I put the glass down with a delicateclinkon the tabletop. Her fork chimes beside it. She reaches under the table, ostensibly to take away the napkin and smooth her skirt, but God only knows what else she may be doing down there.
Neither of us needs to say, “Let’s go.” We’re already, wordlessly, going.
At one point her hand is in mine, squeezing like a schoolgirl’s, with fond and excited innocence. She pulls me, then I pull her, up the stairs and down the hall and through the door to our room.
We stop at the foot of the bed and turn to each other.When we kiss, she slurps my tongue like it’s on the half shell, taking it into her mouth with hunger as much as lust. As she sucks, the pull draws all the way down to my cunt.
By feel I find the zipper of her skirt and tug it down. She unbuttons my slacks and pulls them over the swell of my hips, then lets them plummet. I barely notice the breeze of their fall, caught up in opening her blouse and the front clip of her bra, in sliding my fingers between silk warmed from contact with her skin and her silken-soft breasts. Anything could happen to me without distracting from the discovery of sensations.
I pull my waistcoat off but keep my shirt on. My breasts knock around when they aren’t confined. It feels uncomfortable—maybe immodest. Right now I’m not interested. So when she tries to unfasten my collar, I catch her hands.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
Smiling, she draws free of my grasp, takes her fingers from before my throat, and puts them on my shoulders instead. She pushes, not hard, and at the invitation of the touch I fall back across our bed. The mattress giggles beneath my sudden weight, and the fresh-laundered sheets whisper as I lay out my arms and legs. My sex is pulsing, pounding, taut as a drum with arousal.
She kneels over me. As she spreads her legs, I take in the gloriously immodest sight—silk panties a little lighter than her skin, bordered by curls of black hair. I cup her through the cloth, rubbing, waving my fingers, and pushing with the heel of my palm until she wiggles with a soft moan.
Her hands trail from my shoulders. Briefly, they squeeze my breasts through bra and shirt, as if in revenge for what I’m doing to her pussy, then move lower as she blinks her eyes clear. Her hips rock, driving against my hand for a few light strokes, before she angles them away.
“How about…” Sex makes her voice groggy, so that shehas to try a few times to make herself audible. Frustration gets the best of her; at last she says it outright—“Want me to go down on you?”
Despite her impatience, the backs of her fingers trail gracefully, leisurely over my ribs. Through silk, the sensation is amazing, nearly hypnotic. I almost say no, content for this to last forever. But she’s got a look in her eyes that makes me say, “Oh, God, do I ever.”
She grins like I’ve promised her the world.
We spread my legs until I’m completely exposed below, although my top is still on. What an odd study in immodesty I would make. I wonder if she’s ever wanted to take a picture, but I’m too distracted to suggest it right now. The shirt is starting to stick to my breasts from sweat, while I feel soft cotton against my ass and thighs. And air everywhere else. Andher.
Her shoulders come under my knees, thin but a little padded by the blouse that hangs open on her body. Taking my weight, she sighs, a low, long sound of satisfaction and anticipation. She keeps her head up at first, watching my face as her fingers glide into me. I’m oyster slick—my body is demanding, drawing at her with seductive suction—but then she pulls back. I breathe out raggedly with disappointment.
When she kneels off the edge of the bed, I stop breathing. Of course, I should have trusted her.
Or maybe not.
She traces the very edges of my folds, outer and inner, with the tips of her thumbs. Now and then there’s a trailing rasp, a kiss of nail—neither pleasure nor pain, too keen and yet too gentle to be either. At any moment that could change, tipping to either side. Shecouldhurt me. I trust her enough to let her, to believe it would be worth it. And she could probably make me come if she changed the stroke just a little, made it firmer, made it hotter. But nothing could be sweeter than this slight, stingingcaress.
Poised between possibilities, I grow more excited, and so wet that I feel the trickle of it as she finally exposes me to air.
She peels my folds apart the way she opened the mussels. At the memory of her teeth skimming the iridescent inner shells, teasing out the tender morsels, a tremor runs along my thighs.
The first lap of her tongue is delicate, almost gentle. She runs from my clit back to press against my hole. Then again, and with each stroke she comes a little deeper. I feel her hot breath through her nose, and I know how close her teeth are. She doesn’t scrape with them—my body is too wet, her treatment of it too fluid, too careful. But the risk remains. I wait for it at any moment, the promise of rough, sharp friction.
Anticipation dances in my nerves, buzzes behind my clit. No doubt she feels it in how I start to thrust and grind against her. Her fingertips press into my thighs, trying to make me slower, more still, but neither of us is in enough control for that. I don’t care if I meet her teeth, I just need to be nearer, I just need to move.
Suddenly, with a sharp sigh, she pulls back. I make an apologetic, needy noise, and she smirks. Meeting my eyes, she runs a finger down my center, rubbing my clit in passing, circling and dipping into me. When she raises her hand, it glistens. She puts it to my mouth. I smell myself first—the musk of arousal, a tang of sweat. Then I part my lips, obediently, but I’m not just obeying her, I’m hungry for it.
My tongue lashes out and gathers my flavor. I’m startlingly salty, salty as tears, as the ocean, and as I swallow, I feel as much as taste an eye-watering pungent tartness. I suck her finger down until my lips touch her opal ring.
The ghost of modesty haunts me like a perfume I can’t sweat off. Suddenly I wonder if it’s perverse to do this, if I’m being a voyeur of my own body. Practicing some sort ofauto-cannibalism. The thought is both funny and filthy, and sometime, I need to share it with her. But not now.
She must be dying to taste more of me. I cock my hips, returning the smirk. Both her hands are on me again, gripping hard enough to bruise, and her mouth closes over my sex. This time she lets me roll with the rhythm of her lapping and swallowing.
Now that I know what my cunt smells and tastes like, I feel no compunction about fucking her face with it. We’re not fighting, struggling for dominance or any such thing—we’re just pushing. My folds against her lips and tongue. The flat sides of her teeth over my clit, her hands on my skin. Pushing as far as we can go, and then we’re there, and we settle. Not easing up but not trying to overcome our limits. I don’t make her choke on me, and she doesn’t bite me. But we play at it, a little.
It’s aggressive but lighthearted, it’s hard and getting faster, it’sblissfullike nothing else I’ve ever known. We reach the point at which I tip over, where lovemaking stops and my climax begins. Pleasure swells, its tremors passing deeper and deeper like a seismic wave.
I feel lopsided, but it takes several seconds to realize that she’s moved one hand from my hip to—I open my eyes, verifying my guess—her own groin. It only takes a minute of rubbing to bring herself off. She moans against me, a low sound that leaves both of us shivering.
As the afterquakes fade, I realize I’m slimy with sweat. Sighing, I unbutton my shirt and take it off. She finishes undressing the rest of the way and joins me on the bed. We’re both too muggy to embrace, but we turn, curving towards each other like halves of a mussel shell.
