Mandy didn’t like for me to touch her clit with my hands. In fact, she wasn’t a huge fan of anything that had us chest-to-chest, faces level. Maybe that should have been an insult, but the whole point was that we weren’t in love. We weren’t obligated to be attracted to one another. To go crazy over the experience. In a lot of ways, I thought it relieved some of the pressure.
My ex-wife never really wanted me close to her. And that was fine.
But Wren tangles her fingers in my hair, pulling my face to hers, kissing me as I slide my hand up and down her folds, stopping to press the pad of my thumb gently into her clit. When I do, I feel it throbbing under my touch, like another heartbeat, and it only makes reality fly further away from me.
In college, I’d always start sex by asking the girl what she liked, what she wanted. How I could touch her to make her feel good. I’d heard the stories—knew that women could go years without ever receiving an orgasm from their partner. And I wasn’t about to be that guy.
Girls liked it that I was thoughtful. That I approached them orgasming like it was a performance review.
Ishoulddo that now. Pause, pull back, take a second to ask Wren what she likes. Big circles or small? More pressure, or a light touch? Should I put my fingers inside her?
But my brain doesn’t cooperate. It doesn’t want to talk to Wren about what she wants—it wants to see, feel, and hear what she likes.
So, I touch her, taking my time to explore her, just like I did with the kissing. In a strange turn of events, I would have been content to kiss her for the rest of the night, fed on nothing but her sighs and the press of her chest to mine.
When she grinds down against me, I increase my pressure, watching her eyes flutter shut. When I lower my fingers and tease her entrance with them, pressing all around but not going in, her whimper is a signal to me that she wants it.
I start slow, easing a single knuckle into her, a desperate feeling coursing through me when I feel her clench. She clutches at me, gasping as silently as she can. Her hands are restless, seeking—tugging at my hair, skimming over my shoulders, scraping gently down my back.
There’s something about having Wren like this that feels more satisfying than any other sexual encounter. Like she’s under my thumb.
Right where I want her.
When I pull out and slide in two fingers, Wren lets out another loose, wild noise and grabs my free hand. She pulls it up to her, biting into the soft part of my palm. What the fuck is that, and why does it make me feral?
I flatten my hand over her mouth, feel the vibration of her moan against my hand. Her entire body is moving now as I pump into her with my fingers, the pad of my thumb rubbing quick, tight circles against her clit.
She never verbally confirmed what she likes, but the way her body moves—the way she grips my shoulders, the way she nods and nods, letting her head falls back against the pillow—tells me that itabsolutelyis.
Then, a second later, she jerks—hard—coming around my touch, her pussy clenching in tight. I keep them where they are, keep the same rhythm, help her ride it out until she goes still, breathing hard with her head against the pillow and one of her arms thrown over her face.
All at once, reality comes back to me. Who she is. Who I am. What we’re supposed to be doing here.
“Fuck,” I whisper, clearing my throat, my cock still rock hard against her hip. “Shit, Wren, I’m sorry—”
The words die in my throat when she reaches down, her hand gripping my cock through my pants. The effect is my entire body jumping, tongue tasting like I’ve just touched it to a battery. My hips thrust almost involuntarily against her palm.
“What are you sorry for?” she whispers, a laugh in her voice. “That was good, Luca.”
Why does that praise go straight to the center of me? Why don’t I stop her from sliding her hand under the waistband of my pants? Why, when she wraps her hand around my cock, do I feel like a teenager getting a hand job for the very first time?
Wren shifts, and I follow her movement until I’m on my back and she’s straddling one of my legs. Bending over me, she keeps contact with my cock, running her hand up and down the length of it but not applying any pressure. Not even as she grinds herself against my leg.
I know that she has her hand on my cock, and—logically—the goal here is for me to come, but I can’t stop thinking about the way she’s grinding against me, my mind wandering back to her pleasure.
Could she come again? Could I make her come again?
Those thoughts move to the back burner when she squeezes, finally applying pressure to her movement. My hips thrust up against her hand, and in that moment, I would giveanythingto be inside her. To replace her hand with her draped over my body. I want to see the expression on her face when I’m inside her. I want to stretch her out, make her take me. I want to see that she can.
I want to know exactly how we fit together.
But this is what I’m getting, so I focus on it.
I focus on the way she throws her head back, riding my leg with abandon, each stoke of my cock ended with a little twist, like her own personal hand job signature.
And when I come into her hand—and all over the inside of my pants—I realize what a mistake it was, and that I’ll have to either sneak into the laundry room or sleep in just a pair of boxers.
Wren just laughs, leaning forward and pressing her lips to my chest, trailing kisses down the center of my stomach while I’m still breathing hard, coming down from the high of the orgasm.
