ecstasy,
A whispered “forever”.

Visual images,
Undressing piece by piece,
Skin against skin,
The aching release.

Connected by heartstrings,
Separated by miles,
Strong words and emotions,
Some tears, but more smiles.

Memories of moments,
I never expected to find,
Some captured on film,
More filmed in my mind.

You gave me your heart,
In exchange, you got mine.
Love, Always, Forever.
My secret Valentine.

In the Dark

It hit me in the dark, in that funny space between consciousness and the blissful nothingness before the dreams start; that place where you try to silence the cacophony in your head, your eyes flickering under closed lids as the images flash by. Just as the voices started to become muffled, and the pictures darkened and stopped flickering, the image was there, as vivid as the moment it happened: his voice, quiet, with a smile behind it; his eyes dark with desire but still crinkled at the corners; his body lean and tense, poised over me.

With that small fissure opened, related images tumbled around, fighting for my attention, their clarity and intensity sucking the air out of my lungs and causing an involuntary rush in my groin. I could remember the small details of each incremental moment of satisfaction we’d had; I could also remember the mounting frustration that each brought, knowing that the next step could be so much better, if we’d just take it.

And then the image was back; him, poised over me, my heart still hammering in my chest from the last hit, the memory of his mouth against my flesh and his tongue flickering over concentrated nerve endings. I wanted more; he moved between my legs, leaning over me. His one hand came under my hip, tilting me closer to him, and I could feel him hard against my wetness, heat radiating from him. His face was close enough to see his lashes and the smile lines near his mouth; I could smell the faint traces of his soap. I wrapped one leg up over his hips; he was lean and his skin smooth, the curve of his lower back irresistible.

“I hope you’re not claustrophobic,” he murmured, almost rhetorically, as he wrapped his other arm over my head, not giving me a choice to protest, as if he knew I wouldn’t. He shifted his hips, and in one swift movement, buried himself inside of me completely, the base of his shaft thick. All the desperation and frustration of the previous day faded; there was a moment of instant satisfaction in feeling this full. The day before I’d found myself wanting to be inside of his skin, unable to get enough; now he was inside of me, literally, and I realized I’d underestimated how good this could feel.

I wrapped my legs tighter, running my hand across his smooth, warm skin curving perfectly over his ass, letting his hardness penetrate as deep as it could while my hand urged him on, the rush not far away. He hit a rhythm, keeping me tight against his body, and I shifted my hips, trying to take as much of him as I could, feeling the pressure mounting. And then it hit me in huge, perfect waves that made me twist and arch and cry out, the blood rushing in my head and muffling all the sounds in the room, except my own laugh: a deep, comfortable, satisfied laugh that I could feel in my stomach, which burst out without plan or forethought as the waves subsided. It was perfectly unexpected, much like the whole experience.

And now, here in the dark, without him covering me and filling me, I shut out the other images and sounds, letting this one brief moment replay over and over on the screen in my head, my fingers a poor substitute, but a substitute nonetheless. And after the ensuing wave hit then receded, sleep crept in, pushing the images back into the dark recesses where they would nestle comfortably until I wanted them again. The smile, however, I couldn’t hold back, even in the dark by myself.

Measured

She is casual, her pace measured, anticipating, but not frantic. He, on the other hand, is impatient, and she feels his hand slip around her waist as she unclasps the watch and sets it on the dresser. She turns to him slowly and smiles. "I wore the high ones," she says, lifting a foot and showing him her heels. "So I'd be taller."

He makes time for a slight smile, before he bends and kisses her, fiercely. He moans into her mouth, his breathing fast and shallow, small whimpers in the back of his throat as his lips press into hers hard and his tongue battles hers. He is passionate, and she responds automatically, ignoring his stubble scratching her skin. His hands roam, pressing her flesh, and his mouth consumes hers, teeth scraping against the flesh now and then. She can tell he battles for control, and she considers giving in, knowing he's waited for this for too long.

But she needs the control, knowing that soon, her body will be his and she will bend and flex to his every want. Knowing she'll let him hold her hands taut and pull her body against his and immobilize her while he ravages her with his mouth and his hands and his erection, already straining the confines of his slacks. She can taste the faint traces of blood from the inside of her lips already as he sucks on her bottom lip, drawing his teeth across the tender skin.

She brings her hands up to his cheeks and holds his face, which makes him pause, waiting for her next move. She takes the opportunity to pull back slightly from his mouth, breaking the connection, letting the cool air from the room swirl between their moist lips. She lets her lips brush against his ever so lightly, and she feels his mouth part; she pulls back, teasing his lips with the tip of her tongue. She feels his reach out tentatively, brushing against hers, and she pulls back again, still holding his cheeks in her hands. His breath is still shallow and fast, and she can feel it tickling against her face. She leans in again, this time fitting her mouth gently against his, and he lets her control the pace, mimicking her movements. She dances around the edges of a kiss, letting the heat and the air and an occasional flick of the tongue create the sensations. Each time she gets closer, he moans into her mouth, and she pulls back, making him wait. He learns quickly, waiting for her to set the movement, responding in kind, but she can feel him quiver, waiting.

Only when his control is evident, when it matches her pace and her movements, does she give him more. She opens her mouth, sealing it against his, feeling the moist inside of his lip against hers. She sweeps her tongue against his and over his teeth, and he responds tentatively, not wanting her to pull away. She does it again, this time, slipping her fingers up the back of his neck, through his short hair. She gently sucks his bottom lip into hers, and he returns the favor. As he does, she threads her fingers through the longer hair on top and pulls his mouth to hers, crushing his lips against his teeth.

