The warmth of his lips, his kiss … the feel of him actually touching me. It’s crazy how intense that build-up makes such a simple thing. It’s like he’s created a new erogenous zone in the webbing between my fore and middle finger. It’s like that place has a direct line to my clit, and every flicker of his tongue resonates through it.
God knows what’s going to happen if he progresses to anything lewder. I might pass out from the pleasure, because Lord knows I’m almost doing that very thing now. I’m shaking by the time he’s done. I’m shivering all over, and half terrified of the feel of him, moving on to some place new.
He kisses the inside of my wrist, and that’s too much. Everything is heightened to a perilous degree, not just by that long slow climb into real live touching, but by the blindfold, too. I can’t see where he’s going to go or what he’s going to do, which probably explains the little gasp I give out when he puts an actual hand on my arm.
That’s him, touching me. Only he’s not just touching. He’s grabbing, I know, and pulling me down, down into what is obviously going to be a kiss. Oh God, he’s going to kiss me, or maybe I’m going to kiss him, because once I’m halfway there I forget every fear I ever had and just sink into this thing I’ve wanted for so long.
Of course, I realise then that I never thought I’d get it. I didn’t think I’d get to put my hand in his hair, shaky but sure. I didn’t think I’d feel him sliding his own hand up through my hair, like a mirror of my touch.
Or the climax of some Hollywood movie.
And then his mouth touches mine all tentative and tender, and I could drown in it. He doesn’t kiss me, he feels me out, searching for that rhythm I like best before falling into it. His mouth slants against mine, not quite open at first but then, oh then … I feel him give himself over to it. He catches my upper lip between his, draws the movement out as slow as syrup …
Before going back for more.
It’s the best and worst kiss of my life. The best because of how new it feels, like I’ve never done this before and every move I make could be wrong, or right. Everything is startling, everything is fresh, and I’m trembling with it. I’m almost sliding off the bed, because most of my muscles don’t want to hold me up.
But there’s a worst part to this, too, and it comes about five minutes in. It comes when I actually realise that we’ve been making out for that length of time, without going any further. He’s not got his hand up my skirt and I’m not groping under his clothes for that incredible body.
We’re just doing this, like two teenagers starved of contact. It’s no wonder it feels like the first time – we’re only doing what first-timers do. He isn’t even using any tongue, until I realise how slow this is all going and how desperate I am for more and, ohhh, I don’t mean to.
I just do. I use that sudden lack of muscle mass to just ease myself off the bed, and then once I’m in his lap I get my arms around his neck. I press my body to his, in that way I’d imagined doing.
But, most importantly, I kiss him like I’m never going to get to do it again. I cram every little part of him into my memory: the taste of his mouth, like mint and like that wintry smell. And I get great handfuls of his short dark hair, burrowing through to the root. It’s so soft, softer than it looks, though his hair is not the thing I’m concentrating on.
I focus on the feel of his mouth, wet and hot and suddenly really open. Most of me is sure that he’s going to back off at any second, that he’ll find this too much or too clumsy. But it’s not like that at all. It’s like I thought before instead … about the mess that he secretly wants.
The greedier I am, the sloppier I am, the more he seems to enjoy it. I devour his mouth whole and he groans for me, and when I just let my tongue flicker into his mouth – just a little – the groan gets louder. I feel it vibrate on down through my body, before finally pooling between my legs.
Where everything is far too hot and far too wet. I think my pussy’s been replaced by a great throbbing fist, and I know I’ve soaked through my panties. We’re just kissing, but I’ve soaked through my panties. I’m groaning and wriggling, and of course I only get more shameless when I feel his hand on my back.
And then my ass.
He makes the move slowly, like maybe he’s thinking I’ll say no halfway there. But once he’s got a handful of me he gets bolder. His other hand joins the first, and suddenly I’m lifted off my knees.
