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My knees hit the floor harder than I intended, and I wince, not from pain, but because they make a bang that seems to reverberate through the house. We both tense, then Feeney giggles and slaps a hand over her mouth. Reaching over, she grabs the pillow beside her and shoves it over her face. I’m glad she can laugh about this. At least that makes one of us. I guess it is kind of funny, and I suppose I am smiling too.
I plan on making up for all of this—all the awkwardness and tension. I want this like crazy, I really do, but it’s harder than I thought to just get back into it. And no, it’s not because my body doesn’t remember how. I imagine it’s a little bit like riding a bike. Just not naked. Ouch.
I wrap my hands around Feeney’s legs and tuck my hands under her hips, lifting her to me as I lower my face to her. The first taste of her is beyond heaven, sliding down my throat like the sweetest ambrosia, making my nerves fade. The tension drains out of me, and I’m not thinking about anything before this or tomorrow. I’m just here with her. I’m not even worried about the pain in my dick, the vibrations going through my thighs, or the trembling going on in my balls. Yes, balls can tremble. It’s physically possible.
I take my time savoring and exploring every part of her box, drawing out the pleasure.
Feeney moans and tucks the pillow back over her face.CHAPTER 19FeeneyI guess I shouldn’t have worried about the way Luke was looking at me. I didn’t think it was weird or creepy, as I can’t imagine this is easy for him. I thought the problem was in his head. I didn’t imagine it was located…uh…much lower than that. I could tell he was embarrassed, but he seems to have gotten over it. Or maybe he’s forging through. Either way…Oh. My. Chicken. Nuggets.
I know I should probably keep the pillow over my face to drown out the whimpers and moans I can’t seem to swallow back, but I have to breathe. I tell myself that’s the reason I toss it aside, not because I’d rather be doing something else with my hands—something like tangling them in Luke’s thick, soft hair and tugging his face a little harder into me, guiding him and his tongue, both of which need no guiding at all, to just the right spot.
I think he’s hitting all my spots. I don’t think there is a right one because they all feel so deliciously wonderful.
His tongue is very, very talented. He takes his time, driving me wild before his fingers get involved. I think I’d be pretty embarrassed if someone else were doing this—exploring me like this, opening me to them, and tasting all my secret places—but not with Luke. With Luke, I’m not embarrassed. Currently, I’m not doing anything but melting into the bed in a writhing, whimpering, glorious heap of ecstasy.
I feel better about Luke telling me about his problem because I’d feel that, with my body beginning to quake and tremble, my feet and legs getting numb, and other spots throbbing with liquid fire, it’s too fast, too soon, and embarrassingly quick. As in, he might have only been doing what he’s been doing for two minutes, tops. When my climax hits, it’s completely unexpected, but it’s also white-hot and brutally wonderful.
I instinctively grab the pillow and smother the cries that I can’t keep locked away. I promised I wouldn’t make a sound, so the feathers inside the pillow help me make good on it. My brain goes on hiatus, my body short-circuits, and the waves of pleasure rock through me. I temporarily check out, or maybe that’s me just about blacking out because I have a noseful and mouthful of the pillow.
I finally remember to breathe, and I can feel myself coming back down, coming back from wherever the heck I just checked out and vanished to.
“Holy. Epic. Chicken. Nuggets,” I pant out in little broken whisper.
Luke grins shyly at me, and he gets even shyer when I mumble something about him getting his rock hard, beautifully toned, and wondrously sculpted bootie up on the bed so that I can return the favor.
“I…that’s going to have to wait for another time,” he says, and it’s adorable that he’s blushing.
Another time. Meaning, we can do this again. Maybe not just tonight—maybe tomorrow, the night after, or regularly. I guess we kind of talked about that, sort of. Yes, yes, we did. I guess my brain just isn’t functioning properly. A wicked thrill goes through me—or maybe it’s more aftershocks from the best orgasm I’ve ever had—at the thought of there being a next time. I don’t feel sketchy or sneaky or weird about it. Instead, I feel like it’s…I don’t know. I’d hate to use the word natural because I’m sure that’s not right, and neither is right for that matter, but it does. And I’m excited for there to be a next time.