His moan is gutteral, and his hand slides down her back to cup her ass, pulling her up and towards him. She grinds her hips into his, opening her mouth completely to him, and his tongue forces its way into her mouth, possessing her, sucking the air from her lungs. Now she moans, and he acts quickly, unhooking her skirt and pushing it down, not even giving her a chance to step out of her shoes. He pulls her sweater up over her body and backwards over her head, trapping her arms behind her, not bothering to pull it all the way off. With her arms behind her and her shoulders back, her breasts jut forward, the bra barely containing them. He leans down to kiss the tops, his fingers tugging at the strap and she whispers "Yes . . . "

He pauses, his mouth hovering abover her flesh, feeling the heat radiate against his lips. She arches a little more, thrusting her breast forward, anticipating his mouth. Now, his pace is casual, measured, and not frantic, his lips barely brushing her skin while his fingers contemplate exposing her nipple to the cool air in the room, to his tongue. She closes her eyes, her breathing shallow and quick; she waits for his next move.

Fissure

She wants it to be more, but they’d just be revisiting places they’ve already determined they can’t go. She turns off her heart for this time, because she has to; tomorrow it will break. Tonight, she just needs to take from him, before he’s not there for her to take anymore.

He approaches her from behind, kissing her on the neck, wrapping his arm around her waist. She can feel he’s hard already. Not like she’s surprised; she’s already wet, and has been since dinner, staring across the table at him. Even in the silence, when they were afraid to say what tomorrow would bring - or wouldn’t bring, as was the case. It doesn’t matter; her body betrays her.

She stays like this for a moment, afraid to see his face. She lets his hands wander up under her sweater, inside of her bra, then down under the waistband of her jeans and inside her panties. She memorizes him pressed up against her, his breath, warm on her neck.

He spins her around; his eyes are nearly black, in the dim light. He lifts her sweater in one quick motion. He unbuttons her jeans and slips them over her legs, leaving her in just her bra and panties. He moves his hand over her, like her body is a Braille text he’s reading, memorizing. She feels the lump start in her throat; she pushes it down, turns her emotions on low.

She moves to unbuckle his belt and lets her hands trail across his erection as she slides the jeans down. She pulls his shirt over his head with business-like efficiency, then steps close to him, her body matched to his. He kisses her hard on the mouth, and she responds instantly - no soft exploration, no gentle kisses. It’s teeth pressing into flesh, tongues battling, no room for air. They fall on the bed and his body covers hers. His hips are pressed into her hard, his mouth nearly suffocating her, taking her breath. She can taste blood on her lip, but it only makes her kiss him back, harder. Tomorrow it will heal.

He tears at his briefs, then rips her panties from her, the lace seam giving way. He doesn’t have the patience for the hooks on her bra; he pushes it down, exposing her breast. His mouth clamps down on a nipple, then the whole breast; he’s sucking it into his mouth, almost painfully, leaving red marks on the creamy skin. He comes back up to cover her mouth with his, as he pushes her legs apart.

He buries himself inside of her, but not gradually - in one forceful thrust. She’s wet, but the force still takes her by surprise, and she cries out under his mouth. He forces himself into her again, frenzied, and she still cries out. He pulls back from her mouth, shifts his body and pushes her legs up toward her body, kneeling between her; he pounds her body, watching her face. He lets go of her legs, and she braces her feet against his shoulders. He puts one hand under her hips, touches her face with the other. She bites the palm of his hand as he slides it across her mouth. He makes a move like he’s going to slap her, but stops centimeters from her skin, caressing her cheek. She can feel the tears well in her eyes, knowing he can see them too. She closes her eyes and leans against his hand. He slides it down her neck, pressing into her flesh, and rests his hand on her breast, kneading it, squeezing it, watching the tremors in the other one as he pounds her body repeatedly.

He stops, saying nothing, but she reads his look, and knows the unspoken command. She brings one foot down from his shoulder, crossing it over her own body, turning. He shifts with her, unwilling to lose contact, as she twists her body beneath him, until she is kneeling, with him still inside of her. She lays her chest on the bed, arching her hips to meet him. He pushes himself deep inside of her, pulling her hips back to meet him. She pauses in this familiar position, then raises herself up on all fours. He holds her hips, caressing her ass, waiting. Then he thrusts, shaking her body. He thrusts again, as hard as he can, and she cries out, trying to pull away. He holds her hips and thrusts into her, over and over.

He’s hard and big, and each thrust jars her, making her ache. But the dull pain is being masked by the building rush and she can feel herself getting wetter. She moans and cries out, but they speak no words. He leans down, reaching for her face, turning her face over her shoulder. He kisses her hard, again, teeth pressing hard into her lips, forcing air from her with each thrust, moaning into her mouth. She can feel her own release coming, and his mouth stifles her whimpers as it peaks. She bucks back into him, crying out into his mouth, which seems to only feed his desire. He pounds her harder, and she can tell he is close as well. He breaks contact with her mouth as the last wave hits her and she screams his name. His pounding is furious now, his fingers digging into her flesh on her hips, bruising the skin. She can hear his breath hissing between his clenched teeth, and when he lifts his hand from her hip, she’s ready for the stinging slap that follows. Another one follows, punishing the fair skin on her flank like he’s punishing the inside of her body, and pain and pleasure become indistinguishable.

His desire is animal, his groan is guttural and his last thrusts are sharp. She can feel the pulse inside of her with his release, and then he breaks the silence. It comes in a rush of air. “I love you.” Her name. And then he collapses on top of her, whispering her name again, in her ear. He wraps his arms around hers above her head on the pillows, and she can feel his heart pound frantically against her back.

Face buried in the pillow, she whispers “I love you” where he can’t hear, and silently speaks his name, knowing it may be the last chance she has to say it in his presence, but still not able to say it. Her tears wet the pillow, like they will other nights in the future.

He whispers “I love you” again, letting it hang there, like a question. In that moment, a small fissure starts in her heart.

Alternatives

It was an intoxicating feeling, wedged in the small booth between them.

