She watched his hands trail across her stomach, the arch of her back stretching her to a tight instrument for him to play. Her skin was paler even than Seattle sunlight, and his hands looked dark and masterly as they spanned her abdomen, then traced her waistband. His little finger circled her navel.
No sudden moves from him, as if he feared spooking her, but she tilted deeper onto his shoulder and nothing could make herclose her eyes, not while she had the sight of him manipulating the button and zipper on her pants.
“You like. Watching.”
He had that right. She liked to observe, whether marine life or her computer or people, but this was the first time the innocent habit made her burn. She wanted to do more than watch. She wanted to jump, to dive into him and roll with him and grapple and fuck, yes, fuck. But all he did was slowly loosen her pants enough for his hand to slide across her panties. Cotton, plain black, but eroticized by the image of his fingers covering the fabric.
He was making her wait. After all these months, the nights with their phones, the times their hands or arms had brushed on this trip, he was still making her wait.
In the waiting she noticed her breathing. And his. They had reached tandem, both of their chests rising at the same moment, both letting out their breath when the other did, as if they had already become one.
“Off.” The command freed her.
She shimmied out of her slacks and kicked them far. He caught her frenzy and yanked her sweater until she twisted to remove her elbow from the sleeve. Not a graceful movie star helix-shaped strip-tease, but a rush with their eyes locked in the mirror, disconnected for the instant the knit pulled over her face, and then reconnected. His need fed hers, and her need soared to see the flushed cheeks and the shake in the hands that roamed her body. In the mirror the only dark spots left were her dangling bra and twisted panties, and her hair against his white shirt. Their silhouettes were tighter to each other, hers engulfed by his shoulders and arms as he curved around her and lifted his hands to cover her breasts.
Each sense doubled the other, racing from eye and skin to nerves and brain and multiplying until she couldn’t stand. Buthe could. He walked her close enough to the vanity that she braced her hands on its top. The bra disappeared, he whisked the panties to her knees and she kicked them away too. Then she was bare.
“Look,” he said.
The mirror was touching distance, like having two more people in the room. Her nipples were brown and pointed at their reflections. She watched his fingers pinch and roll them in a rhythm that tugged to her hips, felt each pluck as a need to undulate, to writhe and reach for more. Yes, she was naked, yes, he was man-handling her and driving her wild and yes, now his hand was between her legs. His fingers found her center, making her spine arch and her pelvis thrust at the same time, but no, it wasn’t enough.
He panted faster, and he bucked against her ass but he was still clothed. The rhythm of his hips and his fingers wasn’t completing her, wasn’t taking her there, the place she knew was there, so close.
If he wasn’t going to give it to her, she had to take it. She twisted to be face to face and gripped his zipper. His startled eyes were too near to focus while she assaulted his mouth. They moved together until the dresser edge dug into her butt, then he lifted her as she spread her legs and his fly. Their hands were on each other’s bodies. Everywhere was wet and wanting.
“Wait.” He fumbled for a moment with something square.
“Give it.” She sounded like him.
His shaft was thick and long. She wanted to run her hand over it, memorize the smooth skin as her thumb brushed the hair at its base, but she didn’t want to wait a second longer to be completed. The package ripped, and with the sheath they were more than ready.
He yanked her hips to the dresser’s edge. Then his tip pushed while he held her open and the first entry was as sweet asreaching the end of a race. He pushed deep and glided out until they crashed together again and again, faster each time. Now their bodies rocked so hard she bounced on the dresser, but their movements worked like one. His grunts and her moans were so loud she couldn’t separate them, but she didn’t need to categorize who shouted, who flew, who rose, who fragmented, because they both did, together.
“Oh, my.” The mirror was sticky against her shoulder blades, and she wouldn’t look at where she connected to Rey, but his pants scratched her inner thighs. She opened and closed her mouth, chest heaving, but with no idea what to say or do. She was naked, he was dressed, and they’d screwed themselves speechless on a wood veneer built-in.
His eyes gleamed wickedly close, but he didn’t disconnect.
“That was—” She noticed another way he wasn’t like other men. He had growled and stiffened and she’d swear he’d come in the condom, but he filled her enough that if she wanted to, there was still something to slide on. “Wow.”
“Yah, y’betcha.”
The imitation Dakota accent made her snort at the same time his easy fluidity startled her. “Holding out on me?”
“Must be endorphins.” His pause was shorter than usual. “Hot-wired neural pathways.”
She counted on her fingers. “Twelve syllables. And how the heck did you know that?”
“Had an A in Human Biology.” He let go of her hip, but only to move his hand to her breasts.
“Whaaaat?” Her question sounded too high and wispy to deserve an answer as she thrust her chest up and encouraged him to play with her nipples.
“I’m a high speed medic.” He complied with her unspoken orders by wetting his fingers in his mouth and then, after shelowered her chin to watch, he tweaked her nipple to a glistening point. “Know plenty about bodies.”
She arched into his fingers. “I refuse to believe my tax dollars trained you in this.”
“Better believe it, babe.”
“You sound—” She broke off because he’d started gliding again. Indeed, he was still hard. “Ohh.”
