by Pearl Jones
But then he pulled away. Almost shied away, really, sliding down to kneel on the floor.
"Why?” Why had he stopped, why was he out of reach, why wasn't he inside her already? She propped herself up on one elbow, the better to see him. Almost within kissing distance, but not quite; if he needed a bit of space, she'd leave him some. But why? He was ready, she saw, so it wasn't that. What was he waiting for?
"We really should talk ... first."
She bit his shoulder, it being convenient. “You truly are the oddest man. Fine. What is it you want to say?"
He pouted—there was no other word for it—and she laughed and leaned in to nibble his outthrust lower lip. He tickled her to make her let go, then reached out to tug her closer. Her legs parted naturally to welcome him, and she slid down from the bed into his lap, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders for a moment before she twined her fingers into his hair and claimed his mouth in a thorough kiss. He sank down, carrying her with him, and they rolled around on the floor, and she took advantage of the moment to stroke his shaft, and the time for hesitation was at an end at last.
The loose pants he wore proved his only covering, and she marveled at what she found beneath them. A tree trunk. Bad jokes about splitters would seem appropriate. Not that she was in a mood to joke, exactly. But she was sure he wouldn't have a problem with it if she laughed, even while staring at his genitals. Unlike some of the men in her past.
Of course, they hadn't had such impressive equipment. Bet no one ever trotted out that line about size not being important with him! It seemed a shame to veil it, and she was briefly tempted to “forget” about protection—but only for a moment. “Um, did you happen to notice where I put my purse?"
"Oh. Right. Damn. Can't believe I forgot.” He didn't bother to rise, simply stretched his arm toward the basket where her clothing had ended up. “Here."
She had to smile at the careful display of manners. Surely, under the circumstances, he might have dug through the bag? But no. The first foil packet she found seemed a bit on the smallish side, so she reached for a second, then a third, then upended her purse on the floor beside them, searching for something large enough to sheath a tree. “And if you say one word about the selection, I'll ... I'll tie a yellow ribbon around you."
"Yellow?"
Her assumption was proved correct; he wasn't the sort to object to a bit of laughter in loveplay. In fact, by the look he was giving her, he wasn't the sort to object to anything she might want to do.
"Why yellow, in particular?"
"What do you want? They don't sing about redwoods.” She spied a promisingly large silver envelope, and reached. Extra-large, it read. “Victory!"
"What color do they wear for that?"
"Darlin',” she tore the packet open, “I neither know nor care."
Her hands shook. Just a little, but undeniably. Nerves? Excitement? Both, probably. She bit her lip, concentrating on the condom, on the necessity of easing it over the hot satin smoothness of his cockhead.
His breath hissed out. She looked up, and met his gaze, the deep blue of the sky at the moment before dawn, a color she had known and cherished since her earliest memories. “There you are, then,” he murmured, a lilt in his voice.
She thought she should not understand what he meant. But her eyes filled, brimmed over. He kissed her tears away, his cock half-dressed and hard in her grip, yet seeming not to trouble him at all.
When the strange emotion had eased, she smoothed the condom into place, smiling down at her handiwork, then back up at him. “There you are."
He laughed as he reached for her, so softly she felt the vibrations more than the sound, like hearing the distant thunder of hoofbeats through the earth. Or through the sky, as he lowered himself gently down atop her, just long enough for her to be conscious of the weight.
He was gone too quickly. “Why?"
The brilliant gentian blue gaze was her answer: he wanted to look at her, to be sure she was real. Oh, help! She had never felt more beautiful, more aroused, or more desperate to please a man—or less worried about that last. It was going to be incredible ... if she didn't die of wanting first!
It was a distinct possibility, too, the way she felt. So she reached up and pulled. “Come here, you."
He moved slowly, but he moved, settling between her thighs at last. She wrapped her legs around him, wanting to pull him closer, faster, in, and he let her test her strength against him for a moment. Sturdy as a tree, no surprise. “But with much softer bark."
No laughter shook his body now; he was intent on his incremental progress, teasing, testing, nuzzling until she thought she would scream if he didn't ... just ... “Please."
The first push went on forever, stretching and reforming her, too intense for pleasure, nothing at all like pain. A sense of rightness that frightened her in the heartbeat she had to spare before physical sensation stole all her attention. A feeling of completion, of being made whole.
Wholly sheathed within her, he kissed her, and she shivered around him, beneath him, dazed and awed and excited and eager for what would come. It had never been like this before—she could feel everything, the tiny flex of muscle as he prepared to move; the different textures of hair and skin; the breeze of his breath and his motion; everything. When he moved, she moved with him, unthinking, in harmony, not wanting to be parted from him even that slight bit.
If it troubled him, he didn't show it, but she thought he was surprised. Not displeased, certainly. She tensed and flexed around him, and he flexed in response, and the sensation was like nothing she had dreamed. He set the pace, and she followed, the pair outwardly still but for their shivering pleasure.
His hands slipped beneath her ass, tilting her, and she gasped at the feel of those incredible huge hands cupping her, fingers curling in. Gasped again as he pulled her back from his body, withdrawing slightly and pushing forward at this new angle. She hadn't thought there was any deeper left to go, but it seemed there was, and he taught her of new depths to be filled. New heights of pleasure to reach.
