I can’t stop him—not that he won’t, but I’m not capable of asking him to. I don’t want him to.
I want this.
God, it feels incredible.
I feel like a woman, complete. For the first time in my whole life, I feel desired. I feel beautiful. His eyes, when I whipped my shirt off, raked over my body as if I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He looked at my chest—which I always thought was basically nonexistent, as if I was the most well-endowed woman in the world. The hunger in his eyes formewas…well, I’ve never been drunk before, but I imagine this dizzy, heady feeling is how being drunk or high would feel.
I’m not a girl, anymore. I’m a woman. A man, a handsome, sexy man with a six-pack and big muscles and hard hands and kind eyes and hot skin and clever fingers and a hungry mouth...is touchingme.
His mouth is so eager. He kisses my freckles with adoration, as if he loves each one. I’ll never be self-conscious of them again.
I tingle everywhere he kisses me.
My chest is tight—my nipples ache, throb.
My sex feels…like I could just explode any moment, yet each touch of his fingers only sends me higher on this impossible roller coaster, and I can only wonder where it will end, how that will feel. I’d do anything to keep this going, to never stop.
I’m sitting on his thigh—it’s thick, wide, and powerful.
His hands and mouth are everywhere at once, and I can’t breathe for the glory and ecstasy of his touch. Yet, I know—Iknow—if I asked him to stop or slow down, he would, instantly.
I want more.
I want to let myself reach that farthest edge, where I was too self-conscious and afraid to go on my own. I’m safe with him. He’ll take me there. With him, everything is okay. In a way it’s never been before, with him, everything is okay.
I’mokay.
More than okay.
There’s just him and me what I want, and what he wants. Nothing else exists, in this time, in this space.
I hear my voice, but it’s almost disconnected from me—I’m fractured by this experience. I’m calling out to God, and saying Wes’s name.
I feel no guilt for this, no guilt for calling out to God—he created this, so it can’t be bad. It feels like the closest thing to heaven that could ever exist on this earth. I’m meant to be here, like this, with this man. Being touched. Being made to feel beautiful. Treasured. Accepted. Wanted.
I touch his face, his stubbled jaw, cup his cheek. Feel the corner of his lips as they meet my skin, traveling from ribcage to outer breast to nipple to valley to inner breast to nipple, in a trail of kisses, a skein of tongue-touches, a knot-work of licks. One hand through his hair, my other cups the back of his neck, and then his hard shoulder. I need both hands to explore his body. It’s so hard, so perfect. A dream, a fantasy. I clutch his biceps, brush his pectoral muscles. Trace over his abs. Scratch fingernails up his back.
His touch is wild on me, and an increasingly loud voice in my soul is begging me to get his touch on my skin, bare.
I’m not brave enough, yet.
Am I?
The closer I get to that far wild edge of this, the braver I get. And I’m so close, now.
Trembling, shaking, I feel my hips pushing against the press and circle of his fingers over the silk of my underwear, against that almost-hidden nub of nerves. I know anatomy, okay? I took human anatomy courses. But even in my own head, I can’t bring myself to use the terms.
I just know his touch there is at once swift yet sweet, tender yet insistent. Eager, yet patient.
His lips close over the aching button of my left nipple, and he suckles, and I cry out, and his fingers pinch the other one, sharply, and now something hot and tight and sharp happens inside me deep down and low, and I cry out loud, a wordless sound. His fingers move between my thighs faster, then, pressing harder, and now I’m there, at that edge, the cusp where I pulled away, last time.
I won’t, this time.
I claw at his chest, his shoulders. I need something.
More.
Something more.
