by Noelle Adams
His hands stay busy as we kiss, rubbing up and down over my body. Anything he’s able to reach. Eventually he starts to bunch up the skirt of my dress so he can get his hands underneath.
I gasp into his mouth when I feel his hands against the bare skin of my thighs.
“Is this okay?” he asks, hoarse and soft. He’s pulled just slightly out of the kiss, and I can feel his breath against my skin.
“Yeah.”
“It’s not too fast?”
“No. No. It’s just right. Touch me there. Touch me everywhere.” I can’t believe I’ve actually said that. In any other situation, I would have been embarrassed.
But there’s no way I can be embarrassed right now. He’s obviously just as eager as I am, and I’ve purposefully set aside the part of me that would normally throw up inhibitions.
It doesn’t matter right now.
Nothing matters except the way I’m feeling. And the way Marcus feels too.
He’s so aroused it has to be uncomfortable in the confines of his pants. He’s rubbing himself against me as he kisses me again. He says against my mouth, “Everywhere it is.”
I’m so overwhelmed with growing desire that I lift one of my legs and try to wrap it around him as we embrace, trying to get more pressure where I need it. I don’t care if I have to hump his thigh. I need some relief from this throbbing ache.
“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he rasps, releasing my mouth so he can trail kisses down my jaw and throat. “I knew you’d be like this.”
“No, you didn’t.” Don’t ask me why I argue. I just do.
“Yes, I did. All that never-ending good-girl routine had to be suppressing something powerful.” He’s got one hand between my legs now, tucking his fingers beneath the edge of my panties.
We both moan when he feels my arousal.
“Oh fucking God, you’re so hot and wet.”
“Uh-huh.” It’s a silly response, but it’s all I’m capable of because his fingers are moving against my aroused flesh, and it’s doing something wild to the knot of pressure at my center.
His fingers move more intentionally. “Fuck, you’re eager. You’re gonna come just from this.”
I arch against the wall, tightening my leg around him and completely shameless as I move against his hand. “Yeah, I am. Yeah. Y—”
The pleasure is clamping down so hard and fast that I’ve already lost my words. I make a weird mewling sound as I come against his hand.
I’m gasping and shuddering as the pleasure rushes through me, and I’m still shaking a little in the aftermath as my body relaxes deliciously.
He’s still stroking me intimately, and I can tell he’s smiling against my neck. “That might have been the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“It was just a little orgasm,” I say, feeling a bit self-conscious for the first time. Surely it’s not normal to come so quickly from nothing more than a few strokes of a guy’s fingers.
It’s never happened to me like that before.
“Little? So you think you can come harder than that? We’re definitely going to explore that possibility.”
I’m leaning against the wall limply, smiling up at him like a fool.
He grabs my bottom and hefts me up so I have to wrap my legs around his middle to keep stable. He carries me like that over to the big, sturdy dining room table.
I suck in a sharp breath as he settles me on the edge. “On the table?”
“Why not?”
“What about the bed?”
“We’re going to get to the bed. We’re going to get everywhere. But if I don’t get inside you soon, I’m going to lose it.”
“Really?”
He gives me a sheepish smile as he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a couple of condom packets.
“Oh my God, Marcus! You always have condoms in your pocket?”
“Never hurts to be prepared.” He gives me a quick look. “You still want to do this?”
“Of course I do. I thought you promised me an even harder orgasm.”
“I’ll do the best I can.”
I like that he says it like that. That he doesn’t assume he’s some kind of sex god who can make a woman’s body do exactly what he wants it to do.
I grab the front of his trousers and undo the button and zipper, pushing his pants down and then tucking both hands into his underwear so I can find his erection.
He’s big and firm and warm to my touch. I rub the length of him, his pubic hair tickling my knuckles.
He groans deliciously as I fondle him, but he doesn’t let me do it for long. He bunches my skirt up around my waist and pulls off my panties. Then he pushes down his pants and underwear and rolls the condom on.
I’m breathing fast and shallow as he pulls my legs apart so he can position himself at my entrance. He’s a good size. I want to feel him inside me. I want to fuck him like this on the edge of the dining room table.
I’ve never done anything like it before.
He helps me position my legs as he starts to edge himself inside me. He does it slowly, and I’m whimpering helplessly as he enters inch by inch.
“Fuck,” he gasps against my neck. “Oh fuck.”
“You say that a lot when you have sex.”
“Can you think of a more appropriate word?”
“Not really.” I smile as he kisses me again, pumping his hips just slightly.
“You feel just as good as I knew you would.”
“How did you know?”
“I don’t know. I just did.” His slight pumping is intensifying. He’s pulling out a little more with each thrust, shaking my body as he pushes back in.
It feels so good I moan shamelessly.
“That’s right,” he murmurs. “Let go. Let yourself feel good.”
I try to move my body with his, but I have little freedom in this position. My body is hot and urgent and out of my control. He’s moving it the way he wants, and the sensations are building so fast and intense that I’m not sure how I’m going to handle them.
Eventually it’s too much for me to hold my position. I fall back onto the table, spreading my arms out so I can claw the old wood, seeking purchase, seeking anything I can hold on to.
