by Julia Kent
Miraculously, I drop my shirt as my arms band around his waist, head tipped up to take him in.
Reaching the line between your body and someone else's is like crossing an international border, but wordlessly. All the questions and answers are in the form of kisses and caresses, moans and movements.
Will unhooks my lace bra with a quick flick, the cups loosening with a maddening slack that makes my nipples even harder, begging for his warmth, wanting to be cupped by the very same hands that seem to read my mind. Before I can take a breath between kisses, he dips his head down and sucks one nipple into his holy mouth, making me let out a sound I've never made before.
“Will,” I gasp, his name so familiar yet so foreign, all four hands between us removing socially required body coverings that serve as nothing more than obstacles between us. Quickly, we're both naked, and Will stops.
He stares.
I stare back.
“You're beautiful,” he says, so much emotion in those syllables, earnest and sensual at the same time. His hair is in disarray, dark waves criss-crossing like they've lost direction. Long eyelashes frame intelligent, alert eyes. Appreciative eyes. Eyes that are hot with want to take in every inch of me.
I let him.
I let him look at me.
And I enjoy it.
The first time you sleep with someone new, there aren't just the boundaries between their body and yours. The gaze has boundaries, too. You know exactly what I mean. Stare at someone a little too long–or at the wrong spot on their body–and you quickly learn that invisible lines surround all of us.
Perimeters matter when it comes to defining ourselves in relation to others, even if they appear on no survey map.
“Will,” I say again, sitting up to touch him, being the object of his look no longer enough. The whisper of thick hair, spread across his chest with just the right calibration, makes my palm alight with fire. My nipples graze his ribs as he kisses me, a rich, full kiss that really deserves its own word.
Just ‘kiss’ doesn't begin to describe it.
“Close your eyes,” he tells me.
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
“That's how all really scary plotlines in movies start, Will.”
“I thought trusting people was your default.”
“Fine.” I close my eyes and smile. “Do we need a safeword?”
Silence. I open my eyes to find Will staring at me with the most complex sensual expression, chest rising and falling with long, deep breaths, setting a rhythm that makes me inhale slowly, with meaning.
I quickly shut my eyes.
And he pulls me up to the top of the bed, my giggles completely unexpected as my bare ass slides against the Egyptian cotton of my comforter.
“Keep your eyes closed,” he whispers in my ear, biting my earlobe for emphasis.
I follow his command.
Sound, touch, and scent become my only tools for awareness, each sense heightened by the shutting off of another. Will's thigh rubs against my hip, the bristly feel of leg hair on my smooth skin making me shiver. His body crosses over mine as if he's reaching for something, then I hear a scraping sound, one I can't identify.
He pulls back slightly, but his body is on mine. A wet, viscous sound, like gel on flesh. What on Earth is he doing?
A deep huffing sound comes out of him, then a splash of sensation, like sudden raindrops on my collarbone, my ribs, my breasts.
I open my eyes to find white goo all over my breasts.
Oh, no.
Poor Will.
It happens to the best of men, right?
“Um, so, it's okay,” I start, uncertain how to explain that while I wasn't expecting a pearl necklace tonight, premature ejaculation is nothing to be ashamed of, and–
With his fingertip, he scoops up some of the white sticky stuff and pops it straight into my open mouth.
Perky's advice comes roaring into my mind:
You really don't know a person until you're naked and in bed with them.
God help me, I'm going to have to admit to her that she was right.
Is this some kind of... fetish?
Taste buds take a little longer to kick in when the brain is occupied elsewhere, but as seconds pass, I realize the goo is sweet. Really sweet, like spun sugar.
What does this guy eat? I've heard that if men eat a lot of pineapple, their semen tastes like it. Will must live at the Necco factory and mainline wafers like a machine if his tastes like–
“...Fluff.”
“Excuse me?”
“Mallory, you're a million miles away. How's the Fluff?”
I look down at my chest. “Oh!” Relief spills through me like adrenaline. “That's Fluff?”