He actually lifts me. All I can do is hang on tightly and kiss him harder, because, good God, I don’t think anyone’s lifted me before in my entire life. He even stands with me clinging to him like some sort of sex-crazed monkey, legs wrapped tight around his waist, arms around his neck.
He has to practically prise me off him, just to get me spread out over his bed, and even then I seem to have a complete absence of shame. I reach for him once he’s no longer pressed to me, searching for the other things I desperately want to feel, like the solid shape of his chest, under his shirt. He’s just wearing a thin sort of item of clothing, I think, no coat, just as I’d hoped. And when I wave my hands around in the air I get little fleeting impressions of his body.
He’s knelt astride my thighs, torso ramrod straight over me, and I know this because my hand glances against the taut muscles of his abdomen. I flutter my fingers over him, searching and searching, then finally find other things, further up.
Like his incredible chest. Oh Lord have mercy, is it ever incredible – sort of dense and so much more powerful seeming without the ability to see. When I look at him in the hallway or through windows, I see Ivan – cautious, closed, careful. But when I feel him, he’s this overwhelming creature, big and beautiful. It’s a primal thing, so raw and almost scary.
But here, I’m allowed to be scared. It’s safe to be that way, to be thrilled, and that’s a great feeling.
Though it’s a better one when he eases my hands away from him. He does it slowly, without insisting upon the move. And once he’s done, he trails his own hands down over my body from my throat to my stomach, passing oh-so-sensitive things in between.
I jerk when his palms slide over my breasts, though really it’s the way he does it that affects me. He’s firm without being too forceful, greedy without going too far. I feel the taut curve between his thumb and forefinger, pressing into the shape of them, mapping them out, before he slides on down.
It’s sort of like he’s cupping my whole body as he goes. I’m contained by his hands, closed in by them; I’m a series of details that he’s uncovering one by one. Like the way my breasts curve outwards slightly at the edges, when I lay down – I think he likes that. I think he likes how my waist feels – almost circled by his two massive hands – before those two hands come apart to cover the swell of my hips.
At which point, I expect him to do more. Start taking off my clothes, maybe – a thing that seemed horrifying an hour ago but is now a near necessity. I’m dying for him to do it, because, really, what do I have to worry about? I’m secure behind the sanctity of the blindfold. I don’t have to see his expression when he sees me, or look at myself while he does it.
I can just feel his hands fondling and stroking me, and imagine he’s appreciative.
Until he speaks and spoils the illusion.
‘I didn’t think you’d be like this,’ he says, while a dozen flaws crowd their way into my head. I’m too sloppy, too slovenly. I didn’t do my shoulder exercises or my waist crunches or my breast tighteners, and now I’m all wrong.
‘Like what?’ I ask, though my head tells me not to. No one wants to hear that they need to buy the new breast-hardening system from ExtremeBody.com.
‘So soft,’ he says, and there it is. Like pudding, I think, but he proves me wrong again. ‘Sometimes I think I see angles underneath your clothes, things to ward people off. The spike of an elbow or the jut of your hip. But you’re not like that at all. You’re so, so …’
He pauses, then, only this time my brain doesn’t fill in a bunch of bad words for h
im.
I know what’s coming now. I can hear it in his voice, as it struggles to get the feeling out. It’s what he wants, I think. It’s what he longs for.
Just this:
‘… inviting.’
As though being that way is as rare as a precious stone from a world we’ve never been to. It doesn’t even really exist for him, out there in the outer reaches of space. He can’t even imagine what it looks like, until it’s right there in front of him.
And even then he seems to doubt it.
‘Is that what you are, Abbie?’ he asks, though he doesn’t need to. I was five seconds away from reaching for him anyway, now I’m just going to do it. I put my hands out – surer, this time, and without that nervous flutter – and find the waistband of his trousers. The slope of his abdomen.
And this time, he doesn’t stop me. I hear him sigh, instead, soft and so good. That body of his leaning ever so slightly into my touch. Though of course with Ivan, leaning ever so slightly is more like going absolutely nuts. I can almost feel the greed vibrating off him, before he even says the words.
