I wonder what I can do in this position to drive him wild, what his button is like this? If I can reach him with my hands, I know the hot button is to feather my fingers through his hair. If I’m riding him cowgirl style, it’s to grind on him like I’m trying to forcefully merge our bodies together. If he’s above me in the missionary position, he goes manic over my legs squeezing his waist and my fingernails raking down his spine. But like this? I don’t know. I’ll have to find out.
The next time he draws out, I lean forward, and when he starts his inward glide, I bend my spine down toward the mattress and push back into his thrust. He growls and his nostrils flare, and he grinds into me when his hips meet my buttocks, an intense and visceral reaction. But not quite it. I move with him like that, rolling back into his movements, watching him, devouring him with my eyes.
When next I dip my spine and lift my ass to drive it down and back onto his driving cock, I squeeze with all the Kegel-strong force I can muster with my inner muscles. I clamp down hard, gripping his shaft with my walls as he slides home.
He growls deep in his throat like a predator, snarling like a lion, pulls back and tightens his grip on my hips and pounds into me so hard my ass quivers with the loud slap of impact, and I shriek with the ecstatic surprise of it.
Yup, that’s it.
Oh, fuck, is that ever it.
He’s primal now, a lust-maddened savage, our bodies meeting with jarring impact, my body rocked forward on the bed, his cock cramming deep, shoving home again and again, and each time I shift forward, wait, rock back, squeeze hard around him, and each time he growls and grunts and curses.
I started out just trying to make it better for him, already having orgasmed so hard I cried, but the intensity of this is breaking something open inside me, his massive cock hitting me deep and hard, and I’m feeling something well up inside me, something hot and billowing like wildfire and aching with volcanic pressure. I’m totally enthralled by the sound of his voice enjoying me, the feel of his hips slamming into my ass, shaking me all over, my body jolted forward by each powerful thrust, my throbbing pussy taking all of him, taking the force of his fucking, and I’m still aching, still desperate for more, still clenching around him and driving back into his fucking cock, his big thick straight beautiful cock.
And I’m begging him for more. “Oh, please, oh, please, don’t stop, Derek, please don’t stop…oh, god.” I think I’m actually choking on my own bliss, caught up in the whirling maelstrom of my own exploding orgasm, forgetting to squeeze and then remembering, and now I don’t have to remember because my body is clamping down out of my control, my pussy squeezing his cock so tight it has to be painfully tight, barely able to move.
He falters, groaning a sigh. “Reagan, oh…fuck….”
Pound,
Pound,
Pound,
POUND—
Is that me screaming wordlessly, deafening, crazed? Yes, it is.
His hands jerk me by the hips, his head falls back on his neck, and I’m twisting to watch, watching him come, watching him take his own pleasure in me, feel a raging thrill of pride that I can do this to him, give this to him. He slams home once more, and I’m hit without warning by yet another seizing tremoring orgasm, my vagina squeezing him yet again, and he’s growling and roaring as he comes in synch with me,
and I’m watching this happen, watching him,
loving him—
No, no, no, I didn’t just think that, didn’t just realize that. Nope.
But I did. Oh, god, I did. And now the thought is out there, I can’t push it away, and dammit, I can’t deny the veracity of it, because I’m a melting, soul-swelling, heart-soaring wreck watching him finish, watching his sex-god body sheen with sweat, thick muscles swelling and rippling.
He releases me, and I fall forward, hide the frenzied fearful mask of emotions in the blankets. But then he’s beside me, turning me, taking me against his chest, cradling me, our panting for breath synched, my head on his heartbeat so I can every thud of his heart—thumpthumpthumpthump—and it matches the tempo of my own so exactly I actually panic. I attempt again to ignore what I’m feeling, distract myself by reaching down and carefully stripping the condom off his still-hard penis, toss it onto the bedside table and stroke his length, watching a few last beads of come form on his tip, smear them away with my thumb, taste them.
“Holy—holy shit, Reagan. Holy fucking shit.”
I can’t answer, because if I do, something entirely too much will tumble from my careless lips.