“What did you think it was?”
Jaw dropping, eyes going wide, I look away, horrified that I'm in bed with Will, we're both naked, and I have to explain that I thought he popped the stack a little too early. Jumped the gun. Put the cart before the horse. Rode ahead of the hounds.
“Umm...”
Booming laughter fills the room. He's next to me, head propped up on one hand, elbow supporting him. As he laughs, the bed shakes, his abs curling in. My hand is on his chest and I feel his genuine hilarity coming through as he realizes what I assumed.
“Oh, no. No, Mal,” he gasps, muscles I didn't know torsos even possessed making their debut before my eyes. “That's not–I didn't already–”
I kiss him.
Hard.
Curling his body over mine, he presses me back against the mattress, belly to belly, lips to lips, tongues moving as we stick together in harmony.
No. Really. We literally stick together.
Still laughing, Will peels himself off me, bending down to lick a spot between my breasts. “Mmmmm. We need more.”
“You're serious?”
His fingertip grazes my nipple with a decidedly sticky touch. “Of course. I never joke about Fluff. Or sex. Watching you that day you were in my parents' kitchen, licking Fluff off that spoon, made me wonder what you would look like licking it off my cock.” His tongue pokes out to swipe a drop from my nipple. “Naked.”
I swoon.
“I–” My voice breaks as he sucks the Fluff off my breast, his tongue twirling with a hot, wet warmth that makes me start to shake. “I draw the line at peanut butter.”
“Mallory Monahan, the human Fluffernutter.”
“Hah! No. Peanut butter is not meant to be combined with marshmallow. It's meant to be combined with chocolate in a Reese's Cup.”
“Two great tastes that taste great together,” he murmurs as he kisses my belly.
“No peanut butter on my body!”
“Then I guess I have to find another great taste.” With that, those masterful quarterback hands part my thighs, and Will uses another body part to display a highly developed skill, his tongue finding me wet, willing, and–oh!
Digging my fingernails into his shoulders as he goes down on me is like being allowed to touch a priceless sculpture at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. Like I'm alone at an after-hours event for very important guests.
But I'm the only guest.
And the art touches me back.
While his tongue paints brushstrokes between my legs, his mastery making me lift my hips for more, his hands roam. Big and strong, smooth and warm, they ride up over my belly, memorizing my ribs, finding my breasts and intuiting what I want–a fluttering stroke, a hard pinch, a smooth, flowing exploration of my ass, my hips and lower back, moving to my forearms and wrists.
When he reaches for my hand and interweaves our fingers, I come.
Hard.
The intensity of my climax catches me unaware, the surprise greater than my own thoughts, pleasure making my body say Yes, whisper It's my turn now, gasp Oh, God, and let this man I've wanted for so long show me how much he wants me, too. Releasing yourself to another person with the fullness of trust makes sex so much better.
And Will's perf
ect technique doesn't hurt, either.
I'm at that point where wave after wave makes me hyper-sensitive, my instinct to move away, to stop him, to say enough building inside, but then a second burst of pleasure makes me lose myself in his touch, his attention, the way his tongue seems to know exactly what to do to make me want him even more.
Accepting this from Will gives my orgasms an edge that makes me fall in love with him, all the way, without reservation.
Too soon, my mind hisses.
Finally, my heart beams.
He's kissing me, fast and wet, and my hands find his ass, his chest, his jaw, his hair, my mouth smashed against his, the taste of me lingering on him as he whispers my name, “Mallory,” interrupting the glow of my skin, the beautiful swell of my heart, the chiseled gorgeousness of his naked body, and the very real moment when I roll a condom over his glorious shaft and invite him in, my legs wide, my heart wider.
And instead of rushing in, he pauses.
The sweetest kiss ever accompanies the slow, steady, sultry feel as Will Lotham makes love to me, all the way.
All the way.