‘I want you. I want you. I want to let you in, too.’
It’s like being offered food for the first time. I’m starving for it, ravenous for it and, when he’s done, I push for more. I show him how welcoming I can be, in kisses pressed to his belly, beneath his shirt. In the long slow slide of my tongue around his taut little navel, and the ridged shapes of his every muscle – all of it enhanced by this sightlessness.
I can’t see what he looks like. I have to taste him and smell him and feel him, and, oh, all of those things are so good. There’s a slight tang of salt that lets me know he’s sweating from this close contact, and I can feel his stomach muscles jumping beneath this suddenly so intimate touch.
All of these clues, I think. All of these clues. I’m Poirot in the parlour, waiting for him to confess and prove me right. And the best part is: he does.
‘I’ve never let anyone be like this with me,’ he says, while I buzz all over at words like those. He could arouse me with a letter from the gas board, I think. He’s arousing me now, even though he’s barely doing anything at all.
He’s just keeping perfectly still, as I explore him the way he explored me a moment earlier – though, I confess, I go a little further. He didn’t go underneath my clothes, but I get underneath his. I find his too tight little nipples and remember how much he seemed to enjoy playing with them.
So I do. I try pinching them between thumb and forefinger, rubbing them a little, just the way I like, back and forth, and then soft, soft on the very tip. Of course I can’t use sight as a guide. I can’t see if he likes this thing more than that thing, pinching more than stroking, pleasure more than pain. I have to go by the rhythms of his body. The way his chest heaves just a little when I scratch my fingernail over one. Or the sound he makes, ohhhh, the sound he makes when I wet my finger and apply that slickness to those spiky tips …
It’s identical to the one I made when he urged me to do the same. Throaty and half stunned, so eager for more – or at least I think it’s eager for more, until he claps his hands over mine. He stops me again, forces my hands down, only this time he’s far quicker about it.
His movements have lost their easiness, their deliberation. He doesn’t urge me down on the bed, he moves away, and then all I can see and hear is the sudden space between us. There’s nothing there when I wave my hands in front of me, and no words of comfort from him, and when he finally does return it’s in a great rush of activity.
I can’t keep up with most of it. He pulls my jumper over my head and unzips my skirt, and before I know it I’m nearly bare in front of him. I can feel the air on my skin in all the places I don’t want to be – my too-rounded stomach and my big clumsy breasts and my thighs, oh God, my thighs.
So it’s a surprise, really, when he follows all of this with his mouth. I’m still stuck in self-conscious mode, wanting to cover myself but not quite daring to. But he’s busy not giving a single fuck, that perfect Cupid’s bow mouth of his finding all the places I’m most nervous about.
He goes for my waist, first – that curve he seemed to so appreciate, and now quite obviously does. I can’t deny it, even with my eyes covered and no real words spoken between us. He likes how I curve just there. He likes my stomach, and tells me so by rubbing his face against it, just as he did with my hand.
Though it’s more intense here. My body clenches all over to feel him doing it, and when my muscles let out they leave behind a thick ebb of pleasure. I’m awash in it, just knowing how soft he actually finds me.
Soft enough to bury his face in me. Soft enough to feel me all over, all at once. His hands slip inside my panties, over the curve of my ass, and then a second later they’re roaming my back, while his mouth finds my stiff nipples unerringly, through the flimsy material of my bra.
And once he’s got them he goes for more than the little tentative strokes I offered.
He sucks one tight point into his mouth, using the material there to make things so, so much worse. It rubs like velvet over that little bud, getting wetter and wetter as he goes, until finally he can’t take it anymore. There’s too much in the way, too much teasing, I think.
He wants to feel me properly, and he does. He yanks one cup of my bra down, and then it’s skin to skin. That’s his tongue I can feel, easing so slickly over my stiff nipple. Circling it quickly, before ending with one long, agonising suck.
