I love that I can do that to her.
But I love it more when she comes. The look on her face is pure starlight.
I slide my fingers down between her legs. I know I gave her a G-spot orgasm the other night and if I prop her ass up with a pillow I might be able to do it again. But my hands are skilled and her body responds well to me, like instinct, like it belongs to me. I start stroking her lightly on her dainty little clit and she’s so damn sensitive, she’s already writhing beneath me, her chest heaving, her lips parting.
I just want to be everything to her. I want to be the best and her only. I want to make her want me, crave me, yearn for me, all the fucking time. I want her to know what it’s like to want and I want to know what it’s like to be wanted by her.
We slowly build to a crescendo. Compared to last night, we take it slow, enjoying the pace, our bodies, the way each other feels. I want it to last forever and yet I want nothing more than to come inside her immediately. I want to watch her face change and for that wonderful vulnerability to take hold.
I want to be the only man who witnesses that look. I want it to be mine forever.
She comes first. It’s beautiful. Her skin, glistening from sweat, seems to glow in front of me, her mouth open and wanting, crying out my name, my name that sounds so bloody unbelievable in such a breathy, lustful tone. She shudders from release, riding out the wave, and I’m struck by just how special she is. I think it’s going to take a long time before I finally realize just what I have and that I finally have her.
Then I come and it’s like I’m pouring myself into her, giving myself in ways I could never even begin to express. It’s both numbing and electrifying and brings the hugest grin to my face.
“What are you smiling at?” she smirks from under me.
“You,” I tell her, refusing to wipe the grin from my face. “The answer will always be you.”
She gives me a coy look and then I grab the end of the condom, making sure it doesn’t slip while I pull out. I quickly tie the end and dispose of it before climbing back into bed.
“God, I love mornings,” I tell her, pulling her toward me.
She’s so helpless and drunk from her orgasm that she’s almost mouldable. I hug her tight to me, feeling my sweat cool against her skin. Though I have all intentions of getting up and starting breakfast, the post-sex bliss is too enticing for me to move.
I’m half asleep when I feel her fingertips tracing the skin on my inner arms, going over my tattoos.
“You know,” she says quietly, “I never really did hear the story behind these quotes. Is there one? I remember one day you had no tattoos, then the next day you did.”
I smile to myself. Everyone knows I love Charles Bukowski, so no one has ever questioned the quotes I chose when I got the tattoos seven years ago. They just assumed that I really liked them.
And I do. But it’s so much more than that and Steph, of all people, seemed to pick up on it.
I read the one on my left arm. “She’s mad but she’s magic. There is no lie in her fire.” I read the right one. “The free soul is rare, but you know it when you see it.” Even though that’s all that is inked on my arm, I go on and tell her the rest of it, “Basically because you feel good, very good, when you are near or with them.”
She nods, appreciating it. “That’s some beautiful stuff from a drunk.”
“Drunks have always written the best poetry.”
“So they’re your favorite lines, then?”
I press my lips to her forehead. “My dear baby blue. Both of those quotes are about you.” I pause while she looks shocked. “Hey, see I’m a poet too.”
“Me?” she asks. The look on her face is adorably priceless. I had never planned on telling her the truth but now that I have, it feels impossibly free. Much like her soul.
“You,” I tell her. “As I said, you’ve bewitched me for a long time.”
She purses her lips. “I think I liked it better when you were being cheesy.” But I can see in her eyes, this is sobering to her, in the best way possible.
“Bring your soul over here,” I tell her and pull her into me. Within moments, we fall asleep. I know I have a smile on my face.
***
A few hours later, once we’ve woken up again and ended up in the shower for quite some time (nothing like a little shower sex to get your day going), we’re finally making breakfast.
Well, actually I’m making it for her – scrambled eggs in truffle oil. Trust me it’s divine. I place the plate in front of her with a little flourish and make her a fresh espresso from my machine.
“That must have cost a fortune,” she says as she eyes the gilded machine. She takes a sip and sighs. “Tastes like a fortune too.”