Dark Wild Night

The soft, dark trail of hair pressing against my navel.

We aren’t having sex yet, but we are; penetration is a technicality at this point, and I feel in his gaze that he’s telling me something with every kiss, every slide of skin over skin.

He watches me in a way that feels like he’s seeing more than my face looking up at his or my breasts shifting with his movements. He’s seeing me. The heat of it makes me wild, like skin singed, blood simmering.

“I feel like we have forever to ‘savor,’?” I whine quietly. “I don’t—”

He reaches for the condom, putting it in my palm and kneeling between my legs. “I know.”

I tear it open, feeling it briefly to orient myself. I’m suddenly nervous and know my hands are a little fumbly, my fingers unpracticed at this. “It’s been a while since I did this.”

He smiles but says nothing, holding his breath as he watches me cover the head, anchor the condom with one hand, and roll it all the way down with the other. There’s a good couple of inches of him left uncovered and I feel the skin there, marveling until he leans forward, hands planted beside my head.

I can tell he wants to say something, but I also get the sense that it’s nearly too much to articulate without sounding trite or overly sentimental. It’s probably why I’m not saying much, either.

When he leans in, kissing me softly, he asks, “You want me like this?”

I assume he means on top of me again. “Yeah.”

His cock feels warmer than any other part of him, like fire barely contained. The feel of it in my hand makes everything inside turn liquid, makes my brain turn fuzzy. I close my eyes, bite my lip as I guide him in, shutting off some of my senses so I can process how he feels, the stretch of it when he shifts forward and into me. He’s shockingly hard where I am so soft and tender and it crosses wires in my body, makes me feel crazy, makes me wonder whether I could take him everywhere, where else he could possibly fit.

He exhales a low curse, pressing his mouth to the skin just below my ear. “Fuck,” he says again.

When I roll my hips under him, pulling him even deeper, he stops me with a rough hand on my hip. “Wait. I’m too—”

I still beneath him, except for the slow roaming of my palms up his back when he pushes himself up onto his hands. It’s the most surreal feeling, to feel joined to someone else like this. Not just rutting or moving together but actually connected.

With a slow exhale, he pulls back slightly and pushes in, groaning and giving in to the act as he starts to really move.

And I find I was wrong: slow and deep is just as perfect as Oliver’s frenzied fucking.

I’m amazed how he looks, moving over me. I’ve seen him from every angle a friend could see: standing side by side, seated across a table, in my car or his, on my floor while I’ve sketched him. I’ve even had my head in his lap looking up at him, and seen him roll out from beneath my car after he’s checked a suspicious leak. But I’ve never seen him like this. Naked, damp with sweat, with his hands propped beside my neck as he stares down the length of our bodies, watching himself. Arms flexed, lip snared between his teeth . . . enjoying just looking, feeling as he slides lazily forward and back.

I close my eyes, let out a tight choked breath, and his body snaps forward, so deep.

“Lola. Fuck. I . . .”

My hands find his hips, guiding him when he falters and I want him closer, want all of that skin on mine, sliding up and over and all around in me. One hand trails up his side, to his shoulder and around to his neck, pulling, urging him lower.

Oliver bends, his hair brushing my forehead. “I can’t. I can’t believe it. I can’t stop looking at you.”