I am overwhelmed, so full of joy and exuberance and gratitude and raw fierce lust that I cannot contain it. I sink my mouth around him, sudden and fast. Take him deep into my mouth, opening my throat and tasting him on my tongue. He groans, shudders. I back away and replace mouth with fist, smearing my saliva on him. Stroke him. Faster and faster.
Feel him tremble under me, feel his moans in his chest, hear them echo in the bedroom.
I know he's close. I can feel it, taste it in the leak of clear fluid from the tip as I lick him, suckle him, feather kisses to the side, lick up the length. He throbs at my touch, thickens between my lips.
"You taste so good, Logan," I hear myself say. "Let go, let me taste you on my tongue. Give it all to me."
Who is this, speaking this way? I have never said such words. I have never even thought such words. Yet they pour from my mouth, and they sound sexy. I sound sexy. I sound worldly. Womanly. Sensual.
"Is--Isabel." He is out of breath, his voice tense. "Jesus, what are you doing to me?"
"Making you feel good, I hope."
"This isn't feeling good, Is, this is heaven."
Is. Like, a diminutive? A nickname? "Is?"
"You don't want me to call you that?"
"No, I do. I like it."
"Is. Izzy?"
"Is. I like that."
Abruptly, Logan rolls us so I'm beneath him. Kneels between my thighs, staring at me, chest heaving. The tip of his penis leaks fluid, evidence of his nearness to climax. "Will you do something for me?"
"Anything." I mean it, too. I will do anything he asks of me. It's crazy to feel so strongly so quickly, but I do.
"Touch yourself."
I've touched myself before, of course. In the dead of night, awake, unable to sleep, wrestling with old nightmares and new needs, I have touched myself. But I've always been vaguely ashamed of it, for some reason.
To touch myself in front of him? While he watches? My chest contracts and my skin feels too tight on my bones, and my heart hammers. I tingle. Blink at him. Press my thighs together.
"Logan, I don't know . . ." I whisper, not able to look at him. "I don't know if I can."
"I want to watch you make yourself feel good. It'll be so sexy, watching you." He sinks to sit on his shins, and his erection juts high and hard and proud. It is huge, and begs for my fingers, my lips. My core. "Like this, Is. Watch me."
He wraps one hand around his thick shaft, and his fist looks so hard and so big like that, so rough. It should be my hand there, not his. But it is hot, watching him. He strokes himself slowly, one pump of his fist. The head protrudes, and the skin stretches backward, and then he brings his hand back up. He thumbs the tip, and then plunges his fist down again.
Oh.
Oh, god. His face, as he does this. The way his eyes narrow. His jaw clenches. His chest expands and contracts heavily. His testicles hang and sway beneath his fist.
It is almost involuntary then, how my fingers steal across my belly and between my thighs. My core aches, watching him pleasure himself. I throb, tingle, burn. I have to touch myself, if only to alleviate the pressure. A bolt of lightning strikes me as I touch three fingers to my clitoris.
Swipe, circle, press.
My breath hitches, and I stare into his eyes, force myself to remain open, to splay my thighs wide and tuck my heels against my buttocks, to let him watch. And oh, oh, god, yes, it is erotic, so sexy. Touching my privates and knowing he's watching. Seeing him do the same. The intimacy binds us. I cannot look away, cannot stop. I'm rising toward climax, a mountain of heat washing over me, a tidal wave of intensity crashing through me. And I'm watching his fist pump harder and harder, and his touch is so rough, so harsh, so vigorous. I would be gentler, softer. I would caress him with such gentility, such exquisite tenderness.
I keep one hand between my thighs, stroking myself in ever-quickening circles, but I have to touch him. I knock his hand away and replace it with mine. I stroke us both, and he watches.
My hand is a plunging blur around his thickness, pumping up and down and up and down, faster and faster. He's groaning, and I'm whimpering, and he's thrusting into my hand, rutting hard into my fist. I'm grinding against my fingers, and I feel my climax approaching, feel it like not just mountains about to collide, but continents moments away from smashing into each other. I cannot breathe and cannot stop, and all I see is his face, his incredible blue eyes and his heaving chest and his tattoos and his erection in my hand, and my own fingers circling desperately.