He adjusts his stance to my change in position. “Look at you, Jennifer. You’re so wild and sexy. You’re gonna come so hard. I’ve never seen anything hotter than you are right now.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.” I repeat the word over and over again to the rhythm of his thrusting. He’s shaking my whole body. My breasts and thighs jiggle. My head is tossing back and forth against the hard surface. My hair is sticking to my damp face.
The pressure between my thighs keeps building and building, and soon it’s almost agonizing. I want it to break. I need it to break. I pump my hips eagerly as my whimpers turn into sobs.
Marcus is bracing himself on the table. I can’t focus enough to look at him constantly, but whenever I do, the hot hunger in his eyes takes my breath away. “Touch yourself, Jennifer. Rub yourself. You need to come.”
“Yeah. Need to come. Need it so bad.” I’m babbling embarrassingly, and I never even question his directions. I find the coordination to move one hand between my legs and rub my clit with two fingertips.
I cry out in relief as my orgasm finally builds momentum.
“There you go. Good girl. Keep doing that. You’re gonna come so hard. You’re gonna feel so good.”
His soft murmuring might be the sexiest bedroom talk I’ve ever heard. I have no idea why, but it’s really working for me. I rub my clit as he fucks me hard, and it’s only a minute or two before the pressure shatters in an intense orgasm.
I sob my way through it, twisting my body as the spasms of pleasure pulse through me. I’ve just barely come down when Marcus comes too, grunting like an animal before he bites back a word as his body shakes and jerks through his climax.
We’re both panting and sweating when the last of the aftershocks have worked their way out
. I lie limply, trying to catch my breath as he pulls out and takes care of the condom and pulls up his pants.
I push my skirt down, but that’s as far as I’ve gotten in recovering my dignity when he smiles down at me.
“Don’t give me that look.”
“What look?”
“You know what look. Like you’ve proved something to me.”
“Didn’t I?”
“I don’t know. I did just as much as you did in having good sex.”
He pulls me up and wraps his arms around me. “You definitely did.” He pauses. “So you thought it was good?”
“Of course it was good! It was amazing. Didn’t you think so?” The little flicker of doubt is audible in my tone.
“Yes. I thought it was the best sex I’ve ever had.”
I blow out a breath and smile at him. “Okay. I can live with that.” He’s giving me a significant look, so I add, “I thought it would go without question that it’s the best sex I’ve ever had too.”
He’s half smiling again. “Good. And who knows how much better we can do later on.”
“Later on?”
“Of course. It’s not even eight o’clock yet. I’m kind of hungry, but if you think we can find something to eat, I’ll be up for another round later this evening.” He cocks his head slightly. “Assuming you want that.”
“Um, okay. I can’t think of any reason to refuse that offer.”
I’d thought once the mutual orgasms had been had, that whatever this was between us would be over.
But maybe I was wrong.
I have no complaints about being wrong about that.
Five
I WAKE UP THE NEXT morning sore and exhausted.
And with Marcus Greene still in my bed.
I really didn’t expect him to still be there. We had dinner together—pasta I was able to make quickly and easily—and then we had two more rounds of sex after the one on the table. The last one took place in my bed, and we were so tired afterward that we just lie side by side and panted, grinning at each other.
I got up after a few minutes to go to the bathroom and clean up, and then so did Marcus. I thought he’d leave after that, but he fell back into the bed, and I saw no reason to hurry him along.
He exerted himself quite a bit last night—and to very good purpose. He deserved to rest and recover his energy if that was what he needed before he drove home. I ended up falling asleep before he made a move to leave. I slept all night without waking.
I didn’t think it through consciously, but I would have assumed he’d be gone when I woke up, maybe texting me a funny note to tell me he had a good time. Casual sex is not in my wheelhouse, but that seems to be the norm in books, movies, and the anecdotes I’ve heard. Guys don’t normally spend the whole night.
But that’s not what happens on my first casual-sex encounter.
Marcus is still asleep in my bed when I wake up at six the following morning.
Today is Friday. A workday. No matter how much sex I had the night before, I still have to get up today and go to work.
I wriggle on the bed, watching Marcus’s face. He looks debauched and ridiculously sexy with a day’s worth of beard, no shirt, and closed eyes.
He doesn’t wake up, so I sit up on the side of the bed, moving intentionally.
Despite my best attempts, he keeps sleeping soundly. I can hear his breathing. It’s strangely intimate in the otherwise silent room.
Finally I just give him a poke in the shoulder.
“Huh.” He grunts it out, turning onto his side away from me.
I frown at him and poke him in the middle of the back. “Marcus. It’s morning.”
“Huh-uh.” I’m not sure if this is said as a response to my words or in automatic resistance to being woken.
“Marcus, wake up.” I’ve decided I’ve made enough gentle attempts to justify ruthlessness. I yank the covers off him, revealing his very fine body. He’s wearing nothing but gray boxer briefs, and they’re riding so low I can see the dark hair at his groin when I walk around the bed to his side.
My eyes linger. Who can blame me? The man is sex personified, sleeping on my rumpled bed.
