“I have never wanted to be inside anyone as badly as I do you right now,” he says, his hands bracketing my hips.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes please.”
“Hang onto me,” he orders, placing my hands on his shoulders, while he lifts me, shifting us, his shaft is pressing inside me, stretching me, filling me, until I have all of him, and somehow never enough of him, our foreheads coming together.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I laugh. “I’m pretty okay right now.”
“Are you sure? Because I’m really fucking hard.”
The things he says, the way he is himself, no matter what, no matter when, has me giving another soft, choked laugh. “Is that supposed to be a bad thing?” I ask for the second time tonight.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
He doesn’t want to hurt me. “You aren’t hurting me, Kyle. You feel…”
He molds me to him, cupping the back of my head, breathing with me, when sometimes lately, I haven’t felt I could breathe at all. “How do I feel, Myla?” The way he says my name, like I matter, like he cares, stirs all kinds of crazy, emotional, feelings I don’t try to understand. I just let myself feel them and him. “How do I feel, Myla,” he repeats.
“Better than I thought anything ever would again.”
He kisses me then, or I kiss him. I really don’t know. We just kiss, if there is such a thing as “just kissing” a man like Kyle, who is so very overwhelmingly, perfectly male. And somewhere in the midst of that kiss, we shift our hips, moving just a little, testing out how we feel together. And we feel amazing. Really, really amazing. He presses me down against him and then thrusts. I gasp into his mouth. He swallows it with another kiss and the deep, drugging swipe of his tongue, cupping my breast as he does. And then we are doing this slow, sultry sway, body against body. Holding onto each other as we do, like we don’t want to let go. I don’t want to let go. I want more. And he wants more. It’s in the way we move, grind, drive, and thrust. This is the fast and hard. This is the urgency that has been building from what seems like the moment we met. And I don’t think about anything but him. I sit up. I ride him and I revel in the way his gaze strokes hotly over my breasts, my body.
“Fuck, Myla,” he murmurs, a groan in the depths of my name, his hand sliding between my shoulder blades, molding me closer, our heads together, a wet, sultry slide to the way we move that takes me right back to the edge.
“Kyle, I-” I spasm around him, and he makes this deep, guttural sound, followed by a hard thrust, and he is shaking with me, the warmth of his release filling me.
Seconds pass, and our bodies still, his easing against the cushion, mine against him. “Holy fuck, woman. You undo me.”
Again, he makes me want to laugh and smile, but that stupid bubble of emotion has returned, taking control. Tears actually form in my eyes, and I stay huddled against him, afraid I might really totally lose it. He must know, because his fingers flex at my back. “Myla,” he says, softly. “Sweetheart. Did I hurt you?”
“No,” I reply. “It was…it was….” I press my cheek to his, not even sure what to say, or how to say it. “It was really good, Kyle.” It’s not enough, but I can’t get to more right now.
“Can you look at me?”
“Not yet.”
He cups my head. “Okay. Then just lay there.”
That tenderness is what is my undoing. Tears slip down my cheeks and I must let out a sob, because he gives a low curse, and then settles me on my back, and there is no way to escape those green eyes of his, so knowing, and staring down at me. Nor is there any way to escape the trust I’ve put in him. And I think that is part of my reaction, and these damn tears. Have I trusted the wrong person? Will my confession get my sister killed? Have I let myself be vulnerable and exposed in the ways that count, the ways that have nothing to do with my body, and chosen wrong? I suddenly need space and to breathe.
“I need a towel,” I announce, and when he doesn’t react, I add urgency. “I need a towel, Kyle. I’m going to mess up the couch.”
“You’re crying,” he says, his thumbs wiping away my tears. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
“I’m okay. I’m better. I stopped.” I hope and I push for that space I need. “But the couch. I’m worried about the couch. What if we stain it and it’s noticed? I need a towel.”