"Oh fuck, Isabel. I'm so close," he grunts between clenched teeth. "I love watching your hand on my cock."
Cock. His cock. A new word. I've heard it, of course, but I've never said it. "I love touching your cock. I can't wait to watch you come, Logan."
"You talk dirty like that, I'm gonna come even sooner."
"You like it when I say those things?"
"Fuck yeah," he rumbles. "It's hot. Everything you do is hot. But this? Hottest fucking thing ever."
I'm stroking him hard and fast, plunging my fist down his length as fast as I can. When he starts to grunt and I watch his jaw clench and feel his cock throb in my fist, I slow.
"Fuck, Isabel, I'm right there, please don't stop."
"I'm not stopping," I whisper. "I promise."
I want to watch this. Feel it. Experience every moment of his orgasm, and the delirious joy of knowing I'm giving it to him. Nothing matters now but bringing Logan to orgasm.
I feel it begin.
I'm feathering slow, soft, gentle strokes, shallow ones, and he's going mad, thrusting, and I know he wants it hard and fast, but I know he'll feel it all the more intensely if I give it to him slow and gentle. And I want to make it last. For me. This is selfish, what I'm doing. Dragging it out. Memorizing it.
So good.
I'm still touching myself too, and I'm reaching climax as well, but that's subsumed beneath the tsunami of ecstasy I feel watching him.
Sweat dots his upper lip, his forehead. Shines on his chest. His hands are on my thighs for balance as he thrusts up into my fist, seeking more.
"Oh . . . Oh fuck. Isabel . . ." His voice is ragged, guttural.
I pull him closer, and he rises up, plants a knee on either side of my body, and now I can taste him and touch him at the same time. I take him into my mouth and stroke him at the root and finger my clit and groan, and he gasps. I feel him tense, feel his body tighten.
"I'm coming, Is . . ." he groans.
"Mmmmmmm." It's all I can manage, because I'm writhing with my own climax and because I'm too carried away with his to form words, and because I've got his cock filling my mouth.
He thrusts, and I like it.
I taste him.
But I want to watch.
I back away and he's kneeling upright, grasping the headboard of the bed while I'm lying down. I stare up at him, and his eyes fly open to meet mine. I finger myself and feel climax rip through me, and it's a hot knife slicing me apart.
I'm bucking and writhing, coming, coming, coming, moaning, whimpering.
And then Logan comes.
He grunts, and his seed gushes out of him. I watch it spurt between my fingers and slide over my knuckles and splash onto my breasts. He watches this as well, and groans, thrusts hard into my hand, and I lean up and take him into my mouth and suckle as he grunts a curse, thrusting into my mouth.
Orgasming still, now shooting his come onto my tongue.
I taste his essence, smoky and thick and salty, and I like it.
He's got more, and I want to watch him come some more.
So I let him fall out of my mouth and caress his length, plunge my fist to his base and pump him hard, and another jet of semen shoots out of him and onto my breasts in a white-hot sticky line on my skin.
So much come, and looking up at him, watching him thrust, I see that he's not yet done.
I mouth his cock and taste skin and semen, take him deep and suck and stroke his root and cup his testicles and tou
ch him and suck him and take the come that lands on my tongue and swallow it and suckle him yet more.
I let him fall free one last time and he sags, and a droplet leaks out of him; with his eyes on mine, I lean forward, extend my tongue, and lick it away.
"Jesus, Isabel," he growls.
"You taste amazing, Logan."
I have my hand around him, still, and don't want to let go.
He's lowering himself to lie down, though, so I have to let go. A moment of silence then, wild and fraught, as we lie side by side.
He gets up, leaves without explanation. I hear water running, and he returns with a washcloth. I reach for it, but he just shakes his head, takes my hand in his, and gently, tenderly washes his sticky, drying come off my fingers. And then he folds the washcloth and wipes, cleaning me in gentle strokes of the warm cloth, perhaps with a little extra attention for my breasts, holding each one in turn and making sure they are both wiped clean. He leaves once more, tosses the washcloth into the bathtub, and returns to the bed, sliding under the blankets beside me.
