He smiled as if it were an old habit—a gesture between lovers who had known each other years instead of days.
Tears pricked at her eyes and she bent forward to hide them from him, cradling his face to her breasts.
He turned his head, mouthing at her nipple, and she arched her head back, trying to quell her sudden melancholy. Not now, not here. She didn’t want to ruin this by bringing the future in too soon.
But he must’ve sensed her mood. He lifted his head, trying to see her. “Lily?”
She scooted back, pushing him firmly against the pillows so that she might have access to his lap.
He wouldn’t be dissuaded, though, stubborn man. “Lily?”
“It’s nothing,” she muttered, working at the buttons on his falls. “I… I just want to forget.” She flicked her eyes to him, letting him see the mess she must’ve made of her face earlier. “Can you help me forget?”
She should’ve felt guilt for her prevarication, but she didn’t. She had the right to this little bit of joy, even if it only lasted hours.
So she pulled apart his breeches and reached in to untie his smallclothes. His penis rose, ruddy and proud, from a thatch of coarse hair. She stroked both hands through that hair, scratching, watching smugly as his cock bobbed in reaction.
“Take it off,” she ordered him imperiously, tapping at his shirt.
He lifted to do so, pulling the shirt over his head, and then he lay sprawled against the mound of pillows, all naked chest. She sat back on his legs to look her fill, and if she did so to store the image in a corner of her mind, she tried not to think about it too much. His head was cocked back, his shaggy brown hair falling in tangled waves to his shoulders and, oh, his shoulders! If she had the money, she’d commission a sculpture of him nude and never regret the expenditure. His shoulders were mounded with muscle, wide and strong, with upper arms she doubted she could span with both hands. His dark nipples were peaked in a chest the color of sunlight, the dark hairs between making a lovely masculine contrast. Why painters never showed male hair she could not fathom. Wasn’t that part of what made a man? Hair upon the body? In any case she loved his.
She stroked a single finger through his chest hairs and when he made to move shook her head firmly. “Don’t. I’m not finished.”
His eyes narrowed, but he only said, “As you will.”
She bit her bottom lip to keep from smiling and traced through the divided muscles of his belly to his navel. She circled that lightly, watching as his belly contracted in reaction. Farther down she followed the trail of dark hair that led to his groin. His penis lay slightly to the side, pulsing. His foreskin had pulled back, revealing his glistening head. She stared frankly, for if he found her lovely, she found him devastating.
She ducked and took him into her mouth, warm and bitter, without waiting to think or ask if it was permissible. She wanted him—all of him.
He jackknifed at her sudden movement, and she saw, out of the corners of her eyes, his hands hovering, fingers spread, on either side of her head, as if he didn’t know quite what to do.
Well, neither did she—she’d never done this before—but she wasn’t going to let inexperience keep her from this moment.
She sucked lightly at the head, tasting bitter salt, holding him to her mouth with both hands. She ran her tongue slowly around the silky head and then along the edge of his taut foreskin.
He moaned above, though she doubted this was helping him much. After all, it was nothing like the motion he made inside her.
That led to another thought and she gave him an open-mouthed kiss before looking up. “What do you do when you’re alone?”
He blinked sleepily, eyes widening. “What?”
He must know exactly what she meant. A corner of her mouth kicked up. Had she shocked him? “Show me, please.”
She sat back, releasing her hold on him. She watched as he grasped himself with his right hand, pausing.
She bent and kissed him again, the moisture at the tip slipping over her lips. She looked up into his eyes from her position and whispered, “Please?”
His nostrils flared and he nodded, stroking his closed fist up, and then palming the head to spread the seeping moisture around. He stroked down, much faster and stronger than she would’ve done herself, and she watched in absolute fascination. How often did he do this? And what did he think about when he did?
She looked up to see that he’d flung his arm across his eyes like a debauched faun, the muscle of his upper arm bunched, the tufts of underarm hair strangely erotic. She leaned forward, licking his chest as his fist bumped against her belly and he started.
“Don’t stop,” she husked, scooting closer, and closer still until his hand was rubbing against her with every stroke, his knuckles brushing through her lips. She ground her pelvis down on his hand as she drew aside the arm covering his eyes and took his face in her hands, kissing him deeply.
He placed his hand on her bottom, urging her closer as he aimed himself, and with one thrust entered her. She leaned forward so that the angle pressed the apex of her slit against his pelvic bone. Then she began to ride him, fast and hard, grinding against him with every downstroke, using him to pleasure herself. She was trembling, her body melting with the heat and desire they made between them, and she watched him as she rode his cock. He swallowed, his eyes on her, his upper lip curled.
Until she saw stars and she had to close her own eyes. She swiveled against him, finding that spot—that perfect spot of friction and heat—and sobbed aloud as she came, her body liquid with melting desire.
He took her hips and thrust forcefully up into her as she curled down into him, holding on as he slammed repeatedly into her, finding his own release. Finding his own point of desire.