Maybe he senses something. He has to, because he’s rolling into me, over me, his mossy eyes searching mine, and oh, no, oh, god, no, I can’t hide it, can’t hide the sudden rush of emotions so suddenly and intensely emancipated within me. He has to see it in my gaze, in the wet waver of my eyes, the melted-into-liquid blue-hot passion I’m feeling for this man, for Derek.
It’s just the sex, though, right? It has to be just the sex. It’s really intense, really good. “Good” isn’t enough of a word. Rapturous. An agony of ecstasy. Nope, still not good enough. There are no words for what I’m feeling, for how he makes me feel, for how caught up and swept away I am when we join. It’s only been twice. We’ve been together twice. Fucked twice. And it was amazing, yeah. Word-stealingly incredible. He does things to me, draws reactions from me I didn’t know I was capable of.
But it’s not that.
I had the love of my life. I married him. He died a prisoner of war from wounds received during combat with the enemy. I buried him. Flinched at every deafening crack of the twenty-one-gun salute, dressed in a somber black satin-and-lace dress that was a family heirloom, passed down to me from four generations of women, all of whom wore it to bury the men they loved.
I had my love, and he was snatched away.
I’m not allowed another love, am I?
I’m not allowed to have my torn, battered, broken, and lonely heart sewn shut and repaired and filled by another man. I’m not. I’m just not.
And it’s not even that, really, which has me spinning. Allowed or not, I can’t deny, simply cannot manage a denial of the bare, raw facts of what I feel for Derek in this moment. No, love or not, I feel it. It’s there, and it’s real. It’s the fact that it’s somehow, impossibly, more. Bigger and deeper and more sudden than what I felt for—than what I felt before. And how is that possible? How does that happen? So suddenly, so shockingly fast? I mean, it’s not like it just appeared here between us, here in my heart and soul. Nothing in life is instant, nothing with humanity happens instantly and in a vacuum, without buildup.
I knew, from the moment Tom came jogging up to me and kissed me without warning, that I loved him. That I would love him, and that I would marry him. I waited for his arrival at my front door with gleeful anticipation. I was overjoyed. Swept away by him, by how handsome he was in his uniform. Each new exploratory touch had me over the moon. It was new and beautiful, and he was my whole life. And I knew it would be that way from the very beginning. Then time passed, and I only got to see him for a few weeks or months out of the year, if that much, but the way I felt for him never changed. Grew, yes. But it grew from absence. And it was tempered by a deeply hidden bitterness that he always had to leave, bitterness I never gave voice to, not once. Bitterness I never even thought about around him.
This, for Derek, is something wholly new, and totally different. It’s not gleeful. It’s not giddy or fun.
If loving Tom was flying with the earth spread out beneath us, then loving Derek is a terrifying suspension over a bottomless chasm. It’s feeling your desperate fingers clinging to a scrap of dirt, feeling the dirt crumble and give way, it’s the slow inexorable grip of gravity pulling you down, down, down. And then feeling something catch you, some silent winged creature the size of all the universe, invisible but present and carrying you across the chasm, up and up and out over the depthless beyond, into something very like infinity, but you cannot grasp infinity, not truly, so you can only focus
on the sense of speed, on the ripple of galaxy-massive muscles, and you don’t know where you’re going or how long it will take or anything at all except him, beside you. Holding your hand. Clutching you close throughout the black nightmare-plagued nights and beyond the lonely endless fathoms of solitude that is the misery of widowhood. And he’s real. He, at least, is slippery flesh and sweaty muscle and breath and eyes and memory of sun-golden light on taut skin, pink-red lips wet with our mixed saliva, kiss-swollen lips. He’s the knowledge of what you want, what you need, and he’s the one who’s there, giving it to you, more and more, and such things you never knew were so integral to your continued existence.
“Reagan?”
I never looked away from him, never moved my eyes from his, but I was lost for a moment, drifting in my thoughts. His chest presses to mine, my boobs flattened against his chest. I sweep my palms over the backs of his shoulders, wait for him to speak. He’s thinking, summoning words. And I need to know what he’s going to say.