I remain where I am, lying next to him, a couple of inches of space between us.
I have no clue what comes next. I want more. I want him. I want us. But I don't know what he wants and I don't know how to ask, and I don't know what normal people do in circumstances like these.
He looks at me. "What are you still doing way over there?"
I frown, puzzled. "Way over where? I'm right beside you."
"Exactly. Too far away."
His arm scoops under me, and I'm rolled into him, my face pressed against his chest. I'm on his left side, and I can hear his heart beating: thrumthrum-thrumthrum-thrumthrum; a timpani, hammering under my ear. His arm tightens, pulls me closer yet. Lifts me, settles me bodily on top of him so I'm half on him, half on the bed. He cradles me, his arm a taut band over my shoulder, across my back, his big wide rough palm cupping a globe of my bottom. My thigh lies over his. My hand nestles on his chest.
"Better," he says.
I can't breathe.
This is too much. This is too right.
I don't deserve this. This is too much happiness, too much perfectness, too much wonderment, too too too much. Ecstasy has me seized in crushing talons, making it hard to breathe. I'm near tears.
He's holding me.
Just holding me.
I listen to his heartbeat and try to settle myself, try to calm my frantic heart.
And of course, Logan is tuned in to my plight. "Isabel, honey. You're shaking like a leaf. What's wrong?"
I shake my head. "I don't know."
"Bzzzzzt," he says, a sound like a buzzer. "Wrong answer. Try again."
"It's too much."
"What is?"
"This." I pat his chest. "Us. You holding me. I don't know how to--it's too good. I like it too much. I want it too much."
"How can something be too good?"
"It just is. I don't know." I am so emotional, suddenly. Gripped by something so intense I cannot fathom its scope. I am near tears and can't seem to stop them, even though the last thing I want is to cry after such a sensual, sexual, incredible experience.
But I sniffle, and I hate myself for it.
"Hey, hey." He touches my chin, tilts my face up to look at him. "Is this good tears or bad tears?"
I can only shrug. "I don't know. Not bad. That was so incredible, and now this."
"Just let me hold you. It's okay," he breathes. "You can cry. It's okay. Whatever you need, it's okay. Just let me hold you."
"I don't know how."
"You don't know how to what?" His lips brush mine, not a kiss, but a reminder of a kiss, a promise of a kiss to come.
"To let you hold me. This is all so new for me."
He knows exactly what I mean, and he doesn't like it. But he doesn't say anything. Just tightens his arm around me, kneads his fingers into the muscle of my buttock, caresses it, reaches down to clutch one of the globes, smooths his hand over both, as if he just can't get enough of touching my bottom.
And then he reaches out to the drawer of the nightstand beside the bed, opens it, pulls out a long black remote, and turns on the TV. Searches through something called Netflix and finds a movie. The one he's told me about, What About Bob?
Naked, emotional, being held like I've never experienced before, the taste of his essence still in my mouth, his hands on my backside, his chest under my ear, we watch a movie together.
It's silly, funny, ridiculous, cheesy, and wonderful.
When it's over, he scoots off the bed. "Stay here."
He doesn't explain what he's doing, so I remain where I am. He returns with four bottles of beer in one hand and a bag of potato chips in the other. He arranges the pillows behind our backs, and we sit up together, a thin sheet across our laps. He hands me a bottle of beer, sets the bag of chips in the space between my thigh and his, and brings up another movie.
P.S. I Love You, it's called.
We drink our beer, and eat the greasy, unhealthy, and incredibly delicious chips.
And I cry.
Sob, actually.
So sweet, so sad, so romantic. I swoon, and push the bag of chips away and snuggle closer to Logan, and he wraps his arm around me again. This time, his palm finds my thigh, clutching it possessively, stroking now and then lower or higher, making me wonder in the back of my mind if he plans to touch me again, if he'll steal his touch inward. I don't quite tense, but I want to.