Evan was on her right, his bare calf against hers in the small booth, not bothering to give her space. Their connection, that familiarity, didn’t require him to heed her personal space, even in public. It was cramped and noisy; when he talked to her, he had to lean in close to her, letting his arm rest against hers, his lips graze her cheeks or her ears when he spoke. She would rest her hand on his arm as she talked, feeling the soft blonde hairs under her skin, and his voice would send chills down her spine, regardless of the topic. The dim bar lights caught the flash in his crystal blue eyes, and she found herself staring at his mouth when he smiled, imagining running her tongue over his perfect teeth. Not something she’d actually done, except in every third dream for the past two years or something like that. Sometimes, she was certain he had the same dreams, too. Not that they were completely unfounded. She still remembered the night they almost kissed. It still made her groin ache to think of it, and sometimes, when they’d dance around the subject, she was certain he was uncomfortably aroused too. They’d held themselves in check, but not for the wanting. She couldn’t count the nights she’d drive home from work after some innuendo-filled conversation, her heart racing and nerves tingling, and shut herself in her room trying to find release.

Daniel was on her left, with his hazel eyes and a lazy smile. He sat with a casual indifference, his arm draped on the outside edge of the C-shaped booth for three, running his hand occasionally through the flop of auburn hair across his forehead. But his thigh pressed tight against hers spoke of want and need and possession. In a previous night, much like this night, after a late night in some hotel conference room prepping for the next day’s sales presentation, they’d shared a beer, or three, a few stories, and on her way out of the elevator to her room, he’d pulled her back, kissing her hard. She’d kissed back, and over the next few months, regardless of all her reservations about having any kind of relationship like this with someone she worked with, all resolve had weakened, and they had given in on more than one occasion. She felt a flutter just thinking about it, knowing that at some point, he too had imagined a stolen moment sometime on this sales jaunt. Her back pressed up against the wall in the hotel room, his hand sliding up her skirt, his teeth catching her lips. But for now, it was only the heat from his thigh.

Now, sitting between them, working her way through a second margarita, she started to feel dizzy, though less from the alcohol than from the sheer emotional rush. She loved them both dearly, as friends, almost like brothers. She respected them both as colleagues. But it was like she’d been thrown into some Jerry Springer episode where by the end of the show she was supposed to have chosen between them and it was starting to make her head spin. Funny thing is, right now, she couldn’t make a choice.

She needed to clear her head. She put down her drink. “Upstairs,” she said, looking from one of them to the next. “We’re dancing.” She knew neither of them was crazy about dancing, but she knew that they’d go with her. They stood, and she slid out too, pointing the way to the back stairs. Evan started to lead the way, and she followed, Daniel close behind.

It was a crowded place and they wound their way through people carefully. When they got to the stairs, Evan blocked some space and Daniel went ahead, leading. She followed close behind, one hand stretched out in front of her to thread her way through the crowd, and one hand stretched back. When Daniel had gotten a few steps ahead of her, she felt Evan’s fingers grab hers. She tried to tell herself that he was just making it easier for them to thread through the crowd and stay together, but she felt his fingers intertwine with hers and tighten. She wished they had more stairs to climb. He held on to her through the crowd, but when the crowd thinned and Daniel was in sight again, he dropped her hand carefully. Her fingers still burned with the heat.

They refilled their drinks at the upstairs bar, the guys ordering another bottle of beer, and she refilling the margarita. She sipped at it, licking the salt from the rim, feeling the heat from their arms on either side of her. Making a decision, she set her glass down and announced “I need to dance,” glancing at each of them in turn, then turning her back toward them as she moved toward the dance floor. It was a fast song, one that she could lose herself in the crowd if neither one of them joined her. She closed her eyes and began to sway, raising her arms and spinning.

When she opened her eyes, they had both followed her. Daniel still held his bottle of beer and swigged from it occasionally as he swayed in time to the music. She smiled, and moved closer to him, and he draped his free arm around her waist and moved in time with her. She turned her back to him, and swayed against his hip, his hand still on her hip. She looked across the dance space at Evan, and his eyes flickered, his finger beckoning. She moved forward, placing one foot between his two feet, and one on the outside of his left leg, and he put his hand on the small of her back, pulling her closer. She straddled his leg as they moved, and she could feel his cheek against hers. The room was dark but she could feel a flush rise in her face; she knew his fair skin had to be burning at this point. She lowered her head slightly, just enough so that her lips brushed against his neck at the edge of his t-shirt; then she turned around with her back to him.

The bass pounded harder as the song changed, and she ground her hips, occasionally brushing against him. She thought about moving closer to Daniel, but felt Evan’s fingers catch the back of her jean skirt, his fingers grazing the skin of her lower back and he held onto her. Daniel moved closer, unaware that Evan had made contact, and he moved his hips with hers, staring into her eyes, raising his eyebrow. She closed her eyes and turned with her back to Daniel, letting her head drop back and her hair brush against him, his hand reaching up to touch the middle of her back. She felt Evan’s fingers slide around her waistband as she turned, brushing past her navel and making her shiver, finally releasing his hold. When she opened her eyes, Evan held a hand out and she took it, letting him pull her closer for a turn, spinning her around before he caught her and moved with her.

The crowd had gotten bigger, so that when the song ended, she found herself wedged between Evan and Daniel on the dance floor, the three of them breathing hard. She fanned her face, declaring “I need a drink,” and headed toward the bar, unsure of who to look at. They followed her in turn, and stood on the outskirts of the crowd, alternately watching the other dancers and her. She excused herself to the ladies room, and stood at the sink, holding the edges and staring at her own face, then splashing some water on it, trying to think straight. The crowd in the small bathroom was getting bigger and she walked back to the bar at the edge of the dance floor where they waited. The lights for last call flashed, and she could see the flush of pink in Evan’s cheeks, and the dark glow in Daniel’s eyes.

