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I lean in too and brush my lips over her perfect, petal-soft, lush mouth. She gasps again. I inhale her breath and drink in her sweet scent, beautiful even after a day in the hot sun. I run my tongue over her bottom lip, tasting her, tasting all that sweetness. The fingers of her one hand curl into my shoulder, not painfully. No nails. It’s like she’s holding on, not grasping but steadying.
I know we need to think about this, to think about all the consequences, but my gray matter brain is refusing to function, and the D-brain is taking over.
“Adam,” Steph whimpers against my lips.
It drives me insane—the sound of her saying my name like that with so much need, so much meaning, and so much emotion. Her lips part, and this time, when I brush mine over hers, she responds, furiously. She opens up to me and tilts her chin. She’s eager, on fire. Her tongue sweeps over my lips but darts back into her mouth. She whimpers into my mouth and arches into me. She stands on her tiptoes and wraps her arms around my neck.
The towel is long gone. It must have fallen from her hands a long time ago, and I only realized it now. She pulls me closer, her hands firm but gentle, and I cup her face the same way. Longing. There is so much longing in the kiss. The kiss that’s so powerful, so full of fire, so warm, it could power a household for an entire year. If kiss-generated electricity was a thing, that is.
Socks.
Socks make sense to me. I know all about socks. Hundreds of different kinds of socks. Socks for every day of the year. For every activity imaginable and for every age. Socks are what I do. They’re a part of me in so many ways.
Her kisses and touch are like socks. Warm, comforting. A barrier between us and the rest of the world. Protective, beautiful, and soothing.
Her body is also like socks—a perfect fit. Just right. Like she was designed just for me.
The kiss changes. It deepens and becomes even more frantic and furious, peppered with whimpers and groans though I’m not sure which ones are coming from me and which ones are Steph’s. I kiss her like I’ve been waiting to do this for years, and maybe I have.
I know all about Steph. I know what she does for me, and I truly appreciate her. I just never realized I might feel something for her. That I might have felt something for her for a long time. I never thought that with her kindness, her words, and her care, she was the one who healed me, who slowly nurtured me back into living, who picked up the terribly shattered pieces of my life and glued them all neatly back into place.
I just didn’t realize she was doing that. That while she was making sure my house was cleaned, and I had fresh clothes to wear, good food to eat, all my meetings booked, my travel handled, all of it, she was actually working on something else entirely—my heart.
Steph’s kisses become more and more frantic, and suddenly, we’re moving. I’m moving us. I’m backing us up, down the hall, and toward the bedroom. She’s coming with me, clawing at her clothes, undoing buttons and zippers.
When we reach the bedroom, my hands join hers and send her tank top flying. She rips her shorts off, and I unhook her bra. It’s dark in here, too dark. I wish it were lighter because I’d like to see all of her and appreciate every single bit. Her panties are still on, and I’m not sure how far she wants to take things, so I drop my head to one pert breast and suckle her nipple into my mouth, keeping my hands at her hips instead of touching her lower like I want to.
She whimpers and arches her chest, thrusting her nipple into my mouth. When my tongue rolls over the pert bud, she rocks against me, her hips thrusting straight into my aching dick. I swear I see stars—just as many stars as when I hit my head on the rock.
“Adam,” she moans. Her hands rake through my hair, tugging my head up. “Touch me. Touch me everywhere.”
“Okay.” It’s lame, and I know I should do better, but I can’t think of a single thing to say, so instead, I lower her to the bed.
I stretch out over her, spreading her legs that she’s already parting with one knee. When I lower myself down, I’m careful not to crush her. She squirms eagerly against my knee, and her panties did little to hide how wet she is, or how hot. She grinds against my legs and whimpers. My dick appreciates her eagerness very much, but I’m not letting the fucker off that easy.
This is not a once and done. This is not…well, I don’t exactly know what this is, but I know I don’t just want to spend five minutes with Steph (who am I kidding, it would be more like five seconds) and have it all be over.
Her nails dig into my shoulder, bringing me back and driving me forward. I kiss her until I can’t breathe, then I break away to pay homage to the sweet porcelain skin of her neck. I kiss her and taste her—all of it. The saltiness of her sweat, the earthier tastes of the dried spray from the lake, the wind and the sun, and the elemental richness that is all her.
I kiss her breasts, swirling my tongue over her nipple without taking it into my mouth. I scrape my teeth over one bud, and she jerks violently.
“God, Adam,” she hisses. She drags her hands through my hair, raking her nails against my scalp.
I kiss her flat stomach, running my tongue over the slight edge of her pelvic bones, lapping at the flat center between. She has abs. And not because she’s built like celery, as she told me people used to say, but because she is healthy. She’s petite and small but still curvy. She’s beautiful and womanly in her own way. Sensual, sweet. I love that she’s small. I love her breasts. I love her dark, pert nipples. I love the slope down to her hips, that gentle curve. And I even love her plain black panties. It’s sporty like the bra that I tore away.
She’s perfect. I want to find all those guys who called her a celery, all those doctors who asked her rude questions, every single person who has ever made her feel less than absolutely perfect and give them a nice warm pair of socks. Yes, socks. A, it would be making me money, which seems entirely ironic, and B, maybe they need a nice pair of socks. If you’re wearing a nice pair of socks—ones that are comfortable, warm, and feels like a hug—then it’s hard to be an asshole. Clearly, they needed socks.
I brush my fingers over her panties. They’re warm and soaked. The rich scent of arousal swims through the air, and when it reaches me, I see stars again. My cock throbs while my balls feel heavy and painful. I want this. I want Steph.
“Yes,” she whispers as if she knows what I’m thinking. That’s probably obvious, even in the dark. “Please, Adam.”
She lifts her hips and tugs her panties off, giving me permission. I help her, sliding them down her thighs gently, not tearing them off like a crazed animal. Even though it’s dark, I can see that Steph is smooth, wet, and glistening.
Socks. Socks are calming. I need to think about socks—the next pattern, the next color, and the next cutting-edge kind we could develop. I need to calm down.
But seriously, no amount of socks is going to help me. Not when I want to taste Steph. Not when I want to have my tongue there, between her legs. Not when I want her writhing and bucking against me, screaming my name.
