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I stalk over and pull her into my arms. I want to give her a punishing kiss that turns us both weak kneed, but instead I hold myself back and kiss her slowly, tasting her bottom lip with the sweep of my tongue, suckling it into my mouth and kneading it with my teeth gently, until it’s red and ripe as a raspberry. I glide my tongue along hers, tasting her sweetness, sighing in my throat, swallowing down her whimpers like a heady wine. I drink in her oxygen when she breathes, and this is mouth to mouth done right. Not that I’ve ever done it wrong. I’ve never had to do that period, thank freaking goodness.
While she’s kissing me, Leandra’s hands glide under my shirt, pushing and tugging at it. I remember how she grabbed the one I was wearing that first night we were together. I was still finding errant buttons in my room days after the fact. It makes me smile now, that memory. She’s gentle now, undoing every single button and tugging it free from its hole like every movement is a studied work of art.
After she peels my shirt away, she leans up against me, her sweet, sultry, soft curves melting against my hardness, a fit that is more perfect than, well, than any other fit I’ve ever found. I pull her to me, pressing her against the length of my body, and even though our skin is touching, it’s not close enough. She wriggles against me, fuelling the smoking need coursing through me like gasoline to my erm- engine. Her hands work at my jeans. The just movement of those lithe digits has me harder than bloody mountains- the unscalable kind.
As soon as my jeans are off, I step out of them and peel off my socks while I’m down there. It’s am embarrassing thing, taking off one’s socks. I remember thinking that the first night we met, and now the lights are on, but Leandra’s eyes sparkle as she watches me do it, like somehow a man in boxers and socks is the sexiest thing she’s ever seen. I know it can’t be true, because she has to have seen herself in the mirror more than a few times in her lifetime, but I’m flattered nonetheless.
Her hand reaches out as she melds herself to me again. She cups me through my boxers, which my Mr. Happy really likes. He’s totally on board with this plan, and when Leandra backs us up to the bed, he’s giving two shouts and a happy dance. Her hand is like magic, her touch making me even harder than mountains or whatever else I had just compared myself to. I’m not sure what’s harder or higher or more intimidating than mountains, but I’m that. I’m that impossibly hard object that’s impossible to shatter, and still, with every stroke above my boxers, every caress which isn’t even on my skin, I’m that much harder.
When she stops touching me, my eyes tear open- I didn’t realize I had them closed- but then she arches a brow, turns, and climbs onto the bed. She does it on her hands and knees, looking at me saucily over her shoulder before she flips over onto her back and crooks a finger.
I can’t join her. I can’t. Not yet.
Must. Pace. Myself. Must. Slow. Things. Down. Want. To. Do. This. Right.
I do reach out and caress her foot. She giggles and her toes curl into my hand. I realize that she’s ticklish there, as she squirms on the bed a little. I tug gently, pulling her over the downy white comforter. She watches me the whole time. Eye contact, people. Eye contact is the sexiest thing in the entire world. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Her eyes are darker than her sapphire earrings, which may have started this whole (not messy, but amazing) business, dark and smoky and heavy. They’re positioned fully on me, which makes me feel like I could do a thousand back flips in a row and top it up with a thousand cartwheels. FYI- I can’t do either.
She shimmies down on the bed, a sultry goddess who can read my mind. Then, while she’s watching me, she slowly spreads her legs and lets her head fall back, her golden hair fanned out against the white covers, her eyes closed, her lips parted. Waiting. Waiting for me.
I’m going to get there.
I’m getting there.
Bam.
That’s the sound of my knees hitting the floor. Not hard or anything, because I’m athletic enough to catch myself, and also even if it was hard and did hurt, I wouldn’t be able to feel it past the churning desire burning me up. My stomach is like a lake with a thousand hungry crocodiles. That’s the force of my desire. I think? What an image. My junk is also aching like I got punched by two cacti, one after the other, a gang of dick punching cacti, and also, shudder. Not going there. It doesn’t really hurt that bad, because there’s at least a pleasantness about this pain. It’s a good pain. A pain that I’m happily willing to endure for minutes, hours, even, if it means tasting and exploring and taking my time with Leandra first.