“We’re going to head back to the hotel,” Evan said, and Daniel nodded. Her heart raced, not wanting this to end, unsure of what was next. She climbed in the backseat of the car as Evan slipped into the driver’s seat, and Daniel stretched out his legs in the front passenger seat. She leaned forward onto the console as they drove, her hands resting on both seat backs, acutely aware of their shoulders resting against her fingers.

In the elevator, Daniel pushed the 3rd floor. He looked over his shoulder at Evan, and said “Room?” Evan said “405” and Daniel pushed the 4th floor button. Daniel looked back at her and said “Room?” and she blurted out “515,” noticing that they both looked up, then looked quickly down. Daniel got off first, and addressed them both, but looked at her “Breakfast tomorrow?” and they both nodded. Evan moved closer as the doors closed, and she could smell his cologne, and she rubbed her temples, trying to clear her head. He lingered some as the door opened, looking back at her. “Need anything? Tylenol or something?” he asked, knowing full well she carried a complete arsenal for her frequent headaches. She wanted to say yes, but shook her head, holding his gaze as the door closed and the elevator lurched upward to the 5th floor.

Her fingers shook as she slid the key card into the room door. Closing the door behind her she kicked off her heels, and the phone started to ring. She picked it up to find Daniel on the other line. “Want to meet downstairs for breakfast, or should I come by and get you?” he asked, even though they’d been meeting downstairs each day for the last two days. She wanted to say “come by” but agreed to meet him downstairs, then hung up the phone. It rang in her hand. Evan. Reminding her to drink water and take Tylenol before bed, w anting to know if she had enough. She thanked him, sensed hesitation as he looked for more conversation, and mumbled a goodnight to him.

She threw herself on the bed, groaning. Replaying the events of the night; reliving the torture of sitting between the two of them, wanting them both. She pulled a pillow over her face and groaned into it, biting it, then rolled over on top of it. Her mind was racing and her body followed; sleep was not going to come easy. She lay on the bed in her clothes, but turned out the light, staring into the dark of the room, lit only by the clock radio.

The knock at the door startled her and sent her heart racing. Knowing it would be one of them. Not knowing who, or for what purpose. A second knock sounded softly, and she got out of bed. Mechanically, she walked to the door, about to peer out the peephole; instead, she turned, leaning back against the door, her hand on the handle. She counted to five, wanting to look out and know before she opened the door. But then, she thought, did it matter?

She closed her eyes, her heart hammering in her throat, turned the handle, and swung the door open slowly.

Call

She wasn’t surprised by the call so much; it was the tenor of his voice.

“Hello there.” Same greeting, but there was a breathlessness behind it; the words caught in his throat, came out in a rush of forced air. It gave her a chill, then turned her stomach liquid. She was alone, but still found herself walking into the bedroom and closing the door. She sat on the small window seat, pulling her legs up to her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs tightly. She wasn't sure where he was going with this.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she began cautiously, her heart racing. “How are you?” Casual, she thought. She swallowed hard.

“I miss you, babe. I need you. Here. Now.” He paused, and she readied a response. But it wasn’t necessary. “I want to be there, holding you. Touching you. Making love to you.” His intentions were clear. She swallowed again. “Where are you, babe?”

She told him her location, told him she was alone.

“I want to kiss you. Touch you. Be inside of you.” Her breathing was starting to be erratic, and she could feel the muscles in her groin clench and release, involuntarily. She didn’t speak.

“Take off your jeans.” The command was a low snarl almost. Although he couldn’t see, she did as he instructed. “Take off your sweater.” The room was warm when she pulled it over her head, but his voice made her flesh tingle and the goosebumps rise. She slid to the floor, leaned back against the window seat, and stretched out her legs. “Tell me what you’re wearing now.”

She described the lacy panties and the matching bra. He stopped her mid-description in a hoarse, rushed whisper and said “Touch yourself. Reach into your panties and touch yourself.”

Her fingers moved on their own accord. “Are you touching yourself?” She whispered a “yes.”

“Are you wet? Tell me how wet you are.” She didn’t have words for this. She whispered, “Silky.”

“I like silky. I want to taste silky. Slide a finger inside of yourself.” She didn’t tell him she already had. His voice was an aphrodisiac; his urgency and desperation magnified it beyond her comprehension. She was already trembling, close to that edge. “Now touch your breast. Squeeze it for me.”

His words came frantic now, describing their love-making in detail while her mind ran the images. She began to rub herself frantically, alternating her fingers inside of herself, trying to reach some core she couldn’t touch. “I’m so close, sweetheart . . .” she managed to choke out.

“What do you want me to do? Hmmm? Say it . . . Say what you want me to do . . . Tell me what I can do to make you come.” This was part of the routine, be she’d never said it on the phone. But there was his voice in her ear . . . And the words tumbled out. “I want . . . I want . . . Fuck me. I want you to fuck me . . . . I want you to bury yourself deep inside of me and fuck me until I come.” She could feel the blood rush as she said the words, and his whispered response told her he was close too.

“I am babe. I’m fucking you. Pounding you. Fucking you so hard your ass is shaking . . . Can you feel me? Can you feel how hard I am?”

Her response was lost in the explosion. Only her fingers were coherent now; the sounds that came out of her throat were animal and primal. He was still whispering, but she could hear the strain. She managed to choke out “Come with me, baby . . . Now.” His groan over the phone was telling, and he repeated “I am coming” over and over. She could picture his face, tense with the effort, then slack with the release. And in a final moan, the words rushed out, echoing in her ears . . . “I love you.”

She sat shaking, alone, in her room, her panties pushed aside, her fingers still damp. Her heart said it too, but her mouth said “I know.”

Cashing In

They pulled up in front of the apartment. She invited him in. After three hours at The Spike, she hadn’t seen any better prospects. The university students all seemed preoccupied with their groups; the med students had finals this week. Although, truthfully, Brent was a better choice this week. Maybe his name was Bret. Hard to hear in there.

