I give him a jerky nod since I’m incapable of speech at the moment.
He unbuttons his shirt and tosses it over my clothes on the chair. I like that our clothes are all over each other the way we’re about to be. It’s so wrong. It’s so right.
I’ve seen his chest before. At the pool. It’s glorious. All that flexed, toned skin punctuated by flat brown nipples and a belly button above a trail of dark wiry hair that disappears into his shorts. Then there’s the tattoo etched onto his ribs, as enticing as everything else about him. His chest is broad at the top, bookended by strong, rounded shoulders. Then his torso dives in, narrowing at his waist. I wish he’d take off his pants. He doesn’t, but before I can complain he tosses my legs over his shoulders.
“Relax. If you can.” That’s the last warning he offers before lowering his face.
His mouth is soft, firm, hot, attentive. I can’t tear my eyes off his jet black hair or the motions his head makes as his tongue strokes and strokes and strokes again. My legs quake even though I will them to stop. I fist the blankets while lecturing myself to loosen up. To go easy. To slow down. I don’t want this to end.
But it does. Quickly.
An orgasm rages through me at the same time a low roll of thunder shakes the windows of his bedroom. My eyes shut of their own volition as a wave of warmth washes over me. My body buzzes. My mind blanks.
That was…
That was…
Amazing.
Beautiful.
Perfect.
Way too damn fast.
Devastation comes on as fast as the orgasm, the blissful rush receding like it was never there. I feel the wet in my eyes and blink them open. Benji is smiling, clueless to the direction of my thoughts.
It’s over. My one chance to savor him and I blew it.
“Let’s hear it,” he says. Obviously, he’s figured out I have something on my mind.
“I wanted that to last longer,” I murmur, my throat constricted from thick emotion. “It went too fast.”
“Sure, but that was only the first one. Haven’t you had multiples before?” His eyebrows pinch like he’s legitimately confused.
My mouth hangs open for a second. I, of course, have heard of multiple orgasms. I have also heard of unicorns and fairies. I have never had more than one at a time—orgasms, that is. I break it to him by saying, “I’m more of a one-and-done girl.”
He’s already shaking his head. “Not true. I bet you have four or five more in there. You ready?”
He’s propped on his elbows, shoulders still positioned under my legs, his beautiful face framed by my knees, his dark hair perfectly ruffled, and offering me four or five more orgasms. That he will deliver with his tongue.
“Hell yeah,” I say.
He bursts out laughing. I do the same. This time the tears springing forth are from relief. It’s not over. Good news.
My second orgasm arrives with the same force but lasts longer than the first.
The third one is longer still, and the waves washing over me pummel me with pleasure.
The fourth is so intense, I kick Benji out from between my legs and writhe until I’ve wadded up his fancy comforter.
I don’t make it to five.
When I finally open my eyes, I find him on his side watching me, his head propped on a fist, his elbow resting on the mattress.
I can’t make myself regret it. Any of it.