I won’t admit to it first, because if I never say it and it turns out he doesn’t want what I want, doesn’t feel it, too, then I can bury it deep and cover it with miles of dirt, erect the walls of solitude once more.
I’m swallowing hard against my fear, searching his eyes, waiting.
“Reagan, I’ve—I’ve never felt…like this before.” He draws a deep breath and lets it out. “I don’t know, I’m not sure if you felt…if you’re feeling what I am. Maybe I’m imagining all this.”
I breathe out a disbelieving laugh. “Derek, god. Look into my eyes, look at me, really look at me, and tell me you don’t see it. Tell me you don’t feel it coming from me.”
He laughs, too. “I see it, Reagan. But I’m scared I’m imagining it. And…I’m not sure I know what to do with it.” He hesitates, struggles. Opens his mouth, closes it.
Gently, gingerly, tenderly, sweetly, I kiss him. Slow, shallow, encouraging. Break away with a sighed breath. He lets out a laugh, a small, unsure, boyish sound. Derek ducks his head and touches his forehead to mine and breathes in. Deep, sucking in a huge lungful of air. I’m on my back, staring up at him, and I can’t help it, can’t help letting my hands cup his backside, closing my eyes briefly in pleasure at the cool, taut hardness, how perfect it feels in my hands. His hair hangs across one eye, and I brush it away with a finger and return my hand to his ass.
“Reagan…god. Why is this so hard?” He lifts his head, his eyes roaming, searching, wavering. He swallows and sighs, tries again. “I’ve never loved anyone before, Reagan. I don’t know how.”
“You’re doing just fine so far,” I tell him. “And I don’t know what to do next, either. So let’s just…figure it out together.”
“Together.”
“Together.”
He collapses onto me, making me oof from his weight, and we laugh together as he rolls with me so I’m crooked into his shoulder. I crawl up against him, nestle every part of my body against his, draping my leg over his thigh so my core is brushing against his leg, my arm across his torso, hand resting low on his belly, just above his crotch, my breast smooshed against his ribcage.
“You really want that with me? Whatever this is?” He sounds more confident, but still a little disbelieving.
“Yes! Yes, I do. I really do.” I kiss his collarbone, the only place I can reach without moving. And I’m so, so content right now I don’t want to move.
Our breathing slows, and we sleep.
CHAPTER 16
REAGAN
Waking up is bliss. It’s a slow rise to the surface. I’m warm, cocooned in softness. I send out tendrils of awareness, and almost sigh in relief as I feel Derek behind me. I am held. I let myself drowse back under, warm and content.
Float.
Not quite awake, not asleep.
I have a smile on my lips, let it play wider and wider as I get closer and closer to being fully awake. Take stock: I’m a little sore between my legs, but that’s a really good thing. I’m on my left side, facing the window. Sunlight streams in through my open window, bathing my eyelids in a yellow glow. Derek is behind me, snoring softly. I’m curled up, his knees nestled against mine. I can feel his dick between my ass cheeks, and I like that. I also like his hand low across my belly, his wrist resting on my hipbone.
I feel him take a deep breath and let it out, wiggle a little. He’s waking up, I think. I keep still and silent and wait, content in his arms, loving the feeling of being spooned. As I open my eyes, squint against the light, watch a sparrow hop on a branch of the oak tree outside my window, I feel Derek stirring.
His hand is the first thing to move, sliding up my stomach. He’s still mostly asleep, I can tell, but he finds my boobs anyway, cups one, and holds it. I smile wider at the feel of his palm on my tit, scratching my nipple. I close my eyes and just sink into sensation. Enjoy the feel of his broad hard body behind me, sheltering me. His hand, sleepily holding me.
He stretches, and I hear him swallow, murmur, moan muzzily.