* * * * *

She’d done a lap or two in the bar, found him with a colleague - an older man. They looked like they were traveling on business. She caught both of them looking at her ass in the denim miniskirt. She’d walked up and started conversation with the two of them, leaning down on their table, letting the Wonderbra work its magic. She was certain Brent had been wearing a wedding band, but now his left hand was bare: telltale dent and suntan line obvious to her trained eye. Even better; he wanted the ass, didn’t want a relationship. She could cash in on that.

They were pharmaceutical reps. Meaning personable, but not quite smart enough to be in med school. Also meant nice car and money - at least more than med students. She squeezed in next to Brent, letting her bare leg rest against his in the booth. She pretended to be interested in his colleague’s story. She got them to buy her some drinks, even letting Brent (Bret?) do a body shot off her chest. When he slid his hand between her thighs, just below the hem of the skirt, she knew that he was malleable, like her own personal Play-Doh. She asked for a ride home; they could negotiate the rest when they got to the apartment.

* * * * *

“Have a seat,” she commented casually, pointing to the small couch. “Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got beer or vodka.”

He took a vodka tonic; she made it a little stronger than it needed to be. She brought it to him, leaning down to kiss him. He was a terrible kisser, which meant he was probably even more malleable than she thought. She stopped kissing him; grabbing his free hand, she placed it on her chest, letting his fingers brush her breasts. She straddled his lap, lifting the fingers off her chest, sucking his fingers into her mouth, like she was giving him head. His breathing was labored, and she could tell from the bulge in his pants that he was desperate.

She stood up; he looked disappointed. She touched his face, spoke softly to him.

“I should probably get to bed. I’ve got to call work tomorrow, see if I can get extra hours. I need to get my car into the shop, but don’t have the extra cash. I was supposed to have the next few days off, but I guess I’ll need to work. Too bad, seeing that you’ll be in town for a few days. Would have loved to have spent time with you.”

He shifted on the couch, his hard-on obvious, and stammered. “Well, . . . Uh . . . Maybe I can help you out.”

She held her smile, and put on her serious face. “Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that.” She leaned down and kissed him, hard, deep. “But that’s really sweet, B.” She was going to call him "B". It made it more personal, and she didn’t risk screwing up his name.

“No, its no problem . . . Really . . . Come on, sit here with me.” He patted the couch. The one she got from her last conquest. He owned a furniture chain.

She smiled at him. “You’re so sweet, B. Mind if I get more comfortable?”

He nodded, swallowing hard. She turned to walk down the hall, pulling off her tank top as she went. She looked back at him before going into the bathroom, and he was watching every move. She slipped into the bathroom, shut the door, and stripped down to nothing but her heels. Staring at her naked body: firm, tight, suntanned, flawless. Free gym membership from Stan, the owner of the local fitness club, and she only had to bang him once a month for that.

She spritzed on some more body spray - even a tiny spritz on her bare mound. Brushed her teeth. Gave her hair one more flip before she walked out. His eyes were wide, as she strode down the hallway, naked, back into the living room. She stood before him, feet, shoulder width apart. Knowing the lamp behind her illuminated everything just perfectly. But there was business to attend to. “Are you sure you don’t mind helping out with the car?” she purred. “It would sure be nice to not have to work a few overtime shifts. Especially if you’re going to be in town.” He was nodding, not even speaking. She moved closer, lay across his lap, her bare, tanned ass arched up toward him, her legs crossed and her heels in the air. She could feel his erection under her stomach. Looked him in the face as he stared at her, stretched out across his lap.

“Wanna spank me?” she asked. She felt his cock twitch in response, wondering if before the sun came up she could convince him to replace the two rear tires that were going bald.

Ghost

. . . i start to feel a fever from the warm air through the screen you come regular like seasons shadowing my dreams . . .

She lies in bed, tossing and turning. It’s the heat, she thinks; unbearable and stagnant. Not like the fresh mountain breeze in the evening, tinged with the faint traces of wood smoke. She flops onto her belly, hoping to find a cool breeze somewhere to soothe her skin. She can feel the dark pieces of the dream tugging her back down into sleep. It was a dream, right?

A lightning flash illuminates the room, followed by a series of sharp claps of thunder that she feels low in her belly, making her heart race. In that instance, she remembers what woke her. It was a dream. But not just a dream: the dream. The one that makes her feverish, leaving her pulse thundering, the memories of scent fresh in her nostrils: fire, citrus and alcohol, trees and river water, sweat overlaying the clean smell of soap. The moon is still almost full and the rain on the windows creates a haze. Making her think of car windows fogged over in the chill of the night.

She’s haunted by the images again. Can’t sleep as they flicker through her brain. She finds herself holding her breath again. Though in the dark of this night, he’s not there to whisper “breathe” - she has to remind herself, over and over again. While her mind plays out the scenes in the shadows of her memory . . .

. . . and i guess that's how you started like a pinprick to my heart but at this point you rush right through me and i start to drown . . .

She’d been caught off guard before, but never when her mind was clear, like it had been that night. Laying there in the heat of this night, retracing her steps, rethinking every moment, she could see it laid out in small increments before her, leading to the eventual. In the moment, though, she had been oblivious. She remembered pausing a couple times back then, waiting for him to do something obvious, but he was never like anyone else. And so she became comfortable in his space. He was complex in a way, but uncomplicated. Calming and easy-going, finding pleasure in sharing small but important things with her; music, the mountains, work, life, dreams. Like old friends did.