She'd have been afraid if it hadn't been so wonderful. If he hadn't been there, supporting her, driving her on. And there for her to rest against, when at last he let her come down from impossible heights. For a time, all she could do was lie there, her back to his chest, feeling the slow, gentle rise and fall of his breath.
Why wasn't he panting? She was! For quite some while. But at last, her sweat cooled, her heart slowed. She turned her head to plant a kiss on his nipple, smiling at the sheer size of him, that let her use his chest for a pillow while stretched out on him as she was.
"Okay, tree-man"—her voice was a little unsteady still—"now you can talk."
"But can I think? Honey, you undid me."
Honey. He'd called her that before. But he hadn't objected to her constant tree references, or teddy bear, come to that, so she figured she'd let it go. Honey-sweet ... “Hey, what was that drink, last night?"
He blushed; this time she was sure of it, felt the heat rush across his skin.
"What was it?"
"A drink I've had no call to use of late."
"Something to go with that sex-yoga stuff, tantric?"
He choked. “How?"
"I told you: Carrie-Anne."
"Carrie? She never..."
"Women talk, you know."
"Do they?” He grinned like a cat in the cream. “Come here, then, and let me give you something to talk about.” He took his time, lapping like a cat, licking and nibbling until she screamed and came apart.
And then he began again.
* * * *
She begged for rest at last. He purred, a very large, very proud cat indeed, and managed to pour the cool tea without spilling any, but she didn't have the strength to hold a cup. Between sips from his lips—it tasted better that way—she asked, “What's it do, the liqueur?"
"It, ah, used with certain techniques, it heightens the experience."
She just lo
oked at him.
"It makes you tingly."
"And you thought I needed that."
"Hell, I was just trying not to tear your clothes off. There's a comfort to be had in ritual, in habit."
She looked at him, the easy posture despite his reddened cheeks, and felt ... too much. She wanted to laugh, to cry, to tickle him as she would a child, to hold him, to climb him like a tree—and never, ever come down again. Her voice was thick when she spoke. “No clothes now."
* * * *
They rested where they lay, basking in sunlight, talking a little about a great many things, stroking and teasing and learning sensitive areas and preferred touches and the myriad textures of a new lover.
Lover?
Well, what else am I supposed to call it? I'm too damned old to have a boyfriend, and this isn't a one-night-stand, whatever happens now—it's daytime. The retreat into flippancy couldn't hide her deeper thoughts. She wanted to know this man, wanted to spend time with him, to learn his history and his habits, his quirks and what made him laugh ... Down, girl. He warned you, he's like Carrie-Anne. Can you really see dating her?
Well, no, but she's not built like this. Her hand cupped his balls, or tried—he was built to scale, her tree.
"So, what's the deal with all the yoga?"
"It's a discipline."
She nodded; like doing tai chi or sitting zazen, she got that. But most people did poses and meditation. “Why sex?"
"At first, because sex ed in school gave me nothing, and I wanted to know how to please a partner. If I ever got one."
She raised up on one elbow, the better to stare.
"I started when I was very young.” His eyes were dark—something hidden. Bad experience? But anyone who claimed to have a happy childhood didn't remember what it was like. She decided the shadow in his gaze was probably just memories, and kissed him to make the pain fade. He spoke against her lips, happier now. “And I practiced a great deal."
"I can tell.” Her mind caught up with her tongue half a second too late. “Um, that is ... you're very skilled...” No, that wasn't going to work. “Oh, hell. You know what I mean."
"No, what?” He grinned.
"Do you want me to bite you again?"
"Yes, please.” Still smiling, his tilted his head, offering his neck. “Here."
She laughed. “I was kidding."
"I'm not."
That surprised her. “You're into pain?"
"No."
"Then..."
"Oh, my l-lady.” He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. That same oceanic breath he had used while standing on his head, she thought. A meditation breath. In and in and in and in and stillness, out and out and out and out and rest. She watched, and waited, and wondered if she should worry, but admired instead. He really was quite decorative, sun-darkened skin fading from the top down, a farmer's tan, skin taut over healthy lean muscle, cock proud and thick, and pointing slightly down.
She'd never seen one that did that when erect, and since he wasn't watching to see her stare, she took the chance. Nothing wrong with the way it worked, she could attest; it was simply a point of interest. She knelt by his side, the better to examine the angle of the shaft.
"Like what you see?"
"Oh, yes.” She bestowed a quick peck on the helmet, then a second, longer, wetter kiss. “But I don't see the advantage to the angle. I mean, as far as evolution."
"Mm-hmm."
The sound was ... uninformative. Jackie couldn't figure out what he was after, and his face gave her no clue. He caught her eye, gave her a lopsided sort of smile, and made a twirling gesture with one finger.
Turn around? Why? But she shrugged and knee-stepped until her back was to him, slowly, hearing the rustle of foil and latex behind her as she moved. And then he set his hands around her waist and lifted her, setting her down kneeling over him.
"Try that.” There was laughter in his words, and heat. She craned her head around to stare, and he nodded. “Go on. I'll just lie here."
