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"I barely noticed," I admitted, squinting a bit at the garishness of it all.
"I'm bringing sheets next time," he declared, dropping his ass down on my bed with me still straddling him.
Next time.
That didn't exactly escape me.
It was my last real remaining worry.
The idea of a one-night-stand. In getting attached because he was the first man who had put hands on me in a decade, because he gave my body what it needed. And then having him want nothing to do with me once he got a taste.
"And maybe sunglasses," he added, hands squeezing my ass playfully.
Feeling oddly charmed by the lightness, the familiarity of the moment, I felt oddly emboldened, planting my hands on his chest for balance as I slid off his lap, dropping down onto my knees between his spread legs.
My gaze found his as my hands planted on his thighs, slowly moved upward, finding the button of his pants, then the zip, working them free, watching as his eyes went hooded with need.
Taking a steadying breath, hoping that enthusiasm made up for a lack of experience, my hands reached for the tight boxer briefs beneath, slipping them down, freeing his cock, finding it every bit as intimidating as I figured it might be, but feeling nothing but a thrill inside as my hand closed around him, stroking him to the hilt before leaning forward, tracing my tongue around his head before closing my lips around him, sucking him into my mouth.
A hiss burst from him as I worked him as deep as I could, his hand slamming down on the back of my neck, holding me, but letting me set the pace, letting me find our rhythm.
His hand got tighter and tighter, crushing in, likely leaving bruises that would be hard to explain except for with the truth.
But before I could drive him through an orgasm like he had given me, his hand slipped into my hair, tugging, pulling back until his cock left my mouth with a little pop, making my eyes shoot upward, finding his jaw tense, his breathing ragged.
Close.
He had been so close.
But he wasn't going to let me have the satisfaction of giving a selfless orgasm. At least not this time.
"Stand up," he demanded, voice somehow soft, yet brooking no argument at the same time, making my legs curl under me and move upward without me seeming to give them the demand to do so.
His hands snagged my hem again, slowly dragging it upward, having to lift off the bed slightly to pull it over my shoulders, up my arms, over my head, tossing it to the ground behind me.
I was suddenly very aware of my lack of panties, at only my bra hiding a part of me from view.
His hands went behind my back, sliding upward, grabbing the clasps of my bra.
Insecurity was a sudden, almost forgotten thing. My body had been nothing but a vehicle for so long that the idea of someone else seeing, touching, judging it was foreign, but strong, visceral, an uncomfortable fist closing around my belly.
The clasp tightened, then released, the bra straps slipping down my arms.
"Come here," he demanded, grabbing my wrist, pulling me forward. Sensing my hesitation, or simply wanting me closer, I wasn't sure. But he pulled me back onto his lap, his hand discarding my bra before, unexpectedly, his arms raised to his sides, inviting me to free him to my view.
Greediness overtook me, crushing down my insecurity with curiosity.
My hands slid down his sides, already feeling the muscles beneath, moving down to slip inward, find his bottom button, working my way slowly upward, eating up the view of each sliver of skin as it got exposed until there was a gap all the way up. I planted my hands at his shoulders, pushing the material wide to slide down his arms.
I knew, of course, that he was well-built.
But knowing it and seeing it were two very different things.
His skin pulled tight over muscles you could sink a finger between. He wasn't flawless. Pink and off-white scars marred his chest, his arms. There was one particularly long, deep one that seemed to go straight up his stomach. But somehow, I found the flaws all the more attractive, little testaments to the life he had lived, the experiences that had shaped him into the man he grew to be.
My finger moved to trace down the largest scar.
"Knife," he declared quietly as I watched in fascination as his muscles contracted under my touch.
"Ouch."
"Mmhm," he agreed, his hand moving up my side, sliding over my ribs carefully - so, it seemed, as not to tickle me, then moving inward, covering my admittedly less than a handful breast, his thumb moving out to stroke over the hardened peak in a way that made all thoughts of things such as insecurity scramble out of my brain.
