My brain was rioting, in chaos, and I was embarrassed, yet enthralled.
My pen pals had told me—in French, Japanese, and German—what having sex was like. They’d described what it felt like to have an orgasm, so I knew what we’d done on Friday had resulted in an orgasm for both of us. But nothing they’d described revealed the true intimacy of the act. How it was something beautiful and terrifying, to be naked and vulnerable, to be touched.
My breath hitched. I leaned backward at an angle and fought the urge to press my knees together. He was looking at me. His exhales falling across my exposed center made me clench and tense in anticipation and anxiety.
“Cletus?” I asked, with a mixture of uncertainty and eagerness.
He licked his lips and lowered his mouth to me. The air left my lungs as his wet, hot tongue connected with my wet, hot center. His tongue moved and my body gave a reflexive and inelegant lurch. I gasped. Unthinkingly, my fingers threaded through his hair and I pressed him to me, afraid he would stop.
It felt so good.
So good.
So. Good.
SO. GOOD.
My body shuddered again and I widened my legs, my hips rolling instinctively. He moaned, like I was delicious, like he’d been starving for me. His hands wrapped around my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh, his beard tickling the sensitive skin of my thighs.
Then his eyes lifted to mine.
“Oh God,” I breathed. The force of his gaze was both sobering and intoxicating, and potent with knowledge. Knowledge of me, of my body, of my taste. He watched me, drinking in this secret sight of me.
He watched me while his mouth was on my body.
He watched me as he did sinful things with his tongue and lips.
The hunger in his eyes as his possessive gaze moved over my breasts and neck and mouth sent a sudden spiral of need and greed straight to where he devoured me. Suddenly I was coming in a powerful pulsing, quaking, and piercing release.
I threw my head back, the force of the tremors too unwieldy and strong. I existed only as a feeling. He held me in place, lapping and savoring, as though my mindlessness fed a need in him.
He held me still until it hurt—wonderfully, tremendously, spectacularly—and then he slipped his fingers inside me and I came again, crying out sharply with desperation and thoughtlessness. I couldn’t stay upright. I couldn’t hold my own weight under the force of my climax, so I fell backward.
His hands were suddenly there, he was suddenly there, standing and pulling me forward into his arms. He lifted me from the counter and I was limp in his arms, spent. A force field of warmth and satisfaction encased me, made me boneless. I snuggled my forehead against his neck and gripped his shirt weakly.
“The couch,” I sighed. “Let’s go lie on the couch.”
He squeezed me, and turned. He glanced to the left, then the right, hesitating. “Where is this couch?”
I chuckled lightly, then nipped his neck. “In the back.”
Is that my voice? Good Lord. I sound sexy.
It was deeper than usual, which I liked it. I liked how I sounded after Cletus unwrapped me. I liked how I felt. I liked my body in a new way that made me feel powerful and knowledgeable.
And I now understood why some people were “indiscriminant bakers.” Everything about the act felt good and right and necessary. Or maybe it was being with Cletus that was good and right and necessary.
On our way to the couch, Cletus retrieved my coat from the floor in an impressive display of flexibility and strength. Upon arriving in the back room, he kissed me on the forehead.
“I have to set you down so I can put this jacket on the couch.” He sounded like releasing me was something only to be done out of necessity or under duress. “Can you stand?”
I nodded and he tipped me to the side until my feet hit the ground. Quickly, he removed the back pillows, spread out my coat, then his, leaving the sofa mostly covered. Then he guided me to my side and moved to join me.
“Wait,” I stopped him, kneeling on the cushions and gripping the edge of his shirt. “Take this off.”
He frowned, hesitating. “Jenn—”
“Just your shirt. I miss your skin.”
His expression cleared as his eyes heated and he removed his white cotton tee. I resumed my reclining position and he joined me, pulling my body halfway on top of his. I kissed his shoulder and sighed.
“As I was saying, I missed you.” I ran my hand up and down his chest, threading my fingers through the sparse hair. I loved the hair on his chest and I loved the ridges of his muscles. I loved how different our bodies were, the texture and feel of him. “When can we do that again?”
He chuckled, his hands caressing my body like he was greedy for the feel of my skin. “Ten minutes?”
We both laughed and I rested my elbow on him, my chin in my palm. “So do I get to give you a blow job now?”
He tensed and his eyes narrowed on me. “Not yet.”
“Why?”