“How cute is that? It’s like he’s poking his head out from behind a curtain!” I clapped my hands.
“You may not be aware, but as a general rule, no man likes the word cute in the same sentence as his junk.”
“But he is cute—uh-oh, where’d he go?”
“He’s shy now. Stil not cute, but shy.”
“Shy, my ass. He wasn’t so shy in the shower a little bit ago.”
“He needs his ego stroked.”
“Wow.”
“No, real y. I think you’l find he is quite receptive to stroking.”
“Now see, I was thinking maybe he just needed a good tongue lashing, but if you think stroking wil suffice…”
“No, no, I think a tongue lashing is quite in order. He—God damn, Caroline!”
I leaned in, brought the shy one forth, and immediately surrounded him with my mouth. Feeling him grow harder stil , I settled myself on the
edge of the couch, wrapped my arms around him and dropped the towel. Pul ing him closer, and therefore deeper into me, I hummed in satisfaction
as I felt his hands come up into my hair and trace my face. Reverently, he placed his fingers on my eyelids, cheeks, temples, final y burying one
hand in my hair and the other, wel , wow. He held himself. As I concentrated al my attention on the tip of him, he stroked himself at the base,
something that was quite possibly the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. Seeing his hand, wrapped around himself as he moved in and out of my mouth…
oh my.
Sexy isn’t the right word for it. It is inadequate in the face of the pure erotica playing out in front of me. And speaking of in front of me, I hummed
again in appreciation, feeling myself getting worked up just at the play my mouth was getting. Lucky mouth.
I fel back against the couch and pul ed Simon with me. He responded by using both hands to brace against the back of the couch, thrusting in
and out of my mouth with conviction. The angle al owed him to penetrate more deeply, and made it easier for me to take more of him in. I grabbed
his backside, feeling the thril of attending to him, knowing it was me, only me, who got to have him in this way.
I could feel him getting close. I was already beginning to know his tel s intimately. I wanted him again. I was selfish this way. Releasing him with
a final strong pul , I pushed him down on to the couch and straddled him. Feeling me against him, he thrust upward as I sank down, and there was
that moment—you know that moment? When everything feels stretched and pul ed in the most delicious way? Your body reacts: something that
shouldn’t be inside is now inside and for a split second, it’s alien, unknown. And then your skin senses a returning champion, your muscle memory
takes over, and then it’s so good, that feeling of ful ness, of wonder and awe.
And then you begin to move.
Grabbing his shoulders for leverage, I rol ed my hips into his, noticing not for the first time that he’d been intel igently designed with my exact
measurements in mind. He fit inside me perfectly, two halves of a whole, some kind of sexual Lego. He sensed it too, I could tel .
He placed his hand flat against my chest, directly on top of my heart. “Stunning,” he whispered as I rode him, sweet and hot. He kept my heart
in his hand as I rocked into him, his other hand on my hip, guiding me, positioning me, feeling me attend to us both. He struggled to stay with me, to
keep his eyes open as his release rushed in. I took his hand from my heart and placed it further down, where he began to trace those damnable
perfect circles.
“Jesus, Simon…oh, God…so…soooo good…I…mmm…”
“I love watching you fal apart,” he groaned, and I did. And he did. And we did.
I col apsed into him, watching until the room stopped spinning and the feeling returned to my fingers and toes, warmth snaking through my body
as he held me to him.
“Tongue lashing. What an idea.” He snorted, and I giggled.
8:17 p.m.
“Ever think about changing the paint color in here?”
“Are you serious?”
“What? Maybe a lighter shade of green? Or even a blue? Blue might be nice. I’d love to see you surrounded by blue.”
“Do I tel you how to take pictures?”
“Wel , no…”
“Then don’t tel me how to pick paint colors. And as it happens, I’m planning to change the palette in here, but it’s going darker. Deeper, you
might say.”
“Deeper, you say? How’s this?”
“That’s pretty good. Mmm, that’s real y good. Anyhow, as I was saying, I’m thinking of maybe a deep slate gray, with a new creamy sugar
marble countertop, deepening the cupboards to a rich, dark mahogany. Holy shit, that feels good.”