I've lost track of time, and I don't care. I'm not tired at all. The sky is dark outside, and the world is quiet.
That's not true, though; the world isn't quiet, because there is no world. There is only this bubble of purity and perfectness and wonder, this bed, this man. Our skin, my scent on him, his smell on me. His taste in my mouth, a lingering memory of kisses shared. There is only this, and this is all I ever want. I beg the universe to let this last forever.
He fetches us each one more beer, and a carton of strawberries, which we eat by pinching the green leaves and biting beneath them.
I'm dizzy, a little drunk, and wildly happy.
He turns on The Day After Tomorrow, an apocalypse-scenario movie, and I like this one, too. It's easy to watch, easy to relax into and not think about anything.
Except the man cradling me in his strong arms.
I've slunk lower in the bed, so my head is on his chest, my beer finished, and I don't want any more. I just want to be here, watching movies with Logan, holding him and being held. My arm is across his hips. His fingers trace circles on my back, dare to my hip, dance over my bottom, slide up my spine, and steal lower again.
I find my hand skating over his stomach, under the flat sheet covering us. Seeking skin.
And then, with a glance up at him, I dare to touch him first. He smiles down at me, grips my backside, kneads it, teases a touch almost-but-not-quite between the cheeks, making me squirm and gasp. I have one hand around the hardening thickness of his cock, and I watch as it straightens, thickens, burgeons fully erect in my hand.
I don't know what I want to do to him first. Everything. I want it all, and I want it now. I want to just hold him like this in my hand, to stroke him with my fingers until he comes over my knuckles and into my palm. I want to wrap my mouth around him and suck him until he's exploding onto my tongue again. I want to lie beneath him and beg him to masturbate onto my breasts and onto my face. I want to climb astride him and put him into my core and ride him until we're both spent and gasping.
I want all of that, and I don't know where to start.
I just know I ache for needing him, for wanting his touch, that I'm desperate to watch and feel him explode because I can make him feel better than he's ever felt.
"Logan," I breathe. "I want everything with you."
"I know," he says. "I want it all with you, too. I want to fuck you and love you and taste you and come on your tits. I want to lick your pussy until you're begging me for more. I want to feel you shiver beneath me as we come togethe
r."
I'm stroking him, long slow slides of my fingers around his cock. Watching the way my fingers splay around his flesh. Watching his skin move. Watching his hardness grow harder. I want him inside me.
He slides a finger into me, an unexpected but gentle touch, exploring my wet warmth. He strokes inside me, adds a second finger. Thrusts gently. Adds a third, the three fingers bunched together to fill me. His fingers slide in and out of me, and I have to close my eyes, because I'm focused on the feeling, utterly swept away by the feel of his touch within me. He drags my wetness over my clitoris and smears it in circles, and I moan, and he delves his fingers back into me.
I lose track of what I'm doing, and he rolls me to my back. I let him, and my thighs splay apart. He pushes my legs wider open, cups both hands under my bottom and lifts my entire lower half off the bed, bringing my slit to his mouth, and now he devours me as if he's starving; he feasts on me, licks, slurps, sucks my throbbing clit between his teeth and I come within seconds, but he doesn't stop. He keeps me aloft with one hand, effortlessly holding me up with one arm under my bottom, and now his other hand finds me. My heels rest on his shoulders, my knees dangle draped apart. I'm spread open for him, and he feasts.
I come, spasming, arching my spine to crush my core against his mouth.
And then he slides his essence-slick fingers out of my slit and drags them down. His eyes meet mine. "Has anyone ever touched you here?" he asks, and touches me somewhere sensitive and forbidden.
I shake my head. "No," I breathe.
He doesn't ask permission. He feathers a gentle touch over me, back there. I moan low in my throat and swallow hard. His tongue flicks my clit, and I spasm, and then he's lapping at me until I'm writhing again, and I feel his fingertip touching me, pressing in gentle circles and I feel the pressure of that touch all throughout my body, feel it tightening my muscles and gathering heat in my core, and I don't stop him. I want his touch. I want him. I want every orgasm he will give me; I'm greedy for them. Desperate. Willing.
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