He’s unable to remain still over me, stubbly jaw razing across my sensitive nipples as he kisses down my ribs, under my arm, teeth scraping over my bicep as he rocks into my hand.
He fumbles between us, pulling my underwear down so I can free one leg and then his fingers are there, sliding over and into me and it’s like being plugged into the solar system, everything inside me is light and fire, and I’m squirming under him to get there because, already, I’m close. I want to know what he feels, how he feels when he’s touching me and I’m there, too, one finger twisted around his and he laughs into a kiss, telling me how amazing it is. How can he find words when I’m completely speechless? His thumb grazes my clit again and again and I’m so swollen and desperate and pushing up off the bed so he can reach deeper with his forever-long fingers. His cock brushes against our hands and then he shifts his hips and moves our fingers out of the way and then it’s there, closer, and with a tiny synchronized catch in our breath he’s pushing forward and he slides into me.
“Oh, fuck,” he says
and
“Lola. Oh fuck me. Oh fuck me.”
And it turns to frenzy.
He’s moving
not just moving but
absolutely fucking me
and
it’s Oliver and he’s inside me already
and he’s moving so deep in and out, groaning into my neck.
Oliver plants his knees into the mattress and moves—there is nothing but sound in the darkness around us: the headboard slams against the wall, the hinges of the bed groan in protest. He’s grunting in my ear because it’s work, fucking me like this: fast and messy. His fingers slip over my chin and my mouth and he’s following with his tongue, licking my taste from my skin.
We’re laughing into kisses because it’s good—it’s so good—and my hands are everywhere between us: his chest and hips and stomach and the base of his cock. Somewhere deep down I knew it would be like this, I did. In the corners where I let myself imagine being close to anyone in this way, it was him. Always the fantasy had a flash of dark hair tucked into my neck, long fingers wrapped around my hip, his mouth curved into a knowing smile when I start to come—
“Oh, God—”
My words are cut off by pleasure. Smoke runs through my veins, hot and weightless until I feel like I’m floating, grappling for him with hands and nails, begging with unintelligible sounds to keep doing whatever he’s doing that’s already so good, so good, please, I’m screaming under him, so loud I hear the echo bounce sharply back to me.
Pleasure fills every limb until I’m mindless and I’m melting, burning, dissolving into relief.
His rhythm is frantic through my orgasm but as soon as I quiet, choking for air, he’s jerking back and pulling out so abruptly I feel immediately hollow.
“Fuck,” he gasps, sitting back on his heels with his chest heaving as he wipes a hand down his face. He bends, tucking his chin to his chest as he takes several gasping breaths.
Panic and bliss react oddly in my blood and I can barely find the words to ask: “What’s wrong?”
He curls a shaking palm around my thigh. “I’m not wearing a rubber. I nearly came.”
My heart is pounding, skin damp with sweat, and I’m reeling from the reality of what just happened.
We just had sex.
We fell into his bed, and within only a few minutes we were completely fucking.
Instinctively, I reach to touch his forearms when he smooths his hands up and down my spread thighs.
“Did you come?” he whispers.
I still can’t really find words, so I nod and manage, “Yes. God.”
In fact, I think I nearly passed out.
His hand moves up my hip, over my stomach, to my breast where he covers me with a warm palm. “I can’t believe.” He swallows, closing his eyes. “That we’re . . .”
Now that my eyes have fully adjusted in the darkness I can see more of his body. It was one thing to see him in his underwear in the bright light of daytime in my living room, but it’s nothing compared to the shape of him over me in the shadows, kneeling between my spread legs. I take in the expanse of his torso, the ridges of his abdomen, the sharp curve of his hips leading down to the heavy, wet weight of his cock.
His thumb strokes over my nipple in tight, pressing circles. “I thought I would savor it more the first time we . . . if we ever did this.”
Coherent thoughts are tiny, buzzing flies in the background. “I feel too crazy right now to savor.”
“Me, too,” he admits, laughing. “Clearly.”
I want him back where he was twenty seconds ago, covering me in his weight and his sweat and pivoting his hips between my legs. Sitting up, I cup the back of his neck, kissing his swollen, wet mouth before asking, “Do you have condoms?”