Rafe pulls me to my feet and rubs a bar of jasmine-scented soap between his hands, working up a handful of bubbles that he proceeds to apply to my body in a painterly fashion, drawing patterns in the frothy lather. On my belly, he draws a heart and writes, “Rafe + Kenna 4Ever,” and then he kisses my belly button and offers to wash my hair.
Once we are both rinsed and wrapped in towels, Rafe carries me back to the bed and pulls back the duvet. We tumble in together, tossing the damp towels to the floor.
“Rafe,” I say, “I think I’m hungry again.”
“For dessert?” He strokes my bottom as I rock on top of him. “Do you want me to go get our dessert?”
“No,” I say, teasing his earlobe with my tongue. “I’m hungry for you.”
With this taunt, he flips me on my back and reaches for a condom in the nightstand.
“I’ll show you what hungry is,” he says, tearing the package open with his teeth.
“You look like you’re pretty well fed to me.” I raise an eyebrow at him, still impressed at the near perfection of him. His long, athletic limbs, his sooty eyelashes, his smooth, taut skin, and his incredible, muscular ass. I clench it. I need to feel these toned muscles moving, working under my hands as he thrusts.
“Help me with this?” He hands me the condom to roll onto him, which I do happily, but not before I’ve dropped a kiss on the underside of his manhood, near the tip.
“That sort of thing is not going to help me savor this,” Rafe says. “And I want to savor it. I don’t want to gobble you up just yet.”
Savor away.I am savoring him. Even after being washed, his skin tastes of him, his own unique scent and flavor.
“I am starving, Kenna. Starving for you.”
My body is thrumming, and burning, making me dizzy with wanting him. The orgasm in the shower was great. But hollow. I need to feel him inside of me. Even if this is only a one-night stand. I arch and writhe, pushing my hips toward him as if I mean to impale myself on his rock hardness. I do mean to.I need to.
“You’ve messed with my head, Kenna.” Rafe shifts, rocking deeper into me, touching places that have never been touched before. Pleasure tension rockets to those places, raising the stakes for the orgasm that I know is waiting in the wings. I just hope it can wait for its cue.
“I have?” I gasp. He thrusts again. And again. And a third time, establishing a slow, steady beat like a drummer.
“Yes,” he nods.
Thrust, thrust, thrust.The strokes are long, smooth, and confident. I settle into my own rhythm just as quickly, lifting my hips to meet him, tightening around him as if to hold him there longer, when he pulls away.
“But I’m not afraid of doing a little deep work.”
He thrusts extra hard, extra deep with this proclamation, and I grip him, wrapping my legs, rolling my hips, needing this sense of fullness. But I cannot hold him there. He starts to move again, and this time, I know I am not going to last much longer. Sparkling bits of pleasure are starting to rain all around me, like the fireworks blooming in the sky outside our window.
“Your so fucking hot, Kenna,” Rafe breathes in my ear. “But more than that, you’re so kind,”stroke, “so funny,”stroke, “so talented,”stroke, “so perfect.” Rafe drives deep, deeper into my core, with one last powerful thrust that has us both disintegrating.
Afterward, I lie there, floating like a still-smoldering cinder on an updraft, as I watch Rafe sleep. He reaches for me, pulling me closer, and I fit myself against him, trying not to see the clock on the nightstand. Trying not to calculate the seconds till dawn, when I know I’ll have to leave.
lorelei
“CanI help you clean anything else up?” I ask Noah, after the tech crew and other players finally leave. We’re standing in his kitchen, putting away leftovers, and I can tell all the trips up and down the stairs have been hard on his still-healing leg. The session went later than planned and got so emotional. I feel the exact same way I feel after a good improv class or therapy session. Wrung out. Wiped clean.
Also horny.
“That’s okay.” Noah shakes his head and snaps the lid on a Tupperware container. “We got all of the food and garbage. I like to leave the scene as it was for when we pick it back up next time. You were awesome, by the way.”
“Was I? Really?” I find myself blushing. I am having such a hard time seeing Noah in the same light after witnessing him in his element during the session. It’s a real Superman/Clark Kent situation, and nobody else in Ephron knows about it besides me. Does that make me Lois Lane? She does have good hair.
“Sorry to stick you with Dorcas, the orc,” Noah says. “But holy shit, Kenna, the socials are blowing up. I almost can’t believe that in one week, you’ve made her a fan fave.” He pulls up the show’s account on the phone and scrolls through page after page of positive comments.
I feel seen.
Normalize imperfection.
Dorcas, where have you been all my life?
