As Clint plunged his hard penis into her steamy depths she laughed happily, deep in her throat, and then said, “Oh, yes!”
Clint wondered why women liked to talk during sex. He hardly ever said a word but women always seemed to have to talk—to themselves, to the man, or even to God.
But he bent to the task and allowed her to talk away, if that’s what she wanted to do. He was enjoying her too much to try to stop her.
He slid his hands beneath her to cup her butt cheeks. It was a favorite position of his. He loved the way a woman’s bottom felt in his hands, and it allowed for maximum penetration. Each time he drove into her, he pulled her up to him.
“Oooh-ooh, that’s so good,” she moaned.
He agreed with her, and as his release kept building and building, it was getting better and better . . .
~*~
“You don’t talk, do you?” Nadine asked.
“What?”
“During sex,” she said. “You never talk.”
“No, I don’t.”
They were laying side-by-side on their backs, staring at the ceiling, cooling down.
“I do,” she said.
“I noticed,” he said.
She turned her head and looked at him.
“Does it bother you?”
“No,” he answered, looking at her, “not at all.”
“Good.”
They both looked back at the ceiling.
“So,” she said, “Ivanhoe.”
“Yup.”
“What else do you read?”
“Twain, Dickens, Robert Louis Stevenson . . .”
“I’m impressed even more.”
“Have you read them?”
“I have,” she said. “Even Ivanhoe.”
“So we have a lot in common,” he said.
“Including a love of art?”
“Well,” he said, looking at her again, “I’m learning.”
She reached down for the sheet, pulled it up over them, and then snuggled up to him with her head on his shoulder.
“Let’s sleep and then have sex again.”
“See,” he said, with his arm around her, “we do have a lot in common. I was just thinking the same thing.”
~*~
They woke and had sex, went to sleep, woke and had sex several times, and finally fell into a deep sleep that lasted until first light came through the window.
“Wake up,” she said, shoving him.
“Huh, what?” he muttered. “Again? Woman, are you trying to kill me?”
“No,” she said, “I’m going home to get dressed for work.”
She got out of bed, started pulling on the clothes from last night.
He quickly swung his feet to the floor, stood and started dressing.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Breakfast,” he said, “and then I said I’d take you home to change.”
“Clint, I can have the doorman get me a cab,” she said.
“No,” he said, “I want to do it. I want to make sure you get home, and then to work, safely. The party’s tomorrow, right?”
“That’s right.”
“I can help you get ready.”
“Well . . . all right.”
~*~
Rather than eat in the hotel dining room again, he asked Nadine if she knew of a place nearby for breakfast. She didn’t, so they asked the doorman, and he did. It was walking distance and before long they were seated at a table in a small café that was crowded even at that early hour. When the food came they discovered why.
“Oh, my God,” she said, “these are the best eggs I’ve ever had.”
“I know,” he said. “There are so many different places to eat in this city.” He sipped his coffee. “This is even great.”
As they continued to eat she said, “Didn’t you come to the city to see it?”
“I did.”
“Well, so far it seems to me all you’ve seen is my gallery.”
“And,” he said, “the lady who owns the gallery, in all her glory.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, “that, too.”