“What the hell?” he grumbles, fumbling down low in an attempt to grab the covers again. Since I yanked them all the way off the bed, he has no luck.
“Marcus, it’s six in the morning.”
I see the moment when he comes fully awake, when comprehension dawns on his face. His eyes open. His expression changes. He mutters, “Shit” and pushes himself into a sitting position. “Sorry. I must have fallen asleep.”
“It’s fine.” My voice is nicer now that I’m not trying to wake up what feels like a sleeping bear. “I don’t care about that. But it’s six, and I need to start getting dressed for work. And I assume you want to run home so you can shower and put on something other than what you wore yesterday.”
“Yes. Definitely.” He hefts himself to his feet with what looks like effort. “Damn, that was a workout last night.” For the first time, one corner of his mouth tilts up.
I can’t help but smile back. “My whole body aches. I’m not exactly sure why. For instance, how was my ankle involved in having sex?”
“You’ve got me, but I feel the same way. Even my earlobes hurt.” His eyes run up and down my body. I’m wearing nothing but the oversized T-shirt I pulled on after our last round of sex last night. “Okay. I’m leaving now before I pull you back into bed and do it again.”
I flush hotly and try not to giggle. “We definitely don’t have time for that.”
He’s smiling as he leans over to snag his pants from the floor. I watch as he pulls them on and then stuffs his feet into his shoes. He doesn’t bother with his shirt. Just picks it up and walks to the front door of the house. “I’ll be back over here around seven,” he says, lingering on the front stoop.
I’ve followed him outside, and I nod, tempted to reach up and smooth down his hair. It dried after he’d been sweating, and it’s standing up on end. “I’ll be ready.”
He leans down to kiss me—not deep or tender. Just casual and kind of sweet. Then he murmurs into my ear, “I had a good time last night. Let me know if you ever want to let go like that again.”
It’s a good thing to say. Nice and validating and casual enough to dispel any potential awkwardness between us. One tiny part of me is disappointed. Maybe that one stupid corner of my mind wants him to ask for more. Not romance. Even that little corner of my mind isn’t that stupid. It just wants a definite request for sex again. It wants Marcus to pursue me.
But I don’t need that. This is better. This is no pressure at all. I can think about it (overthink, as I normally do) and decide whether more sex with him would be smart.
“I had a good time too,” I tell him with a smile.
He peers at me a little longer than I would expect, and I think he’s going to say something. But he doesn’t. He gives me an appealing grin and then heads for his pickup truck.
I watch as he drives off until I realize what I’m doing.
I quickly dispel any flicker of sappiness and go inside to take a long, hot shower and try to get ready for the day.
THE DRIVE TO AND FROM work that Friday is like normal.
Exactly like normal.
Marcus is relaxed and friendly, occasionally teasing me and occasionally asking real questions. I respond to him in my usual way, and nothing seems to be changed between us.
We had sex last night. Really good sex.
And evidently Marcus has forgotten it now that the night is over.
It’s fine. He told me I could let him know if I want to have sex again, and that seems a safe, reasonable place to leave it.
I do want to have sex with him again. I think about it all day at work. I think about it during the drive home. And I think about it as he pulls up the driveway to my grandmother’s little house to let me out.
But I simply can’t bring myself to come out and ask for sex directl
y like that. I know there wouldn’t be anything wrong with it, but it doesn’t feel like me. It would make me feel needy and a little embarrassed. I know I let down inhibitions last night, but they’re back up again now, and there are limits to how much I’ll let myself be vulnerable.
That’s too much. Too vulnerable. I simply can’t do it, even though I really want Marcus in my bed again tonight.
Instead, we say a friendly farewell, and he drives away.
The weekend passes, and I think about having sex with Marcus a lot.
Monday comes, and I’m still thinking about it.
The rest of the week goes by—slowly, dragging in that way days do when there’s nothing exciting on the horizon—and Marcus acts like nothing in the world has happened between us.
It’s strange. Unnerving.
Surely he’d at least mention it if it was on his mind at all.
Surely he wants to do it again. He certainly seemed to enjoy it while it was happening.
Maybe he always enjoys sex. Maybe what we did—as heart-stopping as it felt to me—wasn’t special enough for him to make an effort toward a second act.
It’s a depressing thought, and I feel blah and heavy as we drive home on Friday evening.
It’s been more than a week now. I still stay awake far too long at night, daydreaming about Marcus kissing me, touching me, moving inside me. I daydream so much that I’ve had to use my vibrator every single day.
It’s not enough.
I don’t just want an orgasm.
I want him in bed with me.
Maybe my mood is spreading, because Marcus is kind of grumpy. I’ve made several attempts at conversation on the ride home, trying to make myself feel like normal again. It takes a real effort on my part because I’m not in the mood for talking, but I feel like I’m obliged to make the attempt. He’s almost never grumpy, so I’m surprised when I ask another question and he just grumbles out a nonanswer.
I look at him in surprise. “I asked if your dad’s knee is any better,” I say, my tone a little less intentionally friendly.
“And I said it was okay.”
