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And then, he speeds up!
I swear if sex were some kind of Olympic sprint, he would win the gold medal. He moves faster, and I find it hard to breathe. My moans are cut off time and time again as he fucks me powerfully and rapidly and each thrust seems to steal from me any air I might have. Finally, with one final thrust, his body stiffens behind me, and he pushes himself against me as hard as he can. I feel him swell inside of me and I'm filled with pure pleasure beyond anything I could have ever imagined. Any relief I feel about the intensity ending disappears because my already impossible orgasm (or orgasms—I can’t really tell if I’m having more than one climax or just one really long climax with multiple peaks) gets (or get) stronger.
The sensation is so powerful that my whole body clenches tight and every muscle contracts in a dizzying moment of blissful rapture. Heat radiates from deep within and my inner walls clench around him even tighter than before.
I can't function at all.
It's a moment of pure helplessness. It reminds me of when I was thirteen and I fell off a horse, landing on a rock. When my head hit the rock, the world just stopped and I felt like a spectator, just helpless and watching the world instead of being a part of it.
Well, the big difference is that hitting the rock hurt. I'm still experiencing the shame shock, though, and I have no idea how in the world I'm going to possibly manage to ever think, move, or exist again!
But then he lets go of my hips and I collapse forward. He follows me, kissing my shoulders and my neck as I'm left trembling from the sheer power of it all. My brain feels like jelly and my nerves are singing with joy. This whole experience is impossible.
And perfect.
And he's not done.
Before too long, he lifts me up and carries me to the shower. It's beautiful and intimate and soon he has me in his arms with my legs wrapped around him, lifting me up and down while he stands. I'm amazed to make it through the first time. Making it through the second time in the shower is nothing short of a miracle.
And after drinks from the minibar, there's a third time.
A third!
I don't know how I survived it but I can tell you there's nothing more perfect than falling asleep with my body pressed against his and my head on his shoulder.
Chapter Five
Curt
Tigers are mostly nocturnal. Tiger shifters are usually diurnal, with few exceptions. We’re diurnal because we typically live among non-shifter humans and since human society is predominantly diurnal, we adjust to that rhythm. The few exceptions are those tigers who completely eschew human society and live as their animal, shifting only occasionally when gathering with other tiger shifters. There might be one or two who live nocturnal as humans in big cities like New York or Los Angeles where the nightlife is in many ways as varied and thriving as the daylife, but for the most part, tiger shifters—like most other shifters—live on the surface like normal humans.
It's what’s under the surface that makes us special. We might look like humans—although we occupy the top ten percent or so in terms of physical health and attractiveness, a side effect of shifting that affects all shifters for reasons scientists still don’t know—but underneath is our shifter nature that impacts and informs every aspect of our lives.
I am a human. I am a tiger. I am a shifter. I am all three in one at all moments, and though I give a particular aspect of my personality control at different moments in time, such as the day before when I am a tiger and give control to my more wild, primal personality, I am always human and tiger at the same time. That unseen triumvirate that makes me who I am is something I take pride in. I have the intelligence and discernment of a human, the strength and power of a tiger, and the sobriety and self-respect of a member of a class of people who have long suffered the fear and contempt of non-shifter society and so have had to create our own pride, our own belonging.
That’s a fairly long-winded rant. The point of it is that I am more than what you see. Like an iceberg, the parts of me that are visible to the rest of the world represent a very small fraction of everything Curt Wilde is.
As I stare at the sleeping form of the girl beside me, I have a suspicion that what makes Denise special also lies underneath the surface. It has to. There’s no other way I can explain how she manages to affect me the way she does.
Sure, she’s special on the outside. There’s no denying that she’s beautiful. She’s easily the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, and while I don’t prioritize sex the way many do, I’ve enjoyed my fair share of beautiful women. Denise easily surpasses them all.
There’s also her musical talent. She has an honesty, an earnest soulfulness to her music that to me comes the closest anyone can to the spirit of a true bard, someone to whom music is the tapestry on which all existence is played. Her talent isn’t the kind that will sell platinum records or fill stadiums, but when people think hard about the most meaningful musical encounters of their lives, the memories that reflection will inspire are memories of people like Denise, not mega-popular rock stars or pop idols.
So on the surface, she is damned special. But that can’t be the only reason I am so obsessed with her. She represents the antithesis of everything I believe in.
I believe in order, she believes in chaos.
I believe in having a plan for everything. She believes in approaching every day spontaneously.
I know exactly what I’ll be doing tomorrow and the day after and the day after that for the rest of my life, barring an unforeseen catastrophe. She has no idea where she’ll be a week from now.
If you had asked me before I met Denise if I could have a relationship with a woman like that, I would have immediately and very confidently said no. I could enjoy a night with a woman like Denise if we had a sexual connection or a friendly connection, but I couldn’t dream of a future with someone who doesn’t care what happens to them tomorrow.
So the fact that I’m looking at Denise’s naked form and thinking not only of how I might enjoy that body upon her waking, but am also thinking of how we might build a life together, grow old together, raise cubs together (or human children. I’ll be perfectly happy even if my children aren’t shifters), means that there’s something beneath the carefree tumbleweed that is Denise, something I can sense but can’t quite articulate that makes her more to me than anyone I’ve ever met in my life.
I just have no idea what that is.
As I lie next to Denise, watching her sleeping form, I can’t help but wonder what it is that draws me so fiercely to her. It isn't just her carefree nature or her musical talent, though those things play a part. There is something deeper than that, something primal, that makes me want to spend the rest of my life with her.
