“We need to talk,” he whispers, the low timber of his voice sending ripples of lust coursing through my body, through my cerebellum, down my chest and to the apex of my thighs.
“Whatever it is, yes,” I moan, arching my back and pushing my rear into his denim clad erection.
“You little hussy,” he says as his free hand finds its way up my shirt and he unclasps my bra. “Flip over and give me a peek at the goods.”
Giggling, I squirm under him until I’m on my back, staring into his heated gaze. We lock eyes for only a moment before our lips crash into each other, teeth and tongues clashing in a frenzy. Gasping for breath, I unlatch my mouth only to ask, “Did you lock the door?”
Matthew grunts, burying his face in my neck while his hands roam up my chest, under my bra. Fingers idly trace my skin, then skim the underside of my breasts… back-and-forth, back-and-forth goes the tip of his index finger, grazing the delicate skin with every teasing stroke. “What do I look like, a fucking amateur?”
“Shut your foul mouth or I’ll shut it for you,” I hiss, pulling his head down to mine, my lips like a heat seeking missile as his calloused palm covers my aching breast. “Mmmm…” I moan into his mouth, for what seems like the tenth time tonight, and arch into his hand.
“I love your tits,” Matthew groans out into my mouth, squeezing one softly, then lavishing attention on the other. “They’re the perfect handful.”
Hearing him refer to my breasts as… as… well, T-I-T-S, makes my cheeks blazing hot – so hot, I’m surprised he hasn’t noticed my flaming red face. But at the same time it’s embarrassing me, I’m also extremely turned on by his crude description. It makes me feel a bit saucy, sexy, and incredibly desirable.
Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “Baby, that feels so good,” than clamp my mouth shut before I can utter anything else that sounds so cliché.
“Talk dirty to me,” Matthew demands, his hand now in the waistband of my leggings.
“I am not talking dirty to you,” I laugh and wiggle my hips, encouraging his hand to go lower. “Nice try though.”
“It was worth a shot,” he grins down at me and studies my face, his messy auburn hair falling in his eyes. “Wanna get naked?”
I nod, and immediately we’re both fumbling with our clothes; pants flying this way and that, shirts, panties, and boxer briefs landing on chairs and the carpet; and just like that, he’s back on top of me.
Somewhere in the recess of my mind, I hear a door within the apartment open and close, dismissing it in favor of running my hands along Matthew’s insanely muscular torso, the tips of my fingers alive with a thousand nerves. He shutters when my fingers circle his nipples, giving them a little tug, before I take one in my mouth and give it a good suck.
After that, it’s nothing but the sound of skin-on-skin. Mouths and tongues. Moaning, gasps, and groans. At one point, he leapt off the bed to retrieve his jeans, leaving me withering around the bed like a limp, turned-on, two dollar hooker, waiting impatiently for him to slide in to me.
When he does, my head goes back and although we try to be quiet, we aren’t the least bit successful. “Uh… uh… Oh God,” I gasp.
“Oh fuck… oh fuck, baby… you feel so good,” he counters and thrusts so hard the headboard knocks against the wall… once, twice, oh God, three times (I’m not surprised; hockey players success is all in the swivel of the hips). It feels too good to give a shit that the bed is pounding into the wall behind us.
My hand snakes down between our bodies and, in a move I once read about in Cosmo Magazine (and one you might want to look into yourself), my finger finds its way up under his boys, and press down a sweet spot there.
“Oh my god, this is why I love you,” his low gravely moan is like a prayer whispered into my hair.
His words are an aphrodisiac to my soul, and I can’t stop the threat of tears at the corner of my eye. My breath hitches as he grinds his pelvis. “You…do?”
His reply is to grunt, and within moments - together - we’re both throwing our heads back, shuddering, and going limp.
Being with him tonight is like a dream; a glorious, romantic, dream – only this dream is real.
And he’s here.
And he’s mine.
Matthew
For a while, we just lay there; Cecelia’s head buried in the apex of my armpit, hauled up close next to my body by arms of steel. She’s biting her lip, and wants to say something, but she either can’t find the right words – or she’s completely chicken shit.