"Wait. You want? But, what happened to wanting to be close to me? You don't even want to look at me when we...?"
"Oh, I'll be looking. Trust me."
She wondered what he was thinking, but didn't ask. What the hell? So he wanted to have sex back to front, maybe he was an ass man. Or maybe he worried he made faces when he came. Nothing wrong with a little vanity. Actually, it'd be kind of nice to know he wasn't perfect, reassuringly normal. And as kinks went ... “But what does this have to do with—” He flexed his hips, cockhead brushing, teasing her, and she decided words could wait.
She'd never been one for the manual insertion of tab A into slot B, preferring the slow slide of flesh against flesh, even if that entailed some minor gymnastic twisting. This, though, was a new challenge for her. She worried she might break him, the relative angles being what they were.
It turned out to be no problem at all. She leaned forward, her hands on his knees for balance, and before she'd so much as shifted her weight, he lifted slightly and his cockhead found her entrance neat as sliding home.
It felt right, that smooth hot length stretching her. And then it felt more than right, and all thoughts of angles and anatomy fled, leaving only sensation. A part of her she'd never known she had announced itself, liquid, languid pleasure flooding through her.
She gasped. He made a soft sound of his own and thrust, very gently, and little streams of pleasure ran down her legs. He moved again, and her body responded with yet another liquid rush. All she could do was hang on for the ride, her body an ocean and him stirring the sea.
His motions were slow and considered, gentler than she could have dreamed, seducing her pleasure until she cried out, a high keening she'd have been embarrassed about in any circumstance but this, barely heard over the rush of pleasure. His cock pressed into her, nuzzling and rubbing and stroking until she melted, and still more...
He was sitting up, supporting her, still inside her when she could think again.
"You screamed.” His voice was a low rumble in her ear, a puff of warmth that soothed her nape. “Was that pain?"
She considered. “No, not exactly. But...” Oh, right. She'd asked him, earlier, if he was into being hurt. Biting had never sounded like fun to her, but he, quite obviously, knew tricks she hadn't encountered before. Maybe there was a technique to being bitten? She craned her neck to look at him. “But what if I was too rough, if I really did hurt you?"
His laughter shook her, inside and out. “I'll risk it. Any time."
There was that odd tone again, some meaning lingering beneath his words. She'd have asked him what he meant, but he twitched somehow, and she was gone, climbing again...
* * * *
Jackie wasn't sure if she'd blacked out or fallen asleep or simply had an out of body experience—or just the greatest orgasm of her life. But eventually, she returned to her body or it coalesced around her or she woke or whatever, and found herself in his arms, safe and warm and only slightly itchy from drying sweat.
"Wow."
Laughter rumbled in his chest, vibrating through her, as well. “Thank you. I take it you see the advantage, now?"
"Uh-huh. You endow a chair at that tantric school? ‘Cause, gotta say, you should."
"I aim to please."
His tone was too impossibly smug to be borne, so she jabbed him in the ribs. Gently, more or less.
"Hey!” He grabbed her hand. “Goddesses aren't supposed to use pitchforks.” After kissing each fingertip, he turned her hand within his grip and bent his attention to her knuckles. “Thank you."
The shift in tone, and emotion, and the gentle press of his lips, brought tears to her eyes. “For what?"
"For being you, of course.” He met her eyes, his own suspiciously bright. “Don't worry about it. I told you, I'm like Carrie that way."
She thought about what her partner would have meant had she said something like that, what he might mean, and her nipples came up. The reason they called their
business Deas: their goal was to be what people needed, to answer their prayers. Thank you for being what I need. “I aim to please,” she choked out at last.
* * * *
He moved them to the bed then, cradling her in his arms as he rose in an impressive display of strength and balance nearly ruined by slippery packets underfoot. When they landed safely, and their laughter and subsequent kisses had run their course, they cuddled, sometimes silent, sometimes saying whatever came to mind.
"So what's the difference, between yoga-sex and the regular kind?"
He laughed. “Yoga sex? I suppose it'd be fairly contorted, but then, even missionaries must bend now and then."
"You know what I mean."
He smiled—no, he beamed, joy radiating out from his every pore. “Yes. I do.” She could have basked in his warmth for hours, but he seemed to have decided it was time for some new point on his agenda. Before she could so much as muster a protest, she was wrapped in a robe and seated in his kitchen, on a high, low-backed chair that still didn't help her reach his height. “Where were we? Oh, how do you feel about tofu? Never mind."
He laughed at her shudder, pulling things from his refrigerator in what was surely less haphazard a fashion than it seemed, though she could not imagine what he was going to do with some of those ingredients. As he worked, he spoke. “I'm a Buddhist, you know."
That didn't seem to require a response.
"Tantric sex isn't all any one thing, any more than yoga is, or zen. There are some modernists, non-religious, who practice something ... much different from what I do. What I studied first was simply chi, energy flow, generally and as it related to sexual activity. What appeals to me most, though, what I've studied longest, is ... call it a search for telepathy through pleasure.
"Scared yet?"
"Yes.” Her smile felt a little shaky, but it was real. She nodded toward his hands. “What are you doing with that tamarind?"
