“Like that?”
“Yes. Just slide on it. Like that.” Her hand at the back of his head, the other’s nails biting into his arm. Her voice got thinner, with no breath behind it. A click in her throat as she swallowed. Her forehead down on his shoulder. “That’s gonna make me come.” The words fell apart in her mouth.
“Come, Dais. Come for me.” His mouth caressing her breast, one hand flat on the small of her back, the other sliding into her, sliding along her. Transfixed he felt it rise up and bring her around. Her hips bucked against his hand, sending a rolling motion through her ribcage. First her shoulders, then her head flew back, taking the wave of her hair with it, and she came. No noise, just a keening rush of air through her throat. Her chin dropped down, and as it did, her teeth chattered. That sound was an arrow to the core of his maleness. It hijacked his breath, thoroughly did him in.
I made her teeth chatter.
He was holding her up by then, holding her carefully in his hands, running his lips along her face, holding her as her body quieted and her breathing slowed. He kissed her, craving the taste of her mouth and how it felt in his. Slowly he felt her getting her feet back, and her hands on him grew heavier and intentional.
It was his turn.
That first night, it took some effort for him to convert to a passive mentality, to take his hands off her and not engage. To scale the walls of vulnerability instead of taking refuge behind them. He stood still. Tried to expand instead of contract under her touch. He was utterly exposed with no way to divert the attention or diffuse it by adding his own actions. It wasn’t his home base. But he let her at him. He breathed through it as her fingers unbuttoned his shirt, opening his skin to the Christmas light. He breathed as her lips nudged his apart and her fingers trailed down his chest and stomach. He kept still and slowly he came out the other side into a new place of electric arousal, his entire body taut and coiled and wanting.
Her mouth drew long silken lines up and down his neck. Her fingernails in his chest hair. The tightening and release of his belt, the metallic whisper of the zipper on his jeans. She pushed them down, helped him out as he had for her. Then he was naked in front of her and he was hard, so hard in her warm, eager hands. A moan escaped his chest, knuckles tightening white on the desk top. “Dais.”
“Let me,” she whispered.
He let her. And she got him. She was good at him. As nights gathered into weeks, she made both his teeth chatter and his toes curl. She could make him come like a freight train, or come in slow motion. Climax laced with emotional intensity made him lose his mind, and in the divine insanity, he became expressively fearless. Verbally uninhibited. Things he had never imagined saying to a girl came tumbling forth unchecked.
“I want to kiss you until I die.” Which was the truth.
“Your mouth feels amazing.” She was going down on him, the warm wet of her tongue and throat advancing and reatreating like the tide, her head dipping and bobbing under his hand. The words floated out of him into the dark and her response was a fiercely pleased sigh from deep in her chest.
“I love watching you come.” Another one—in his head and right out his mouth. She took his hand, slid it due south down her stomach, her hips yearning up and her knees swooning open, and she whispered, “Do it again.”