Oh, my. Something else is waking up. Thickening, hardening, spreading my buttocks apart as it burgeons fully erect. And just like that, I’m wet between my legs, biting my lip and wiggling my butt against his front. Sliding his girth between my cheeks, exploring the feel of it. Wondering how it would feel to let him touch me back there. Let him inside me back there. Still a scary thought, but not so much as before. I like this, after all, his cock between my ass cheeks, sliding, gliding. I angle forward on the bed, tilt my hips back toward him, and now, Jesus, now his thick massive hardness is brushing right against my rear hole. Oh, god. That’s nice. Really nice. Really good.
“Fuuuuuuuuck, Reagan…” he groans, his voice sleep-thick. “What a way to wake up.”
“Unhhhh…” is all I can manage to say.
His voice is at my ear, waking up now, whispering. “You’re a dirty girl, aren’t you, Reagan? You want that. You know you want it.”
“Yeah,” I whimper. “I do. I want it.”
He’s letting me move. And god, am I moving. Writhing my ass up and down his length, pressing back to get more pressure on me where I want it, where I’m scared to want it, scared to get it. It’s not close enough, though. I can’t get him close enough. He’s not actually touching my asshole with his shaft. Then, kissing my shoulder, he pushes his knee between my thighs, and I lift my top leg. Turn my head to find his mouth waiting, hot and wet and his tongue is sliding against my teeth, and I’m reaching down between my thighs, finding the silk-wrapped steel of his cock. Mewling high in my throat, needing him. Taking him in. I have no thought for anything but him, but completion in him. Feeling him behind me, body flush against my back. His groin burying into my ass, his cock sliding into my pussy, sliding in, merging with me, hot and thick inside me, filling me, stretching me. Oh, the burn of stretching open for him. I’m wet, soaked for him.
I reach behind my head and clutch his face, thread my fingers into his hair the way he loves, moaning in affirmation at his powerful hands clutching at my tits, fondling them, tweaking them. Gasping into the kiss as he finds my clit with his fingers, and we’re moving together, bodies meeting in perfect unison, finding a flawless rhythm together.
“Reagan, god, Reagan.”
“Yes, Derek. Ohhhhh. Oh…yes.”
Strong, fast, powerful, unending thrusts, bodies meeting, sighs merging, kisses sloppy and groping and wet, hands roaming and clutching.
His movements faltering with fervency even as I’m gripping his hand that’s digging between my thighs, and I’m shredded apart and gasping.
Derek rolls and takes me on top of him, my back to his front, and I’m coming and he’s coming, and I feel the jetting hot wet gush of his seed, and it makes me come even harder, come so fucking hard I nearly bite through my tongue, breathless, mouth falling open in a silent scream. He’s still coming, grunting in my ear, thrusting up, pressing down on my clit with his fingers, holding me down against him even as he fucks up again and again and harder and harder, sho
oting thick spreading wet heat through me, and I come again, or come still, gripped by wave after wave of spasming exhilaration, and I can actually feel his cock thickening and throbbing as he comes yet more, whispering my name,
“Reagan, Reagan…my god, Reagan.” Kisses behind me ear and thrusts again, grinds against me, and I squeeze, milking every drop of pleasure out of him and thus out of myself. “I love you, Ree.”
He said it. Ohmyfreakinggod, he said it. And he called me Ree. No one’s ever called me that. Except—
I shake that thought away. “I love you, Derek.” I reach back for him, find his cheek, his nose, his mouth biting my thumb and letting go. “Oh, oh, I love you.”
“How? God, how do I love you so much?”
“I don’t know, but I do.” I spoke as if I was him, answering him from the unity of he-is-me-is-we.
It’s not until we’re motionless at last and he’s still hard inside me but softening and slipping out that either of realize what we just did.
I speak first. “Derek? We just….”
“Yeah.”
I think fast, calculate. “It’s the end of the month, so I shouldn’t be fertile. It should be okay.” I’m just saying that to reassure him and myself both, even though it’s true.
“I’m sorry, I never even stopped to think.” His voice is harsh, self-deprecating.
I roll, twist, and lie on top of him, looking down at him. “Derek, don’t. I didn’t, either. And I’m not sorry. Don’t take back what we just experienced together.” I bury my face in his neck. “You meant it, didn’t you? You weren’t just saying it?”
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