I tugged my bra off and slipped out of my pants. “Seems only fair I go first since I’ve seen you naked already.”
“I was wearing a privacy sock,” he said, smiling.
He looked gorgeous. Watching him come had made me feel more feminine and powerful than I thought I could. Part of me had worried that wanting to make a man come would make me less of a modern woman somehow. As if my desperation to see his pleasure would somehow put mine second. But I didn’t feel second. Not only had I come first, but bringing him apart had made me feel more in my power.
It didn’t hurt that Pace currently looked at my naked body with that intense, dark gaze.
“I didn’t know they could stay that hard when they just uh, finished,” I said, biting my lip and gesturing to him.
“It’s you. We’ve been wanting this for a very long time.” My heart beat harder, desperate to know just how long. But I was distracted as he drew a hand up to his head and pushed back the damp hair. His muscles flexed with the action. My eyes fought to find the best place to look, but every inch of him was incredible. “But maybe, don’t expect this every time.”
Every time?
I bit my tongue to keep from asking. How many more times was he planning?
He pulled his gray sweatpants down and stepped out of them. He lifted his shirt and tugged it over his head, tossing the clothes into a hamper.
There he was. My beautiful, sensitive, thoughtful man, in all his glory.
I had seen much of him many times, but this time it felt different. In this safe space, it was just us and our intimacy, and for the first time, his nudity felt like vulnerability, not a superficial armor.
I swallowed down the sudden emotion that gripped me.
When he stepped forward and slowly brought me into his arms, I felt base with desire and completely raw. We were a man and a woman, naked and embracing, hot skin against hot skin. Soft against hard. Sweet and tender. Raw and ragged. No masks, no clothes, just us.
I loved the way my hard nipples rubbed against his chest, and the heavy, hot length of him against my lower belly. His hands moved into my hair, threading in sensitive strands and gently tipping my head back. He kissed me until I was weak, knees trembling. I held him to me. I held myself up by him. We were connected in a way I didn’t think possible.
He tilted my head back to lavish my neck and shoulders with kisses. He played with my breasts again. He moved behind me, lifted the hair off my neck to run his mouth against the shoulders that had so long carried all the weight of my anxiety. Now I was light as air and yet heavy with desire again.
I arched back against him, my nipples jutting out on full display, making me feel more like a goddess as his hand moved across my stomach, crept lower, slowly so I had time to stop him if I wanted.
“Is this okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” I whispered.
I reached for him, held his head, and he peppered little kisses at my hairline, neck, and earlobe, gentle reminders of his adoring tenderness. His hand lowered to tease me again. Just the tip of one finger at first, then the next, slowly inserting it,taking his time to swirl the liquid heat, to feel me grabbing back for him. He moved them deeper, our bodies finding a rhythm again, obscenely wet sounding in the quiet room as his fingers pumped in and out of me. So vulgar. So dirty. I was growing wetter by the second.
“Pace,” I gasped.
But he was miles away with his focus, his hard body tense as a bow as he brought pleasure to me. “Can I make you come like this?”
“I don’t know if I can when standing. I’ll be too worried about falling,” I admitted.
“I can carry you,” he said, like he’d done before, and it was like I had manifested this exact moment. “But actually. I have an idea of what I want to do first.”
Again, I was repositioned without any effort on my end. Before I knew it, I was sprawled back on the bed with him on top of me. His length hard on my hip.
I was ready to feel him inside me. I clenched around air, desperate to be filled, but he wasn’t there for long. He began to kiss down my waist. Actually, that wasn’t enough of a description for what he was doing. He was making out with my body. His tongue teased and tasted, and at first, I felt like I was a sweet treat he was testing.
But as he moved, I grew more tense, not relaxed. Lower, he gently kissed the bones of my hips, my pelvis muscles tightening, a growing sense of worry. He moaned in pure pleasure when the tip of his tongue pressed hard against me.
“Mmm.” He licked again.
By this point, I was so stiff, he must have sensed my mood shift, because he paused to balance on his elbows and check on me. It was the picture of delicious sin to have him look up at me, lips wet from lavishing tongue kisses and cheeks red with exertion.
“Are you okay? Is this okay?” he asked and dipped to nuzzle my core briefly, like a puppy pushing a toy with its nose.
He’d been so honest with his lack of experience. I could be too. “I don’t know if I-I like that. I know a lot of women do, but in the past, I’ve found it too overstimulating and also maybe a little unpleasant.” I sat up on my elbows, seeing my breasts flatten and fall to the side. I wasn’t feeling like the sexy goddess anymore. I was starting to feel like my old, broken self. How had I become once again shackled to my mind? I had hoped that when we started going, with him, I would be cured.
