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I should go rest this ankle, so I nod.
“Or my place is closer,” he suggests, looking worried. “You could use the elevator instead of going up the stairs at your grandparents’ house.”
I don’t want to end this night without him.
“And I was looking forward to spending more time with you,” he says quietly.
That decides me. “Your place, please.”
In the car, I call Granna and tell her what’s happened, and she tells me to just stay at Austin’s until I feel better. “But what about tomorrow morning?” I wail. “I don’t want to miss your homemade cinnamon rolls!”
Granna laughs. “They’ll keep. You just stay off that ankle, honey. Bless your heart, poor thing, hurt yourself on Christmas Eve. You just let that boy take good care of you, and you call me in the morning.”
Inside his spacious, austere loft apartment, Austin gets me naproxen sodium and an ice pack, and props me up on his nice comfy sofa. He finds a Christmas Eve service for us to watch on TV, and then he cooks us a simple meal of filet mignon, asparagus, and sourdough bread fresh from the bakery. He pulls out a tin of homemade cookies that one of the ladies in his office made for him. He makes me laugh by biting bits off a Santa cookie, limb by limb, and ending with Santa’s head.
He reaches over to brush a crumb off my lip, and I stop fighting the urge to push this thing between us into dangerous territory. I might have only one foot functioning, but I take a big leap.
I kiss him.
He kisses me back. He tastes like sugar and butter and brandy, and his mouth is so soft on mine. I can feel his breathing. I put a hand on his cheek to stop him pulling away, and kiss him again.
He kisses me back again.
We don’t stop kissing.
Not until he pulls back and strokes my hair and whispers, “That was our first kiss.”
“It won’t be the last,” I whisper.
He shakes his head, dark eyes hot and deep. “Not the last kiss for us, no. But Belinda, I think that was my last first kiss.”
“What?” I don’t get it.
“I don’t ever want to kiss anyone else for the first time.”
I reach for him, and he reaches for me, and when our lips meet again I forget that my ankle hurts. We kiss for a long time, entwined on the sofa, and I can tell how much he wants me by the long line of swollen heat pressing against my hip. I slip my hands under his shirt, to touch the hard planes of his stomach, then strip the shirt off him. His tiny groan makes me slide one hand down to the hard length in his jeans.
It’s an impressively hard length, and we both moan out loud. “Touch me, Austin,” I whisper.
“You don’t have to beg,” he whispers, pulling my thin layers of insulating tops up and over my head. My nipples perk up in the suddenly-cooler air, and he inhales sharply. “Fuck, Belinda. What glorious tits.”
Most of my adult life, I’ve tried to minimize my exuberant bosom. I want to be taken seriously in my workplace.
But this is not a workplace, and I know Austin takes me seriously. I reach behind my back and unsnap my bra, and he inhales again, muttering something incoherent before pulling my bra completely away from my body and then caressing my breasts with eager hands. He teases one nipple with his fingers, and bends to lick the other, flicking his tongue back and forth in a way that makes me pant and swear, aware that my underwear is sticking to me with my own juices by now.
I yank at his jeans fastening, trying to get them off him, and he stops sucking my nipple to help. When he settles back on top of me, between my thighs, the firm pressure of his cock against my heated core makes me moan and lock my legs around his. I love the feel of his hard, hairy chest against my soft one. “More.”
“Fuck, Belinda,” he says again, and goes for my other nipple.
I can’t take much more of this. I need all of him. I buck my hips against his rigid pole. “Please.”
“Wait. Condom—”
“I’m clean,” I interrupt. “I’m on birth control. Please, Austin. I need you.” I peel my leggings and underwear down to my hips, and he does the rest, looking at my bare body in what might be awe.
“Belinda,” he says once, and then I pull him back to me. Together we reach for his cock, and I slip my thumb through the drop of wetness at its tip, sliding that over the throbbing head. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I guide the tip of his cock through my own moisture, over my clit, and it feels so amazing I have to do it again. I don’t ever remember being so aroused with anyone before. I’m probably soaking his couch with pussy juice—but I don’t care. “More.”
“Hold it where it feels good,” he says hoarsely, bracing on his arms, his eyes locked on mine. “Make yourself come on my cock, sweetheart.”
It doesn’t take long. Only a few minutes; only a couple dozen strokes over my swollen bud, and I’m crying out in completion, seeing stars burst behind my eyelids.
And then he’s inside me, kissing the deepest part of my body with the most intimate part of his, and we’re together. We’re one.
