“Let me in, Lucy.”
I know he’s not just asking me to relax and let him fuck me. I know he’s asking for something more. And I want to give it, and that scares the hell out of me.
Like Darren said, I don’t know how to do that. How to let someone in, how to open up.
But Gabe makes me want to try.
He kisses me then, like he’s using his mouth to tell me what he needs. Open for me, baby. His tongue shows me, and my body listens.
I breathe deeply and let myself let go. Relax. Let him in.
He slides home with a groan, filling me. Stretching me. He’s big and thick and very, very hard from the long time we played, and it’s so, so good. Nothing has ever felt like this. Not just the sensation in my groin, hot and golden, not just the tingles racing back and forth along that secret, invisible wire between my clit and nipples, not just how much my mouth, hungry and empty, wants his kisses. But him. Gabe. So serious when he’s not being funny. So bossy when he’s not letting me take whatever I need. Filling a room, commanding it, loving his family like it’s an Olympic sport, loyal, fierce, competent, kind.
He pulls away, watching me, and I decide I’m not going to hold anything back from him. I look into his eyes, and he meets my gaze, unflinching. Those dark eyes tell me how good I feel to him; his mouth twists with pleasure; his brow furrows as he chases it for both of us. He adjusts his weight, lowering his hips over mine, the pressure over my clit perfect. Each thrust delivers on a promise, stretch and friction, and his eyes tell me he knows exactly how much I like it and that he likes it too. We’re winding each other up, totally tapped into the shared pleasure. Everything in me is lit up with Gabe, and I’m helpless, powerless, arching my back to try to get more, closer, lifting my breasts to offer him a nipple, which he takes, but only lightly. Because he knows me. He knows exactly how to play me.
Another thrust, roll of hips, surge of pleasure. His teeth on that nipple. It’s like an electrical circuit. “Gabe,” I gasp.
“Not yet, baby,” he says. “Not yet.”
“I can’t help it—”
“Fuck, Lucy, you’re so fucking hot,” he says, and then he’s sucking my nipple and thrusting hard, all control lost, and we go over together, clinging to each other, crying each other’s names. Waves and waves of it, and impossible to tell which is me and which is him, it’s all just us.
I take a long time to come back to earth. When I do, I look over at him. He’s looking back, and the look on his face is—
He looks wrecked. Which is, on one hand, exactly right, and on the other, all wrong. And then he wipes his face of whatever that expression was, and smiles at me. It’s an honest Gabe smile, no faking it, but I know there’s more to the story than that smile. And I know that whatever that story is, I’m going to need to know. Because I knew in the woods that I loved him, but now I know it in my body, which is better and worse. Better because this is how sex is supposed to be, this all-over, lit-up, through-and-through feeling; this is what it feels like when you’re in it with all your emotions and not just your body.
And worse, because I don’t know if he feels the same way, or what it would mean to either of us if he did.