Dropping his chin, he skims it across my nipples, replacing the sandpapery feel with his mouth, the juxtaposition of disparate sensations making me shiver. Heavy above me, but held by strong muscle, his skin is intoxicating. I breathe him in and clench around him as steady strokes build an urgency inside me.
“Will,” I gasp, palms loving the feel of his shoulders working as his athletic body moves against mine, the two of us using motion to make something greater.
He stops. “Mal? You want me to–” Gentlemanly and inquiring, he's checking in to make sure I'm pleased.
Widening my hips, I take him in deeper, heels pressed against ass muscles that don't budge. “I want you. This. More of this. I'm so close, Will.”
“Again?” Pride makes him grin.
“Again. You seem to know exactly what to do to me to make me feel everything I’ve ever wanted to feel with you,” I confess.
Our gaze fixes for a long time, the deep sense of blending with him, body, heart, and mind making me disappear into him, more real than ever, less distinct, too. We’re combining, his mouth on mine for a long, savoring kiss, and then he says,
“Remember what you wrote in my yearbook?” A hot current flows between us, his pause making me feel even closer to him at the same time my body is so, so ready. On edge and half out of my mind, I take in his words and nearly answer with “I love you.”
“Yes?” I say instead. It’s safer.
“You wrote, To Will, who always knows where he’s going. When I’m with you, Mallory, that’s so true. I feel like I know myself and my path better than ever. But only with you.”
I kiss him fiercely, my own words coming from his mouth a connection that closes a circuit, that completes a loop.
Slowly, with a piercing sense of being known to my core, my body joins my mind and heart with a deep presence that touches some equally tender piece of Will, because as our climaxes build, he stares into my eyes. There's more emotion in those beautiful blue-green eyes than I've seen in a lifetime of faces. Soon he's kissing my neck, his low groan meeting my soft cries as we come together.
I didn't know I could feel so integrated. So hot. So turned on.
So known.
Peaceful silence fills the air as we breathe our way back to earth.
“That was… wow.”
“Yes.”
Lifting up, he kisses the tip of my nose, eyes on mine as I stroke his back. He's in me still, hard and touching a spot that makes me shudder.
He laughs. “More?”
Reaching up, I kiss him in answer, then say, “Later.”
I expect him to pull out and move. He doesn't, instead brushing my hair around my ear, eyes taking in all the secrets of my face.
Which aren't many when I'm post-sex, in Will Lotham's arms. Sex with Will is a truth serum. I can't keep anything from him.
“I am so stupid,” he says, the last words I expect to hear.
“That was anything but stupid!”
Throaty, rumbling laughter answers me, his eyes still on mine. “Not talking about the sex.”
“Then what?”
“You.”
I squeeze my thighs. “Pretty sure I am the sex.”
“You're the whole package.”
My mouth spreads with a grin. “Thank you. You have a few nice attributes, too.” I squeeze one of them until he grins back.
With great care, Will pulls out, takes care of the condom, and gives me a fabulous view of the same ass my heels couldn't budge moments ago. Electricity finds new conduction paths along my skin as I pull the sheets and coverlet back up, burrowing under.
His eyes light up as he turns back to me, then he joins me under the covers, curling me against his chest. Some of his hair curls in irregular patterns. My nipple sticks to his rib.
Ah, Fluff.
A wave of exhaustion hits me. His breath, too, steadies as we float off. So many firsts tonight. First home-cooked meal. First lovemaking. First overnight.
Please let them all be firsts. Not lasts. I need so much more.
“Mmmmm,” he says, the sound fading with a comfort that gives my body another reason to relax. You don't breathe like that with someone you don't trust. He's here. He's falling asleep.
With me.
Will Lotham and I just made love.
And my fourteen-year-old self doesn't geek out for a single second of it.
19
Until three hours later, when Will is crashed out on my shoulder, his hand near my neck, smelling of, well–me.
The ceiling stares back at me, as if I've made it upset by looking at it for so long.
Did that really just happen? Did Will Lotham have sex with me?
