“I need to talk to her for myself.”
“Canon! You don’t trust me?”
“I do, but I want to hear any parameters or restrictions from the doctor with my own ears. I’m responsible for the actors in my movies. I’d want something clearly stated in writing with anyone, not just you.”
“And would you ask the doctor if any of your other actors were cleared for sexual activity?”
“I’m sure I—”
I stare up at her, taking in the mischievous gleam in her eyes and the siren’s smile.
“Don’t play with me, Neevah.”
“I’m not.” She leans down, aligning our faces, looking deeply into my eyes. “I’m all cleared for takeoff.”
“Oh yeah?” I don’t want to pounce on her, which is what my dick tells me to do, that hard slab of steel in my pants.
“Yes.” She traces the bow of my mouth. “I love your lips.”
“Hmmm.” I settle for a grunt because anything else that comes out of my mouth would be the nastiest shit ever. I’m trying not to be that dude, whose girlfriend recently had surgery, but who might break her the first time we have sex if not very careful.
“Let’s make love,” she whispers, her breath misting my lips, her eyes boring into mine with an intensity that goes straight for my cock.
“Are you sure?” I ask hoarsely. “Did Dr. Okafor—”
I choke on the question when she grabs me through my jeans.
“What you’re not gonna do,” Neevah says, squeezing, pulling, “is fuck me like I might break.”
For the last few months, it has felt as if she could break, and I don’t trust my hands on her. I lay back, letting her strip me, touch me, explore the muscles of my chest, my abs, trace my cheekbones and lips, but I don’t move to reciprocate. She leans down, sealing her lips over mine, slipping her tongue inside and going deep with sweeping licks, searching for and finding my reciprocal hunger. She frames my face in her hands and pulls my lip between her teeth. Bites hard. She’s provoking me. I know it, but my hands knot into fists at my sides.
“Are you sure?” My breath comes out heavy, stunted between our lips.
She stands, tugging at buttons until the panels of her sundress fall away, revealing a transparent bra and panties, sprigged with lace flowers. With her smoldering eyes snaring mine, she reaches behind her to unfasten the bra. My mouth goes dry at the sight of her breasts, the areolae a dark halo crowning their fullness. She skims her fingers over her stomach, teases the silk at her hips, and slides the underwear over the legs of a dancer. They slip down her calves and pool around her bare feet. She stands waiting at the edge of the bed.
“How do you want me, Canon?” she asks, her words an open invitation to fantasy.
My eyes rove greedily over the expanse of satiny skin. The taut muscles of her stomach and the slope of her shoulders; the elegant line of her collarbone. Her breasts are ripe and round and tipped with nipples like blackberries.
I notice her scar immediately. I’ve seen it so many times since the transplant. It sprouts from her belly button and grows around her back like a vine. I sit up and trace it with reverent fingers, awed that this smooth strip of raised skin is the reminder of how I could lose her. Evidence of how she was saved.
There was a time when she would have shied away from my touch, from my eyes, but we’re well past that. True intimacy, laced with trust, curls around us like tendrils of smoke.
I pull her to the bed and press her naked shoulders into the down of our comforter, permitting my fingers to trace her lips, the delicate construction of her face. I lavish kisses behind her ears, opening my mouth over her throat, worshiping her breasts, drawing her nipples between my lips, first one and then the other. My name tumbles from her lips, carried on heaving breaths and ragged sighs. She grips behind my neck to keep me against her, her hands and hold imperative. My appetite for her is a barely checked thing on a straining leash.
I want to make slow love to her, sweet and stretched out like taffy. A dish peppered with we’ve-got-all-night kisses. But we can’t convince our hands, our lips, or tongues that there is time. The urgency of banked passion blows across the flame, and we are clothed in fire. Naked skin hot to the touch. Our hearts are talking drums through our chests, saying all the words when desperation steals our voices.
I bracket my knees on either side of her thighs, and she is naked beneath me. I push one knee up and then the other until her legs are open and she is wet and exposed. Breasts, thighs, pussy—she is a table set for me, and I dip my head to lick her from top to bottom. She jerks, her breath catching and her hands gripping the sheets. I spread her lips and suck on her clit like a cherry, delving my tongue inside until her desire flows and I’m drowning in her essence.
“I’m coming,” she says, her back bowing, her knees collapsing, pressing into my head. Her hands claw my hair, urging me deeper into the cleft of her body.
It is all I’ve wanted, but been afraid to have in case I couldn’t control it. There’s still a part of me that wants her to set the pace—control it until we are sure of her body’s limits.
I lie down, positioning her on top of me, her knees spread over mine.
“I know why you’re doing this.” She grins, her eyes dilated and her lips kiss-puffy. “And I’ll let you get away with it this first time, but next time no holding back.”
“I promise you’ll have no complaints.”