Oh God, I swear I didn’t know something so slight and simple could feel so good. I’ve never had someone pay such dedicated attention to a part of my body I didn’t much care about, until right now. Why would I? Most men don’t, once they’ve gotten themselves as worked up as he clearly is.
Because he is. Even if he’s trying to deflect attention away from himself, I can hear it in his panting breath and feel it in the heat he’s giving off, not to mention that hard thing I can make out, ever so slightly pressing against my thigh.
But he doesn’t seem all that interested in it. His focus is so overwhelmingly on me I find myself flailing, unsure of even the simplest things – like, what do I do with my hands? Is it OK if I put them on his back? He didn’t appear to like me roaming free all over him before, but maybe it’s different now that he’s making out with my tits.
It certainly feels different. His greediness alone is turning everything on its head. He pulls my bra off without asking and kisses my mouth without any kind of deliberation, and when I spread my legs – involuntarily, I swear it’s involuntary – he hardly hesitates.
He slides his whole hand over my swollen mound, through the material of my panties.
Of course I moan. And maybe I jerk a little, too – though there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m still stuck in a space where the slightest touch is too much, where kissing feels like fucking, and licking my nipples burns a hole right through my body.
I don’t know how to process this. The move is just so open, so lewd, and, though he doesn’t actually touch any of the good stuff, everything feels him, anyway. My clit jumps at the barest hint of his fingers; my pussy clenches around nothing.
Even the shame of all of that wetness – all of the wetness he must be able to feel – doesn’t turn me off. I don’t care. I’m rubbing myself against that hand before he’s even progressed to anything more, all of my thoughts consumed by those few millimetres. Those tiny little millimetres between his fingertips and my slippery slit … how he could just ease my panties aside and work through my slick folds …
I almost tell him to do it I’m so far gone.
Just go on, I think, just press a little, rub a little.
But he simply carries on with whatever this is: his mouth on mine, hot and delicious. That big hand cupping me between my legs in a way that’s both maddening, and somehow so lovely. I’m safe like this, being held like this. I’m safe in his arms. There’s no need to be anxious over all the things he may or may not do, or all the things I don’t
know how to do.
I bask, for a moment, in bliss.
And then it’s right back to crazy, stuttering pleasure and blind panic – in this case, literally. I can’t see what he’s doing but I can feel it, and I know what it’s likely to be. Men don’t kiss their way down your body because they’re aiming for your feet.
Or so I’ve heard. From other people. Other people who’ve actually experienced oral sex, and are not mortally afraid of it. In all fairness to me, I have good reason for this completely irrational fear. I might accidentally kill him if he does this to me.
I can’t even take nipple licking, for God’s sake. My thighs want to clamp around his head before he’s even worked his way down there and, once they do, I fear they’ll decapitate him. I fear I’ll claw at his back like a rabid animal, or maybe make noises that disturb all of the wonderful quiet of his perfect apartment.
So it’s not a surprise that I put a hand over his when he hooks one finger under the elastic of my panties. It’s just a surprise that he says something when I do. I didn’t say anything to him when he made me stop. I didn’t think that was allowed, but apparently it is.
‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ he says. ‘I just want to make you feel good. Don’t you want me to make you feel good?’
‘There’s no real answer to that.’
‘Sure there is: yes.’
‘Would you have said yes if I told you I wanted to keep touching you?’ I ask, and I’m certain I’ve got him there. He falls silent for a few seconds, as though he’s stumped.
Which only makes it more shocking when I suddenly feel his tongue running over the seam of my sex, through my panties. I even feel the curl he gives to it as he gets to my clit – just enough to send a jolt of pleasure through me.
‘Probably not.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I prefer touching you. There’s nothing quite like seeing your back arch when I find your swollen clit. Ohhhh, it’s so swollen. I can feel it without really doing anything to you at all. Just a brush of my tongue and it’s right there, right through the material of your underwear.’
Deep Desires Page 7
