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And we didn’t have sex. Hell, he didn’t even touch my lower body.
Before I can tell him, he cradles my cheeks in his large palms, wipes away my tears with the pads of his thumbs, and brings me in for a tender kiss. His lips coax mine open, and I willingly comply until I lose myself in the glorious feel of his mouth on mine.
I’ll never tire of the adoring way he holds my cheeks and claims my mouth. There’s a gentleness to his lips mixed with the commanding grip of his hands. When our lips pull apart, he gazes at me with quiet reverence. Kissing this man is a powerful experience.
And right now, he’s so tender with me only seconds after destroying me in the best way.
I need to be careful not to get too addicted to this feeling.To him.
Yet something tells me it might be too late.
When he draws away, he asks, “Are you okay? I didn’t go too far, did I? Did I hurt you?”
An earnest smile crests my lips. “I’m wonderful. That was the hottest moment of my life.”
His eyes fall to the floor as wrinkles sully his forehead. A heavy sigh frees itself from his chest, and his hands fall from my face, landing on the tops of his thighs.
Oh, sweet, complicated man.
Part of me wants to make a joke to break the tension, but even my inner smart-ass is too sleepy with sexual gratification to speak.
I inch forward, compelled by a pressing need to soothe and reassure him.
Like he held my face, I caress the stubbly planes of his cheeks between my palms and capture his gaze. Letting the sincerity of my emotions coat my words and play across my features, I tell him, “I mean it, Cal. That was amazing for me. Was it for you?”
The regret radiating off him is palpable. “I’ve never… I mean… I shouldn’t…” Trailing off, he closes his eyes and seems to search for the words.
Oh no, no, no.
Did I push him too hard? Perhaps I was wrong, and he didn’t want to treat me like that. Does he think I forced him?
“I’ve never done anything like that. I don’t want to like it. It feels,” the sadness in his tone guts me to my core, “wrong.”
Shaking his head, he looks away, like he’s ashamed to let me see this side of him. Or ashamed of what he did.
Unable to resist, I crawl onto his lap, straddling his strong thighs and bringing his softening cock into contact with the embarrassingly wet crotch of my yoga pants. As I wrap my arms around him, he rests his forehead on my shoulder, burying his face in the crook of my neck.
He allows himself to soak up my touch, encircling me in his arms and pulling me close. My naked breasts press against the fabric of his shirt. Too bad he didn’t take it off earlier so I could feel him skin to skin.
I’m clothed only on the bottom, and he’s clothed only on top. We should really get our shit together and just be clothed or naked together.
Shaking off my thoughts, I hug him back, because this man needs it. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen someone who needs a hug more than him.
All the weight on his shoulders and no one to relieve it.
Until me.
If he’ll let me.
When it seems safe to talk, I ask, “I know you said it feels wrong to like it, but you did like it, didn’t you?”
I’d like to say his climax doesn’t lie, but I could be wrong. What do I know?
Sure, I’ve had some adventurous lovers in the past who liked to take charge, and I just went with the flow. But I’m certainly no expert in this type of thing— power dynamics in relationships, punishments, and so forth. It’s all new to me too.
But I know people. And I knowthisman.
It doesn’t matter how long ago we met. I know him in my soul.
