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And then he’s kissing me, hard and loose, his mouth lingering with my taste, his hands everywhere, nowhere, and I have never wanted anyone to be between my legs so desperately as I want him now.
As he starts to enter me, my shoulder screams and I gasp, then cry out from panic.
“Wait,” he says, gently moving me over, pulling out. “You be on top. Sit up. Ride me, Lindsay. Ride me.” His eyes flash with erotic anticipation as I awkwardly trade places with him, our bodies slick and sweaty, until I’m on top of him, my thighs against his, my legs open and my good hand holding on to his abs for balance. As I slide down over him I suck in my breath, Drew imitating me.
My diamond glitters in the darkness, shining in the moonlight, splayed across his belly button, a reminder. All the rolling muscle of his torso moves like a pond rippling as a stone is thrown in, his body working hard to thrust up and catch me, his ass tightening with each wave.
“Lindsay, you feel so good. So hot. Oh,” he rasps as we move together, trying to find the right speed, the right angle.
I feel a keening deep within, a spark of recognition as he moves inside, with each thrust, each shift, each growing layer of love. The screams of demons and tormenters inside make way for cries of ecstasy as Drew's soul warms the dark corners of my own. My body is exposed for him, my sling bulky and in the way, but it’s all right.
This is real. This is real love.
This is real lovemaking.
He reaches up and squeezes both breasts at the same time, then skims my skin with his rough hands, finding my hips, grinding me into him, making me move just enough until my clit is in a new position, the extra friction wet and perfect against him. An orgasm starts in the core of my belly, riding through my lower body, rising up to the hollow of my throat, spreading to my nipples, my tongue, my back and shoulders. It takes over like a spirit animal soaring over sacred ground, riding over the plains in twilight, seeking truth.
“I love you,” Drew groans. “I’m about to -- ” He goes rigid, then moves fast, groans deep and resounding, a vibration that adds to my pleasure. I tip, too and struggle for balance as I lose all sense of my body in space and time, clinging to him, later leaving small marks on his belly with my fingernails. I tell myself I’ll kiss them when this is over, greedy for the intoxicating rush of orgasm, reveling in his body and mine using each other with so much trust and love.
“Drew, I can’t, I can’t stop, I -- ”
“Don’t, baby. Don’t stop. Go. I’ll be here when you come back. Right here,” he says, reaching down between us, his thumb stroking the spot where I need him most, my body rising high, a thin cry making lightning shoot through me, Drew’s other hand on my hip, pinning me in place with a near-brutal rhythm that makes me come and come and come until I can’t even ask him to stop. I am shaking and crying but it’s good, so good.
So Drew.
I fall forward, slumped on his body, my ass in the air and my torso curled in a weird way as I protect my shoulder. He’s panting, too, and it feels like all the marbled muscle in him has gone still. My hair covers the fine grooves of his ribs, his skin shining with a sheen from exertion, and as I rest on top of him, I realize it’s this – the shared recovery after the unraveling – that makes for connection.
We aren’t intimate because we find other people attractive.
We find other people attractive because they choose to be intimate and share their soft underbellies.
He plays with a piece of my hair, stroking it from my neck, his words hard to hear as he says, “We’ve been to hell and back.”
“Yes.” I sit up. He moves quickly, helping me to settle down, supporting my arm so it doesn’t hurt. Then he rests next to me, pulling up the warm covers, burrowing in. I’ve been holding my body and breath, tense with aftershocks from sex, and I release.
I relax into him.
“That was the best sex we’ve ever had as husband and wife,” he says with a smile in his voice.
“Oh, c’mon,” I tease. “We can do better than that.”
“Next time.”
“Promise?” I yawn, the day hitting me at once, my eyes unbearably sleepy, lids impossible to hold up.
“Yes,” he says, kissing my temple. “Are you happy?”
“Completely.”
“Satisfied?” His hand finds my thigh.
“Fully. In every way possible,” I insist, laughing.
“Then I did my job.”
We’re out in seconds.
We don’t dream.