She remembered the instant she became aware that they’d fallen into something that was more than just comfortable. She asked where the bathroom was; he gave her directions, his hand resting on the small of her back. She walked away, the heat signature from his fingers still burning the skin and causing gooseflesh on her neck. She made herself breathe. He was smiling when she returned, and they sat on the barstools facing each other, their knees touching occasionally. Despite the electricity of his touch, she was immediately comfortable again. Until in the middle of conversation, he reached up to stroke a finger down her cheek. She caught her breath again. But smiled, the heat rising in her face. And then he asked a question, smiling tentatively, like a nervous teenager. A simple request – a gentleman’s request: just a kiss on the forehead. She found it hard to breathe, but said yes. He touched her arm, and leaned in to touch his lips to her skin, and she inhaled his scent as he came close, feeling slightly dizzy, a flush spreading across her body. So simple, yet so intimate.

They left soon after, she, still feeling warm, even as the night chill set in more. And for a moment, she thought that was all it might be. Until he kissed her at the gas station, lightly and quickly. But his mouth pressed against hers, for that brief moment, was the next question. She was unsure if she answered it correctly, as they exchanged no words. But when he told the next stranger they saw that this was their first “date”, there was no mistaking how he’d interpreted the answer.

. . . dark and dangerous like a secret that gets whispered in a hush (don't tell a soul) when i wake the things i dreamt about you last night make me blush (don't tell a soul) . . .

Sitting in the truck, the silence soft around them, moonlight outlining trees and bushes and rocks, she felt calm. The moonlight did nothing to dim the stars, and she sat in the front seat, twisting and turning to see them around her. The darkness, illuminated by the moon, made her remember summer nights in childhood staring out at the night skies, a blanket spread on the lawn as she spotted constellations. The music continued to play in the background, and she occasionally would hum or sing, like she’d been doing all evening. She was turned with her back the front window, looking up at the sky above her, marveling at how prominent the stars were when they weren’t competing with the city lights. When she looked down again, he leaned closer to her, and she knew it was coming. His lips touched hers, then parted, their tongues carefully searching each other out, testing. He paused for a second, and she held her breath. She didn’t release it until he spoke. “Breathe.” She let out her breath in a rush, kissing him again. Starting the same cycle over again. “Breathe,” he commanded, gently, but her breathing was erratic. “Breathe into me,” he whispered, and it sounded so easy. She fitted her mouth against his, but found her chest heaving anyway, trying to catch her breath while his kisses lit fires low in her groin, making her squirm in the seat.

She reached a hand up to run through his hair. It was soft and fine at the back of his neck, slipping easily through her hands. Silky against her touch, she slid her hands up to the top of his head, where his hair was longer. His kisses were electric, and the intensity mounted. Without thinking, she slid his hair between her fingers and pulled his mouth tight against hers. He responded immediately, threading his fingers in her long hair and tugging her head back, kissing her forcefully, her breath leaving her lungs in a rush. She felt her body respond, liquefy, and her heart raced faster. He tugged the strap of her tank top down, followed by her bra; his mouth covered a nipple, sucking on it firmly, and she ran her fingers through his hair again, moaning softly.

Gentle turned frantic at one point, and he struggled with her jeans. The movements made her stop; think. She shouldn’t be here, doing this. He paused. “Don’t you want me?” His voice was plaintive. “It’s not a matter of want,” she said. “It’s a matter of ‘should’ . . .” He kissed her more, tugging at her clothes. She hesitated. “Wait, . . .” Panting, torn, wanting this, but feeling disingenuous.

“Your breathing tells me you want me,” he queried, his eyes feverish with desire. His face was raw and honest; it wasn’t a line.

“It’s just that . . .” She had trouble finding the words, her breath coming in shallow gasps “. . . I’m not just going back tomorrow . . . I’m going back . . . to someone.” She emphasized the “someone”. He stared at her, unfazed, stating the obvious. “You don’t wear a ring.” She rubbed her hand against her head, trying to think of how to explain that it wasn’t about precious metal and stones. He leaned in to kiss her. “Then tell me you don’t want me.” She opened her mouth to speak, but melted into his kiss, her resolve evaporating.

. . . i'd walk into the fingers of your fire willingly and dance the edge of sanity i've never been this close . . .

He kissed her harder, and she whimpered into his mouth. His fingers slid inside of her, and she felt another rush of wetness, as he took her closer to that edge. She fought the sensations, trying to collect her thoughts. He tugged at her jeans again, his breathing ragged. “No . . .” she whispered, half-heartedly, wondering if she said it more to herself than to him. He paused, tugging again and she spoke. “I don’t know . . . I . . . if they come off . . . I won’t stop.” He stared at her, his eyes liquid in the moonlight, his lips full, his body tense. He kissed her again, his hand still on her waistband, waiting. She kissed him back, harder, and this time, when he tugged at her jeans, she reached down to help him.

He moved quickly, laying down the passenger seat, and positioned himself over her, kissing her, whispering, words that made no sense to her. Then reality hit her again, and she was acutely aware of his frame above her, stronger than hers, his breathing anxious, his voice strained by passion. He was poised to enter her, and she had a brief moment of logic and remembering, of guilt and obligation. “Wait . . .”

He was aroused, impatient, but he struggled for control. His voice was raw as he whispered. “Please. It’s been so long since I’ve been attracted to someone like this . . . I want to feel you . . . I want to be inside of you . . . Please . . . Just for a bit . . . Please . . . I want to be close.”

She could hardly breathe and her position was awkward, but the combination of the voice in her heart and the tug in her groin was stronger than logic. She found herself sliding her hips down in the seat, tilting them up to meet his, feeling him solid and warm against her. He pushed against her, his thickness parting her wetness. She opened her mind and her heart for a moment, and then opened herself to him. He pushed into her, exhaling, and she welcomed him. And then, like a weakened dam that’s weathered the last ravages of the flood, she could feel the pressure surge, then break, and she groaned into him, writhing, trying to meld to his body. Once it started, she couldn’t stop it, and she moaned, cursed, cried, as wave after wave took her, this time, and each time after.

. . . as i burn up in your presence and i know now how it feels to be weakened like Achilles with you always at my heels . . .

