JACK RESTS HIS ALMOST-NAKED CHEST BETWEEN her legs. He has removed no clothing, only the strips that he has torn from his shirt. The gaps leave a warm patch of skin roughened with his body hair to rub against her thighs, her belly, to tease her through the silk of her panties.
His jeans chafe her legs, the fabric almost harsh in contrast to that small patch of warm skin. His hands never stop moving, circling her skin until every inch of it—except those that crave it the most—screams in voluptuous sensuality. Nothing has ever felt this good.
Nothing ever will. Miri knows this even now, before Jack has removed the rest of her clothes, before he has removed any of his. Before she has touched his skin. Before, she realizes, he has even kissed her.
The moment she has this realization, she can think of nothing else except his lips. She can’t see them but she remembers them perfectly. The lovely bow of his top lip, the strong line of the bottom. She can’t stop her tongue from reaching out and touching her own lips.
Jack’s head pulls away from her belly with what seems to her like reluctance. His body follows until all she feels is the aftermath of heat. She can tell he hasn’t moved far, that he is standing in front of the chair, that he is considering something.
“I shouldn’t do this,” he mutters. “If I do, it will be too much.”
Miri doesn’t speak. She wants the “too much”—whatever it is. She wants anything and everything he wants to give her.
She waits, hears footsteps as he walks over to the window. He stands there, looking out. She doesn’t know how she knows this, but she does.
What is odder than the knowing is that the heat he has built in her, one touch at a time, does not dispel when he leaves her waiting. The opposite is true. It’s as if he’s left her simmering on a stove, the bubbles roiling in her body. The heat may be set on low, but that doesn’t stop the bubbles.
She hears the moment he makes up his mind. He turns—sharply, she thinks—and strides across the room to her, his footsteps firmer and quicker and more adamant than before.
She catches her breath, and it’s a good thing she does.
Because he leans down and, without touching her anywhere else, captures her lips with his. Softly at first, they explore her mouth, gently rubbing against her bottom lip and then her top.
She’d been right about his lips. They are perfect.
She feels his arms trembling against the chair, and opens her mouth to him, wanting to give him something in return for what he’s given her. He doesn’t move, though the trembling increases.
She touches the tip of her tongue to that perfect upper lip, follows it with her teeth. A slight groan rewards her. She swirls her tongue across his bottom lip, then into his mouth, deep into his mouth, dueling with his tongue.
Finally, she thinks, when he groans and takes charge of the kiss the way he’s taken charge of her body. And again she is transported. He kisses the way he touches her, with all his attention, with every inch of his body involved.
She feels him settle against her, his weight warm and heavy against her skin, each inch of which craves him. He rubs against her like a cat: slowly, subtly, silkily. And all the while he is kissing her. He never stops kissing her, never gives her a moment to breathe, and she doesn’t want one.
She doesn’t want to breathe if it means giving up the weight of his body against her, the feel of his tongue in her mouth, the press of his cock against her. She squirms against him—reaching, striving for that perfect spot.
She feels his lips grin against her before he pulls away. “I knew this wasn’t a good idea,” he says, and leans in to kiss her once more. “But it was worth it.”
His tongue takes a quick swipe at the sensitive skin behind her left ear and he whispers, “Later,” and moves away. She listens to the sound of his zipper, the thud of his shoes on the floor, the erotically soft sound of cotton sliding down his legs. She imagines the body beneath the clothes, the long, lean muscles, the hair arrowing down his chest to his cock.
His cock.
She doesn’t need to see it to know that it’s standing straight out from his loins, doesn’t need to touch it to know that it’s hot and silky smooth, doesn’t need to taste it to know that it tastes of sex, doesn’t need to smell it to know that it smells of hunger.
He walks back toward her, his footsteps light and sure, feet bare on the carpet. Dampness pools again, her scent stronger and richer as she imagines his naked body touching hers.
He can read her mind; she’s sure of it now.
Because he leans over her and whispers again. “If I untie you, will you promise not to move?”
“Yes,” she whispers back. “Anything.”
She feels his skin touch her as he unties the bands from her elbows, her wrists. She moans as he unties her knees and her ankles, but she doesn’t move. She’ll do nothing to endanger this evening.
“Stand up,” he says. “I’ll help you.”
Miri is shaking as she places her hands on the arms of the chair and levers herself out of it. Jack lifts her into his arms and carries her to the bed, placing her on her back in the middle.
“Don’t move,” he says again.
He settles onto the bed beside her, the warmth of his body, knowing he’s naked next to her, arousing both comfort and raging desire. He runs his hand from her shoulder across her chest, then down the middle of her body, stopping just above her pantie line.
“You’re so beautiful, Miri. So beautiful I want to devour you. Roll over.”
He waits while she rolls onto her belly, and she waits to see what delights he has for her. He unsnaps the fastenings of her bra and pulls it from her. Her nipples pucker and rub, against her conscious will, against the linen. He tears her panties from her and then he begins.
He starts again with her feet, his tongue wet and silky against her soles, her ankles, her calves and thighs. He spreads her legs and settles between them, his warmth turning to heat as he moves up her body.
He runs his tongue up the crease of her ass, teasing her anus until she has to fight not to squirm against him. He grasps her hips, curling his big hands around until they’re mere inches from where she wants them, teasing her curls, the crease of her thigh.
