When release comes, I turn and curl into his chest, pulsing with waves of pleasure. He doesn't pull his hand away though. His fingers slide against my clit, and I have another climax and another. Finally, when I can't receive any more joy without pain, I push his hand away.
I keep my eyes closed for a few seconds, feeling the blood pumping through my body, all of my nerve endings on the surface of my skin. I'm warm and sated, and my brain, which typically spins like a hamster in a wheel, is completely calm. When I open my eyes, Seth is smiling down at me like it's his birthday, and he got the exact gift he wanted.
"You look so proud," I say with a giggle.
"Should I be?" he asks, although I'm pretty certain he knows the answer from my reactions.
"Oh my god.” I squirrel my legs around on the bed. "Where did you learn to do that?"
"It's all the carpentry," he says. "I've gotten good with my hands."
"You certainly did," I say. "Holy cannoli. And even after that carpentry injury."
He's lying on his side, watching me, and I pick up his left hand and find the small white scar the saw left behind. I kiss it gently and then twine our hands together. I'm surprised he doesn't look more smug, but maybe he doesn't fully comprehend the miracles he can perform with those fingers. I've had orgasms before, but never like that, never multiple times or with such intensity. Seth took me to a place where I'd like to return as soon as possible.
He's in the perfect position for me to reciprocate now, and I let my hands run the length of him, eager to please. As I cup and stroke him, his head leans back slightly, and his eyes close.
"Oh my god," he says. "I've been dying for you to touch me. You have no idea."
He's hard and swollen already, but I want to bring him to that same point of oblivion where he's taken me. I move slowly and deliberately, taking my cues from him as I learn his body and what he likes. He likes to play with my breasts as I touch him, and he definitely likes the feel of my tongue. He tastes salty and wet, and my excitement grows as I feel him losing control.
"I want to be inside you," he says in a tortured voice as I run my tongue along his shaft. "Andie, please..."
I like that he's the one begging now.
"Condom," I say, rolling over and reaching inside the drawer of my bedside table.
He's already on his back so I straddle his body, rip open the foil and roll the condom down, nice and slow. He pulses in my hand, and I can't help but smile. I like being in control of his pleasure. I glide him inside me and begin rocking as he reaches up to grasp my hips.
"You feel incredible," he tells me, his movements syncing with mine.
His body fits mine perfectly, just like I knew it would, and part of me wants to laugh and part wants to cry because I'm so happy and turned on and terrified that I'm falling in love with him. When I know he's close to climaxing, I move faster, increasing the friction between our two bodies.
Seth thrusts into me with more force and then comes, with a moan and a shudder. I lower myself onto his chest and wrap myself in his arms, sticky and naked and warm. I'm so relieved that he didn't hold back for too long, waiting for the mythical simultaneous orgasm to occur.
"That felt incredible," I say, wanting him to know that even when I'm not experiencing the big O, I'm enjoying every minute of his body moving with mine.
We lie there in each other's arms for a long time, not needing to say anything. He kisses my head and pulls me close to him, and I know I should be scared of the feelings surging through me. But I decide that joy is going to push fear into the gutter, at least for tonight while I lie in his arms.
"Long eyelashes are wasted on men," I say, examining every inch of his eyes, the amber flecks in the chocolate colored irises. Those long lashes and ungroomed brows. The little freckle next to his right eyelid. I'm going to need a long time to memorize all of him before he leaves. I'll tackle it like a mapping project. This is going to be the stuff I dredge up when I'm missing him. I'll lie in this bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember his eyes.
"I need to take a picture of you," he says, reading my mind. "I don't have any."
He runs his index finger over my lips like he's going to memorize me by touch.
"We took pictures today," I say. "At the flea market."
I got a great profile shot of him when he wasn't looking. I've already made sure it's the picture that will pop up on my phone when he texts or calls me.
"But I need one where I can really see your beautiful face." He cups my chin gently and brings his lips to mine. Then he skims my cheek with his fingers. "Your skin is so soft. How are you so soft?"
"Lack of hard work and exercise."
He laughs, and I try to memorize the sound. I could use the voice recorder on my phone to record his laughter, but that gets into creeper territory again.
"My hands are so rough," he says. "I feel bad touching you with them."
"No, I love your hands! Your hands do amazing work. If I could cut them off and keep them here, I would."