She gave herself to him, again and again. Sometimes in passion shrouded in harsh words. Sometimes, at his gentle urging . . . “I want to make love to you . . .” His mouth found her mouth, then moved lower, eventually catching the soft, wet flesh between his lips and rolling it in his mouth, causing spasm after spasm. The CD playing cycled over and over, like their personal soundtrack, burning itself into her brain. In a moment of passion, as she rode him to yet another climax, staring down at him, he reached up and held her face. “Listen,” he commanded. She heard the words “. . . when you kiss me like a lover . . .” Found herself singing them under her breath with him, as he pushed up inside of her, watching his face, intense. Deeper inside of her, inside her head, inside her heart. The words tattooed on the memory of this moment.

And finally, her body flushed and aching, her heart exhausted and beating hard against her ribs, she lay against him, listening to his heart, his breathing. Tracing his face, memorizing every line and angle. “Sleep,” he murmured, closing his eyes. Laying his hand on her bare hip, one arm around her body curled in his lap. She smiled, mostly to herself. Not sure if it was the ecstasy, or the simple pleasure of his genuineness. She closed her eyes for a moment, her heart giving into visions of stretching out next to him every night, naked, waking with the room chilled by the morning mountain air, her skin warm where it touched his. Thinking about tracing patterns on his fair skin, the hairs soft on his arms and chest, his hair tousled, his eyes crinkling in a sleepy smile.

When she opened her eyes, she realized the sun was casting its first light in the morning sky. The realization that she was leaving later that day hit, and she roused him. He stretched, kissing her. He fumbled with his clothes; she did the same, quietly, reluctant to talk. His words finally came in a rush. “Please tell me you won’t forget this, forget me, regret this. You can change your mind.” Her heart started breaking, making her quiet, making her pull away, some. “Never say never,” she managed to say, without crying. He kissed her; she kissed him back. “Never say never.” But she couldn’t find more words, couldn’t make promises. It was better this way, she thought.

He looked stunned, innocent. “You’re saying goodbye,” he said, with a mix of incredulity and defeat. She could only smile, gently. If she spoke, she’d sob.

. . . now i see your face before me i would launch a thousand ships to bring your heart back to my island as the sand beneath me slips . . .

Hundreds of miles away, the morning air is cool, like she remembers, but heavier, with a hint of moisture and evergreens, the smell of the city not far behind. Designer heels click on the concrete, her skirt wrapping around her curves and hugging her knees, strands of her necklace clinking together softly in rhythm with her step. She opens the door of the sedan, throws her briefcase in the back seat, pulls her long legs in behind her and slips on sunglasses. The leather is cool against her legs and she turns on the heat. She opens the sunroof for some fresh air, turns on the sound system, and puts the car in gear. She’s concentrating on getting onto the road when the CD sound kicks on, and she’s hit by a wave of memory. Remembering this CD cycling. As if he’d made sure she wouldn’t forget, even here. She’d taken all the CD’s out prior to the trip when she’d taken the car to get it serviced . . . All but this one. She drove in a haze, replaying the sounds, over and over, seeing his face, hearing his voice, tasting his mouth, feeling his body. And when she stepped into the blond wood and glass of her office, overlooking the city, the mountains far away on the horizon, her heart ached for the memory, ached for him, ached for another time. She put her face in her hands and tried to breathe. Remembered him whispering “Breathe . . .,” realizing she was still holding her breath. The words played in her head again. His words. Their words.

… unknowing captor you'll never know how much you pierce my spirit . . .

. . . i am no worse at most in love with your ghost . . .


* Excerpted lyrics to "Ghost" copyright of the Indigo Girls, 1992

Business

His face showed that he wasn’t expecting her like this, and if he was trying to keep his surprise and his pleasure hidden, his body betrayed him. She stood in the doorway, clad only in a tiny pair of panties and his white button-down dress shirt. He was prepared for his normal nightly routine; her stance said she clearly had an agenda.

The shirt fell away, exposing her right breast as she stood with her hand on one hip. Her dark nipples were hard, and stood out against her pale flesh, casting shadows on her skin in the dim light of the lamp. She moved cat-like, meeting him halfway, and he moved to kiss her. She smiled a wicked, knowing smile, and said “I need”. Not “I need you,” or “I need this” – just “I need.”

He hesitated, coming to a slow realization that she was very different tonight, and rather than kissing her lips, which were already parted with anticipation, he snaked a hand up in the back of her hair, tugging downward. Her head snapped back, exposing her neck, and he bent and kissed it quickly, letting his teeth graze her skin. She shuddered, and arched toward him, her breasts jutting out from the crisp white fabric, brushing his chest. He bit her shoulder in response and she groaned, pressing into him again. So this is how it would be.

He pulled her to the bed and she stretched out, snaking a leg out and underneath his, letting the shirt fall completely away from her torso and off her shoulders. He reached down and peeled her panties off, leaving her in just the shirt, noticing she’d shaved herself, leaving only a thin strip of hair at the juncture of her legs, exposing how swollen she already was. He slid back up, nipping at her collarbone, feeling her squirm beneath him, working his way down to her breasts. She arched her back again, feeding him the soft flesh and the hard nipple, groaning and writhing as he sucked hard. He tugged her hair back, again, kissing her neck hard and she hissed “fuck” in response. He knew he owned her now.

He worked his way down again, covering her breasts again, kissing her stomach, biting the flesh over her hip bones, breathing between her legs but not tasting yet. He watched her, as she waited, and he pushed her legs farther apart. Admiring how pink and slick she looked, the smell heady and tinged with some pent up frustration and desire that she intended to work out here and now. He couldn’t resist biting the inside of her thigh and she moved her hips toward his mouth.

He finally acceded, capturing her swollen clit between his lips, and rolling it around, sucking gently on it, then more firmly. She was vocal; she slid one leg over his back, urging him on, and thrashed her upper body as the feeling mounted. He could feel and taste her getting more aroused, the flesh a silky wetness that he knew would welcome his cock after he took her to that edge a time or two. “Yes,” she hissed again, her teeth clenched, jaw muscles flexing. “Suck on it, sweetie . . . that’s it . . . oh my god, right there.”

