Page 10 of Dearly Departed

That she wants me.

That she can’t let go of me.

That she doesn’t try to hide her pleasure in it.

Catherine moans, soft little humming things that rise and fall with the pressure of my tongue. I lick her everywhere. Explore the soft pink folds of her until she starts rocking her hips. That’s my cue to center my attention on her clit and tease it with the tip of my tongue until I earn her first orgasm, which is usually a smaller peak—she’s sensitive, and works her way into pleasure like she climbs into a swimming pool. One step at a time.

Her sounds get lower and more urgent as the aftershocks fade. Her thighs tremble on either side of my face while I lick and suck and stroke her up to a second peak. Every move she makes feels imprinted into my brain. Every flex of her ass under my hand. Every tense-release-tense of her thighs. Every dig of her heel into my back, just below my shoulder blade. Catherine pants when she’s about to come the second time, makes these high, desperate noises that almost drive me over the edge, grabs for my hair. She tilts her hips as she goes over, letting the sensation do what it will, and the moment is saturated with color and sound and time running out.

Does my hand on her hip make Catherine turn over, or do I find my hand on her hip because she turns over? I don’t know, and it doesn’t seem to matter once she hugs a pillow to her chest and arches her back.

When her pussy makes contact with the head of my cock, it punches a feral sound out of me. I drag my crown over her opening and lean down to kiss the spot between her shoulder blades. I’m never going to forget the delicate curve there, or the exact height of every ridge of her spine, or how her hair falls to one side. How the view changes as she breathes.

Catherine wriggles back onto me, and I drop my forehead to rest on her temple and push in slow. Her body is hot around mine, tight and wet and clenching. Sweet Jesus, sweet fucking holy Jesus, it would be better if I died right this second.

Only I’d have to stop opening her on my cock if I died right this second. I’d have to stop feeling her heat and the way she stretches open for me. I’d have to stop feeling her, and I can’t do that.

It’s a conundrum.

But not much of one, because I’m fully committed to the act now.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper into her ear. “I’m sorry, kitten.”

She lets out a little whine as I bottom out, then pull back and search for a rhythm. I can’t decide if I want to fuck her hard and fast or as slow as possible.

“Don’t be—sorry,” Catherine gasps on my first real thrust, one of my hands on her hip and the other threaded in her hair. “I’m—not—sorry. Nobody’s going to make me feel—sorry—on my wedding—my wedding night.”

Her fingers slide over my cock. Now I have to fuck her slow so she can feel what I’m doing. Is she trying to memorize this, too? Is she trying to disconnect herself from the plane and the pilot and the bleak unknown at the end of the flight?

Catherine spreads her fingers and then they’re gone. Her balance shifts, her hand still underneath her, and then her pussy contracts, contracts again, fuck, she’s getting herself off. She moans out an orgasm into the pillows all around me.

It has to last.

This has to last.

I slow down as much as I can and drag my fingers over hers so I can move her hand out of the way. There’s me. There’s her. The wet boundary where we’re joined together takes my breath away. I think about cold showers and waking up hungover and pain, just—pain—and manage to stop myself from filling her up.

Catherine reaches back for one of her cheeks, and I hold my breath. She spreads herself open that much farther and I rock into her⁠—

There.

Fuck.

There.

Look at that.

The plane’s bedroom has a bedside table, and I fumble for the drawer. I can’t take my eyes off where my cock slides into Catherine. She’s so pink, so wet, so tight, practically pulling me in when her muscles clench. I put my other hand over hers to balance myself. My hand looks huge in comparison. Catherine whines again, arching her back that much more, and my fingers close around a bottle of lube.

She makes a questioning sound when it lands at the very top of her crease, then lets out a lower moan when I circle the pad of my thumb through the clear, glistening slick and tease it lower.

“Oh, God.” Her voice is soft, blending with the rush of the wind. All of her is soft. I lean down over her, pushing myself as deep as I can, working my hand between us, and kiss her temple.

“I don’t have to touch you here, kitten. We can leave it for later.”

Catherine shakes her head. “Don’t leave anything for later. Do it now. I want to do it now.”

I’m only a man who’s in love with her. There’s no chance I’ll deny her. Not now.