He’s barely holding himself together. I don’t blame him. If I hadn’t had sex for years, it would only take a single touch to completely unravel me. His control is remarkable.
The dark fabric of his boxer-briefs clings to every inch of him. I run a single finger down the swollen length. He squeezes his eyes shut and pushes out a long breath. I do it again, and he slaps the bed before gripping the covers.
I move down to stroke his thigh. “Do you want me to stop?”
He keeps his eyes closed but grabs my hand so he can pull me up to his face. “Just let me do this for a while.” He kisses me and turns us so we’re both on our sides. Then he pulls my leg up to his hip and presses his erection against me, trying to acclimate himself to being with me again.
We kiss and grind, and it all feels so good. His hands move over me like we’ve never been apart. The rhythm of him is intoxicating.
“Is it okay if I touch you now?” I ask.
He nods. “I was about to start begging.”
“Did you fantasize about me touching you while we were apart?”
“Every single day. Sometimes, multiple times a day. Fantasy You was a total nympho.”
I move my hand between us and palm him. He moans, and I smile. “So, kinda close to Reality Me, then?”
He flops onto his back. “Yep. Pretty much. Dear God.”
I kiss down his neck. Graze my teeth across his stubble and taste his skin. Kiss his Adam’s apple as he makes a long, low noise. The buzz on my lips tickles. All the while I stroke him through taut fabric. Run my hands over trembling muscles.
He pants and alternates between watching my slow trek down his torso and pushing his head back into the bed and cursing.
When I reach his belly button, he stops breathing.
“You okay?”
“Yep,” he says, his voice tight. “More than okay. Just … trying not to embarrass myself.”
“Not possible.”
I pull down his underwear, and he lifts his hips to help me get them off.
And then, there he is.
He watches me stare. He’s so familiar, but it’s like I remember him from a dream. I trace the shape of him. Wrap my fingers around the perfect thickness.
He always was perfect. In the past, I thought my inexperience had informed my opinion, but now I’ve had other men, and none of them compare.
I was naive to think they would.
I lean down and brush my lips over the silky skin. He groans, and I know he won’t be able to endure much of this. Already, his abdominals are trembling.
I use my tongue, and he’s practically vibrating with restraint. When I take him in my mouth, I hardly have time to savor the sensation before he’s grunting and pulling me off.
“God … no. No, no, no, no.” He clenches his jaw and moans as he comes all over his stomach and chest. I watch in fascination. Was there always this much? Or is this what extreme sexual frustration looks like?
Good God.
When he finishes, he draws in sharp, shallow breaths and covers his face. “Fuck, Cassie. I’m so sorry.”
I pull his hands away and kiss him. “Don’t be. That was … impressive. Like a special effect. Can we do it again?”
He chuckles as I grab tissues from his nightstand. “You’re asking permission to make me come like that again? Hmmm, let me think.”
Even as I wipe him down, he reacts and swells proudly before my eyes. “Well, I was just being polite. Lord knows you get annoyed when I orgasm you against your will.”
“One time. And only then because I was embarrassed. The orgasm itself was still mind-blowing.”
“As mind-blowing as the one you just had?”
“No. I don’t think anything’s going to top that. Ever.”
I crawl up his body and kiss him. “I take that as a challenge.”
Now I see a little fear. “God, help me.”
We kiss and touch each other with more confidence, and even though we’ve already taken the edge off our lust, it flares again. It speeds our hands and roughens our touches. Our mouths are gentle, but everything else is heavy with need. Urging us to take the last step in cementing our reconnection.
This is the part that makes me nervous. I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anyone, but if I’m going to freak-out, it will be when he’s inside me.
The pain of him making love to me before he leaves is singed into the parts of my memory that still ache to recall it.
Of course, he’s going to leave this time as well, but he intends to come back. Promises me he will. Caresses me in such a way that I believe if he doesn’t, he’ll suffocate. That I’m his oxygen.
I will away my anxiety and concentrate on him. It’s easy enough. He’s extremely talented at distracting me.
When he rolls on top of me and works magic with his fingers, my patience is at an all-time low. There’s a sharp ache that won’t be satisfied with fingers or empty climaxes. It demands him. All of him. I tell him as much, and he fumbles in his nightstand drawer for a condom. When he presses back onto his knees so he can roll it on, I kiss his chest. Stroke his shoulders. I can’t seem to stop touching him.