Her hand was on the back of his head, pressing him closer and closer, and she’d raised her hips off the bed as she neared her first climax, wanting to keep maximum contact. His jaw ached but he sucked as hard as he could and was rewarded with her primal cry, telling him he’d hit the sweet spot. She murmured incomprehensibly, twisting her head from side to side. It caught her again and again, and each time he thought he’d pause, she was whimpering and moaning and thrashing again, urging him on.

He felt her legs go slack moments later, knowing that she’d gotten some resolution, and he lay back, his mouth exhausted. He smiled up at her, noticing her face looked anything but resolved. She sat up, pushing him flat on his back, her eyes glazed with a far away look. His shirt still hung askew on her as she swung a leg over him, straddling him briefly, until she slammed herself down on his cock. He was hard and ready, but her hip bones jarred his when she hit, and they both grunted; he at the force, she as the tip of his cock hit her inside. She arched back, closing her eyes and ground her clit against his pubic bone, and he reached up to squeeze her breasts, tugging at a nipple. She folded over on top of him, eyes squeezed shut, and put her forehead in the crook of his neck, biting his collarbone as she did.

He didn’t ask where she was in her mind when she did that; he was content that she was physically here. She stayed like that, her face tucked in his shoulder, writhing against him, shuddering when her orgasm would hit, crying out incoherently, and he grabbed her ass, helping her rock against him. Finally, he could feel her tense more, and she rose up, still with her eyes closed, jaw clenched, hissing between her teeth, her pace quickening. He could feel her muscles under his hand twitch and she paused for a second, then began to ride him hard. Her eyes flew open at the last moment, registering him for that brief second before she cried out, and he felt the muscles inside of her flex and squeeze his cock, and he reached up to feel her heartbeat thud against her chest as the red flush spread out against her skin.

She smiled down at him, with a sly look, and gave him a nod that was a signal. He slid out from underneath him, and she crouched on all fours, her head on the pillow, her chest pressed to the bed, her ass raised in the air. He knelt behind her, tracing his hand over her swollen lips, placing his cock at her opening and watching it part the soft flesh. He put both hands on her hips, and she motioned him forward with her hands. He slammed her hard, and her hands clenched the sheets, and she managed to groan “fuck” into the pillow again. Now he rode her, so close to his own release. He murmured “god, I love when you act like whore, so hot, so dirty” and she bucked against him, another orgasm underway.

He couldn’t hold back any more. He pushed the tail of his shirt up over her back, looking at the way her waist tapered and her hips flared and his hands made faint indentations in the soft curves of her ass, vibrating beneath his hands as he pounded her repeatedly. He groaned and thrust one last time, feeling himself flood her, the hot liquid seeping out of her as he stroked to his finish.

He pulled back, still slick with their combined juices, and she rolled to her side, to stare at him. He lay down beside her, and she smiled, and he knew she was back with him, content. But just for good measure, he reached up, pulled her hair back hard, and bit her neck. She closed her eyes briefly and shuddered again.

Personal heaven

He smiles and looks like he’s in his own personal heaven. I have a distorted view from between my legs, made more distorted by the raw spasms he creates each time he rolls my clit between his lips. Alternately licking it, then sucking it, moving down to taste my wetness, then up, to capture it in his mouth again. He’s making it hard to focus, to watch, to learn.

He kisses the insides of my thighs, holding my hips in place. I find myself involuntarily moving them anyway, in the direction of the heat of his mouth. Part of me doesn’t want to stop the gentle butterfly kisses on the soft skin of my legs, my ass, the insides of my thighs. Those, too, bring me to a certain edge; heighten the sensitivity of everything else.

He’s drinking me; sucking in every last drop of moisture, then replacing my wetness with moisture from his tongue. His mouth has mapped me, knows my reaction before I do. I can feel it building, predictably, and I’m ready for the surge. He shifts, his mouth still leaving trails of heat and moisture and whispers of air, dancing around my most sensitive parts, and I groan in frustration. His fingers supplement his tongue, now, dipping inside of me, while he rains kisses on the silky, wet skin. His fingers probe deeper, as he sucks my clit, and I moan again, reaching down to run my fingers through his hair. His fingers are pressing downward, creating a pressure inside of me, trying to reach through me; touching those nerves in my ass that seem to be linked directly to my clit. Whether it’s the pressure or the sensation, I find myself closer and closer, thrashing about under his touch and his tongue.

Then his fingers shift, and he presses upwards, toward my stomach. And he reaches a spot that feels like I’ve been electrocuted. It jolts me, and I twist, pulling myself up to a sitting position, almost, as he still has some control over my ability to move. His mouth follows, never letting go of my clit, sucking as hard as he can, and still his fingers probe, high and deep inside of me. Again, a second jolt, jarring my senses. I don’t know whether to climb away, or press myself further onto his fingers. I take the second option, bearing down on his mouth and his fingers, the sensation alternately unbearable and addicting. But what I do doesn’t matter . . . His mouth is relentless, his fingers unforgiving. No matter which direction I twist or move, he moves with me . . .

The eruption inside rocks me, catches me by surprise. As if all the sensation in my body is drawn to one pin point of pleasure, almost painful . . . until the release. Shattering nerves in my brain, in my groin; the heat radiates to the tips of my fingers and toes, comes out of my mouth in an inhuman cry.

Between frantic gasps, still shaky from the aftershocks, I manage a hoarse “What was that? What did you do?”

He smiles, and looks like he’s in his own personal heaven. He shakes his head, starts to crawl up beside me, his cock hard against my leg. He kisses me hard, letting me taste myself on his mouth. He spreads my legs with his knees, and then I know it’s only beginning . . .