He shifts her upward and nips at the curve of her ass, then licks his way up her spine, his body following his tongue until finally, finally, she feels his cock against her, thick and heavy and burning hot. It nestles against her ass and once again she fights not to move.
He nips at her shoulder blades, her neck, her ears, and then lies over her, covers her with his body, his cock hard against her ass, his arms stretched above her head, her hands in his. “God, Miri, if I move, if you move, it’s all over.”
She nods in understanding. She knows at this moment that if she shifts, even an inch, if he touches her clit, her cunt, even her nipples, she will go over. If his cock moves, even an inch, he will go over. So she waits while he takes a few deep breaths.
He takes another deep breath and moves away. “Roll over,” he says again, his voice so deep and gravelly she can barely distinguish the words.
She settles again in the middle of the bed.
Jack’s body hovers above hers. Miri senses his indecision, his anticipation, his fever. But he’s much stronger than she and he pulls back. Again. He grabs two pillows from the bed, lifts her hips and places the pillows beneath her. He spreads her legs, and she imagines him licking his lips as a starving man might before a feast. She imagines this because she knows this is what she would do if she had him lying naked before her, his cock waiting for her mouth.
He carefully arranges himself over her, his cock touching only the pillows, his weight on his arms rather than on her.
And then, and then, oh, God. He takes her nipple into his mouth and she explodes. A single touch and she can’t stop herself.
“Don’t move,” he says. “I know,” he whispers, his tongue moist and gentle on her nipple, drawing out the orgasm until all she can do is moan against his hair.
When she is—finally—silent and still, her breathing relaxed, he moves again, and Miri realizes that coming hasn’t changed a thing. She is still on the edge and one more touch will put her back over it.
He moves down her body, and this time he doesn’t stop at her pantie line. He nuzzles into the lush hair and then slides farther. She imagines the feel of the linen on his cock and knows he can hardly bear it. That if he willed it, he might come without another touch.
She clenches her hands at her sides to stop them from reaching for his shoulders, for his hair, for his face and mouth and hands. For his cock. Her mouth waters to taste him. To lick her way around his body as he has done, is still doing, to hers.
He presses the pads of his thumbs to her labia, gently, carefully. Presses the lips apart and then touches, lightly, his tongue to her. She quivers and fights not to move.
He slides his tongue between the folds, up and down, slowly, the lightest of touches, avoiding her clitoris, but stroking deeper into her with each slide.
She is lulled into sensation, like slipping into a warm bath, the orgasm sneaking up on her like an earthquake, an unanticipated explosion coursing through her body.
Jack smiles against her and continues to tongue her, harder this time, more insistent, and the sensation continues. She can’t stop shaking, can’t stop the waves of feeling rolling over her. Here, now, is the tsunami, wave after wave of it.
When he stops, she allows herself to reach for him, allows herself to pull the blindfold from her eyes.
She pulls him up the bed and pushes him onto his back. “Don’t move,” she says, as she leans forward and fastens the blindfold over his eyes. “Don’t move.”
“Don’t hurry,” he says in return. She watches his hands clench tight at his sides and the muscles in his thighs shift as he tries to relax into the bed.
She begins, as he did, at his feet, echoing his touch, his movements. She is careful to avoid his cock, though when she reaches his thighs the scent is almost too much for her. She wants it in her mouth, in her cunt, so badly that she begins to sweat at the nearness of it.
She forces herself to move on to his belly, to his nipples—he’s very sensitive, and when she nips one of them between her teeth, she feels the warmth of pre-ejaculate on her thigh. She slows when she reaches his neck and ears, loving the sound of his groan when she licks behind his ears, when she nips the lobe, when she slides her tongue inside.
“Turn over,” she says. “Carefully.”
She moves the pillows to the center of the bed so they’ll fit under his hips. She adjusts him so his cock is not pressed too tightly against them. His hold on himself is precarious. Shudders course through his back, his thighs, his chest. He is on the edge, walking the tightrope in a high wind.
She begins this time at his shoulders, moving slowly and lightly. She avoids the base of his spine and the backs of his knees, knowing what touch will be too much.
She can’t resist one quick swipe of her tongue over his ass, one nip on each cheek, a quick lunge into his anus. But she stops when he shivers.
She pulls away the pillows and tells him to roll onto his back.
She lays her body over him, her mouth at his right ear and whispers, “What do you want? Do you want me to suck your cock? Do you want me to fuck you?”
She pulls the blindfold from his eyes and waits for his response.
“I want everything.”
Miri smiles.
She slides down his body, savoring every motion, every groan, every shiver. She takes his balls into her mouth and he groans. She touches her tongue to the damp tip of his cock and he shakes.
She slides her tongue around the sensitive head. It’s too much; she knows it is as he grabs and pulls her up and under him. His cock thrusts, hard, deep into the heart of her, and she screams, her cunt convulsing around him.
Three strokes and he joins her, his rough voice chanting, “Miri. Miri. Miri.”
The weight of him, on her and in her, relaxes her into a puddle of warmth, and she sighs. Then sighs again when he resumes stroking, his cock hardening with each movement. The pressure is almost pain, and positively too much pleasure.
“Again,” he says. “Come with me. One more time.”
And she does.
When she wakes in the morning, her sundress is draped on the bed beside her. A glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a pot of coffee rest on the bedside table, a single red rose on her pillow.
And no Jack.