More importantly: Did I have sex with him?
And is he really staying the night?
This is too easy.
Way too easy.
The spot above my heart, where ribs and cartilage form a protective cage over the strongest and most vulnerable muscle in the body, feels like someone is trapped in there, banging on the bars of a prison. Will's body spreads over me, possessive, vulnerable, his sleep so natural.
His presence so abnormal.
People have a strong need for the familiar when they're put in unknown territory. We assimilate quickly–those of us who adapt are the ones who pass on our DNA, evolutionarily. I can adapt.
I can definitely adapt to making love with Will.
Just did.
But what takes time is the mental shift. The slow comprehension that this isn't an anomaly. The new normal for me will be unfettered access to Will's naked body.
And inviting him into my own.
What is familiar, then? I'm in my own home, sure. But I need more comfort.
I need chocolate.
Now.
Peeking under the covers, I take in the sight of my naked thigh covered by Will's naked thigh. I blink. I blink again, imagining my eyes are a camera, memorializing this image. Yes, it's silly. Yes, it makes me smile.
And yes, it's perfect.
He's spending the night. Expecting breakfast. Maybe some morning nookie.
Scratch that.
Look at that body again. Did someone carve him out of ivory, soapstone, a big old chunk of solid testosterone?
Definitely some morning nookie.
The rasp of my own breath in the back of my throat is all I hear as I move my hip just so, trying not to wake him.
Midnight expeditions for chocolate when you are alone are easy. Cravings hit. Emotions overwhelm. We aim for the fix that makes the storm of impossible feelings calm down from a whirling tornado to a wind gust.
But turning to a theobromine therapist when you're stuck to your lover–the residue of Fluff mixed with other, lovelier fluids–is layered with obstacles.
Getting my hands on those brownies in my kitchen is a journey akin to traveling through Jötunheim in God of Wa
r to reach the highest peak.
Will lets out a long sigh at the exact moment I manage to get the sole of my left foot on the ground, his hand migrating to my breast. I'm on my back, his thumb sliding across my nipple like he's ready for round... for round...
Oh, man.
I lost count.
Will's breathing settles back into the cadence of deep sleep, his hand moving enough to make me suppress a moan, stomach gurgling. I burned two brownies' worth of calories from all that sex, right?
Maybe three?
He withdraws his arm and I take my chance, my ass hitting cold air as it slides off the bed, my glutes engaged in ways that make them scream as I work to wiggle out, then stand.
Whew.
I look down.
I'm naked. And is that a hickey on my boob?
The thought of Will's lips on my skin makes me start to want him again.
Brownies.
Will.
Brownies.
Will.
Brownies–
Damn.
My refrigerator draws me like a moth to a flame. I'm just being considerate, right? It would be rude to wake him up to ask for another ride on the Willmobile.
Oh. My. God.
My inner voice has turned into Perky's.
I made the right choice.
Brownies it is.
The light from my fridge as I open the door shows my creamy thighs, the tops a little red. A smattering of love bites cover my breasts. Or maybe that's just my splotchy skin. I shiver, then pull out the white baker's box and a bottle of milk.
My carefully constructed pots de crème are sitting patiently, waiting their turn.
“I see you,” I whisper. “Don't worry. You're next.”
One minute later, I have a full glass of cow juice, an open box of brownies, and my inner voice has been silenced with the classic witch's brew of sugar, chocolate, and disbelief.
There's a soft aqua throw on the end of my sofa, slumped and disheveled from our earlier make-out session. How quaint. Hours ago, being touched and kissed so deeply by Will was extraordinary.
What just happened in my bedroom?
It was even better than any fantasy I've ever had.
Grabbing the throw, I drape it around my shoulders, the fringe tickling the tops of my thighs. Digging in the box for brownie number two, I take a bite and sigh, letting my shoulders drop, my butt bones melting into the chair, guard down for just a moment as the throw slips to the floor in a puddle, gone as I descend into a sweet haze.
