Page 53 of Midlife Crisis

“Why?” His fingers still. Curiosity fills his voice.

“I can’t imagine why she would say no to you, Hank.”

“I wasn’t good.” He exhales, rubbing his hands down my shoulders.

“You’re perfect,” I quietly murmur. A brief kiss lands on my neck before he scoops the single braid to the side.

“You need to lie down again.” He’s gentle in his direction, swinging his leg around me, and I tip to my side. He climbs up behind me, stifling a yawn, and I roll to face him.

“Why’d you quit drinking? Was it because of her?”

He closes his eyes and rubs down his face, stroking at his stubbled chin. The beard has grown a bit thicker since yesterday.

“I almost killed a kid. I almost took from some family their boy when I hadn’t ever had one. The emptiness I knew they’d feel just snapped me out of it, so I went to rehab. Did the twelve steps, but sometimes, the meetings made me want to drink again. The sob stories. The heartbreak. I had to just make a clean break for myself, and that’s how I lost touch with the band. I couldn’t be around the lifestyle anymore.” He rolled his head to look at me. “But the band was already done. Kit was dead, and we were over.”

I stare at liquid silver filled with pain. I sit up and remove my robe. His gray eyes narrow at me.

“Middy, whatcha doing?”

“I want to curl into you.” My voice is low, hesitant as I reach for his t-shirt, wondering where his flannel went, and tug it off him. The shirt hardly left much to the imagination, but in broad daylight, his naked chest is a masterpiece. Symbols and swirls, colors and calligraphy cover a good portion of his upper body and down each arm. I push at him to lie back and return to my side. He shifts, so I tuck into his chest, his arms wrapping over me.

+ + +

“Feels nice.” I’m dreaming, and I purr as Hank suckles me. My tank top presses upward. My hips rock as he draws me deeper, lapping over the nipple before enveloping the achy globe into his warm mouth. “Like that.”

My hand finds his head, scratching lightly at his short hair as I separate my knees. My other hand cups my neglected breast before skimming down my stomach, heading for the promise land. I’m almost there, wondering if an orgasm is a possibility in my dream, when I feel fingers engulf my wrist, and my eyes flutter open. My hand stills on Hank’s head. His head which is literally in my hand.

I don’t need to glance down to know where his face rests. And the noise coming from his mouth warns me he isn’t stopping. He nips my nipple before heading for the other breast.

“Hank.” My voice squeaks. He still grips my wrist at my waist.

“You’re all sprawled out, sexy and pliant, moaning in some dream. How could I resist you?” He looks up at me, his tongue dragging around my nipple before he blows on the warm wetness, pinching me more erect with the cool stream of his breath. My sex clenches, and my fingers twitch. He looks down at my hand and then back up at me. “Where were you going, little lady?” he teases, his voice low, smoky, gravelly.

“Let me see,” he commands, rolling back to his side, propping up on one elbow. His lazy finger traces around my breast, begging to be massaged again. When I don’t move my hand, he tugs at my wrist, dragging it to the waistband of my underwear. “Let me see, wild thing.” The smooth tenor of his voice guides me like he did the night in the tub. I close my eyes and lower my fingers, finding the nub, hot, pulsing and ready.

“Fuck, that’s hot, baby,” he moans beside me before slipping his finger next to mine.

“I like it better when you do it,” I admit, and his mouth returns to my breast, sucking as his finger dives into me. I’m one ball of sensory overload, and within minutes, I’m writhing under his eager fingers and holding his head to keep his mouth latched onto me.

“Hank,” I warn. I can’t speak. I arch off the bed, my knees coming together to hold his hand between my thighs. He pulls back to watch as I ride the wave, moaning and mewing with a long, languid release. My arms fall to the sides as I look up at him. He slides up and scoots off the bed, quickly removing his jeans and boxers. He tugs my ankles apart and crawls over me. Holding himself, he drags the head through wet folds, ripe and anxious for him.

“I shouldn’t have come inside you last week without protection. I’m clean, totally clean, but it was a bit irresponsible of me. You’re still young enough to get pregnant.”

Sweet cheese, I don’t want to think about such things.

“But I liked watching me connecting with you, little lady. It’s quite the turn-on.” I take the risk to watch what he’s doing to me, spreading and seeping along my slit. It’s a bit intoxicating, and the scandal of doing it in broad daylight causes me to clench. I want him inside me.

He pulls back and reaches for the back pocket of his jeans. I watch as he rolls on the condom, stretching over his solid length. In the sunlight, I see for the first time how truly large he is. My mouth almost waters with the excitement that that is going to fill me. He’s gentle as he presses inward, watching as he disappears within me. As he balances on two hands over me, he groans once he’s as far as he can go. He slips a hand under my backside and pivots, rolling onto his back and forcing me to straddle him.

Staring up at my breasts, he begins to fondle them, massaging and squeezing, forcing them together.

“You have the best tits.” The compliment seems brazen in the sunshine, yet a bit of exhibitionist in me doesn’t care. I’m so lost in the movement of rocking over him, the angle somehow deeper with me above him. I gain a steady rhythm, my breath catching as our pace quickens. My fingers slip down my belly, touching the pleasure point to add to the friction. I feel something building, like a volcano forming inside me, rumbling, cresting, boiling.

“Hank,” I scream as I clutch at his hips with my knees and hammer over him, milking him into me while I come a second time. I don’t know how he does this to me. I’ve never come twice in my life, but with him, I just want to keep going, and it drags on and on and on. I’m just barely slowing down when Hank sits up, wraps an arm around my waist, and spins us again.

He’s over me, sliding his hands up my stomach and over my breasts before jumping to my hands and raising them above my head. Entwining our fingers, he holds me pinned to the bed, thrusting into me so deep, so hard, my breasts jiggle and the bed quakes.

“Goddamn, I…” His voice fades, but in my head, I complete the phrase. I love you. How difficult would the words be to say? How much meaning would they hold? A tear drips from my eye. What can I say, I guess I’m a crier.