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I’m aware of what he’s doing, andwhois doing it, and that it ishismouth—
But there is nothing but the way he tastes me. The way he feasts on me and I arch into him, again and again, noises spilling out of me that I didn’t know I could make.
And then the pleasure, sharp and growing, surging and expanding.
So hot and so intense it’s almost scary. Maybe it really would be scary if I could do anything at all but surrender to it.
It hits me like a punch, a detonation, exploding inside and then shooting everywhere, leaving nothing behind.
I am obliterated.
I am outside myself. In pieces.
He laughs and I canfeelit, there against the tenderest part of me, and then he begins again.
And again.
I quickly lose track of how many times I come apart. How many times he takes me to the precipice and flings me out to that bright, hot flight into glory.
I hear a sobbing sound, and realize it’s my voice. I hear a low, hot murmur, and I know it’s his.
There is nothing, now, but the dark of the cottage around us, the softness of the bed beneath us, and all the sparks we light as we roll and taste and bite and moan.
He teaches me how to take him deep in my own mouth, and when I have difficulty with his thickness, his length, he runs a hand over the side of my face. As if he knows I need the touch. The reminder of softness while he is so hard in my mouth. He moves his hand in a soothing way that makes me want nothing more than to open wider and take him deeper.
And I do.
But he does not give me the release I want. He pulls himself out, despite my protests. And then, murmuring words that sound somewhere between prayers and apologies, he switches our positions once again and settles himself between my legs.
And I feel so dizzy, so gloriously new, that it takes me too long to remember the one little thing I should have told him from the start.
“Luc—” I begin.
His gaze flashes to mine and I realize we’re both still wearing those masks over our eyes. Something about the eroticism of that, and the fact I can feel that blunt, hard part of him nudging up against the softness of my center, makes me shiver.
“Don’t call me that,” he says, as if it hurts him.
And then he slams his way inside me.
Then, immediately, freezes.
And for a moment, I cannot tell the difference between pain and pleasure. For a moment, we are both strung out there in that single mad thrust—
“Cosita, I did not know,” he is saying against my ear.
When I pull in a breath, not sure if I want to stop or shout or cry, something else happens instead.
It’s as if the breath floods through me, and that hot place where we’re joined…shifts. One moment it’s a tight, hot pain, and then the next it becomes something else. Something like a white-hot heat, not comfortable, not sweet, but addictive.
I move my hips. He sighs, but I want more.
“So be it,” he says.
He pulls me to him, so it feels as if we are one.
And then slowly, almost tenderly, he begins to move.
But I don’t want slow and I don’t want tender. I want all of him.