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I tip my head back onto his shoulder and sigh. I’m hungry for him again. My body craves him like sugar; I need my fix. In fact, he’s like a chocolate bar in so many ways. Being with him is a sweet treat; I want to savor each moment, make him last as long as I can.
He turns me in his arms, presses my back against the window, and lowers his mouth to mine. I part my lips for him, lift my arms, and sink my hands into his hair as he kisses me with as much passion as I’m feeling for him. Mmm… I love kissing this man. How can I have thought I didn’t like kissing? There’s nothing like it; it’s sensual and erotic and comforting and sexy and hot all rolled into one. It’s like it’s a switch he flips that plugs me into the mains and turns me on—everything starts buzzing and heating up, and little ripples of pleasure run through me, connecting invisible lines between all my erogenous zones. How come when he kisses me, I feel a tug deep inside, between my legs? I want him. I want this quiet, thoughtful, wounded man to touch me, to be inside me.
Placing my hands on his chest, I push him, and he takes a step back, his eyebrows rising. I continue pushing him, and he moves backward to the sofa in the middle of the small room. I tug down his boxers, and he steps out of them, and then sinks onto the sofa as I give another little push. I lower to my knees in front of him, parting his legs, my heart beginning to race at the sight of him naked, hard and ready for me. His eyelids lower to half-mast as I lick my palm and close my hand around him, and then I stroke him, inhaling at the feel of the soft skin moving over his iron hardness. Bending, I close my mouth over the tip, and the breath hisses through his teeth, his hand rising so he can sink his fingers into my hair.
“Aaahhh…” He tips his head back, swelling in my mouth. “Poppy…”
“Mmm.” He smells and tastes amazing, and I adore this power to affect him, to make him feel the way I do. He’s changed me so much in such a short space of time. Before I met him, sex was a physical act for me, like sneezing or coughing, not particularly pleasurable, something I put myself through for a partner, something I endured. Now, it’s physical and emotional and sensual, it’s full of pleasure, and I think about it when we’re not doing it; I imagine pleasing him, ways I can make him sigh.
I wish I could continue doing this until he comes, until he fills my mouth with his silky fluid, but after only a minute he holds my upper arms and lifts me, pulling me astride him.
“Aw,” I complain, moving further up his thighs so our bodies are flush.
“I’m here to get you pregnant, remember? Don’t want to waste any.” His tone is teasing, but it reminds me why I asked him here. And for some reason, it makes me sad.
He studies my face, and I think he knows what’s going through my mind, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he cups the back of my head, brings my lips down to his, and kisses me.
His mouth is hot, insisting, and I’m already fired up from going down on him, so I can feel the blood speeding around my body, my heart racing, and I know I’m ready for him. But he makes me wait; he skims his hands down my back and around my ribs, strokes my breasts, then teases my nipples for a while, lowering his mouth to each one, and licking and sucking and tugging until I’m squirming on top of him, desperate to have him inside me.
“Stop wriggling,” he scolds, dropping his hands to my hips in an attempt to keep me still.
But I push him away, lift up, and move so the tip of his erection is parting my folds. “You can’t drive me crazy like this and expect me not to react.”
“I drive you crazy?”
I pause with my mouth over his. “You know you do,” I whisper, and then I sink down slowly, welcoming him inside me. I’m so turned on that there’s no friction, and he slides in all the way up to the top.
He exhales in a soft groan, and I touch my tongue to his lip, then kiss him, drinking in his pleasure, loving every second of making love with him. I slide my hands into his hair and kiss him deeply, hungry for him, wanting to convey the feelings inside me.
I lift my head and look into his eyes, and they’re full of an emotion I can’t decipher. Affection? Love? No, not love. It can’t be love. But there’s depth of feeling there, probably because he confided in me, something I know he doesn’t do with other people, and that’s created an intimacy between us we can’t ignore.
