by Kit Smart
He stares at my outstretched hand. Takes a breath—which I can hear from my side of the sofa.
For a moment I think he’s going to refuse, and then he wraps his hand around mine.
The next few seconds are a confusion of limbs, and cushions, and blankets as he half crawls, half slides down the sofa toward me and we try to figure ourselves out.
We wind up, with me on my back and him on his stomach between my legs—my knees on either side of his rib cage, his arms around my back, chest against my pelvis and belly and head just below my sternum. My back is braced against a pile of cushions and one of the sofa blankets is wrapped around my shoulders while another covers his back.
In this position, I can feel his heart beat along with every breath he takes, can feel the way it slows and deepens as we sit there.
We haven’t even finished with the previews before I feel his body settle into the slow, deep rhythms of sleep.
15
Seri
I wake up in his arms, my nose pressed against the strong line of his neck. Somehow, we’ve shifted in the night and I am on my side now with my legs are tucked between his as he is runs his hand up and down along the line of my spine under the blanket that still covers me. I could get used to this.
“You awake?” He murmurs from somewhere close enough to my ear that I can feel the reverberation of his deep voice running across my skin and I shiver at the sensation.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He sounds amused.
A moment later, I feel his hand slide up along my neck into my hair and I cannot help but shiver again.
“Good morning.” He murmurs against my temple as he presses his lips to the skin there.
“Good morning.” I snuggle against him as my body softens with the heat of morning arousal. Tilting my head back I kiss the sensitive place where his neck meets his throat.
I am so close that I can see the goosebumps rise on his skin as he shudders in response.
I think I’ve just found a hot spot.
Intrigued by the idea, I use my tongue this time.
When he arches his back in response, I smile and pressing my lips against him, begin to suck lightly. This time the arching of his back is accompanied by a deep groan that I feel along the length of my body.
His other hand is restless now on my back and every so often he pushes against my back as though to get me closer, but he seems otherwise content to let me explore him as I will.
Intrigued and aroused by the responses I am pulling from him, I take my time; use my lips, teeth and tongue to kiss, lick, scrape and nip.
I am testing his reactions and he knows it; allows me to do it in a way that makes me wonder if he is even aware of how sensitive he is there.
Although his movements are soft with the languor of morning arousal; soft the languor of morning sex; I can feel something building in body.
The idea that I might be able to bring him to orgasm like this intrigues and excites me and I feel myself swell in response.
He gasps and shivers when I nibble at the corner of his jaw; begins to suck in great drafts of air as I suck and kiss and nip my way along his jaw line, so, I do it again and again and again.
Suddenly I feel myself being lifted; my legs being positioned on either side of his hips as he rolls onto his back under me. Unwilling to break the rhythm I’ve established and risk losing the momentum I’ve built, I keep caressing his neck and jaw with my mouth.
His hands are almost frantic on my back now and after a few moments he slips them up under my pajama top so that he is touching skin and it is my turn to arch my back and shift restlessly against him.
“Seri,” I hear him murmur my name low and deep against the side of my head. “If you continue, I’ll come like this.”
It is a warning and a request. A statement and a question and I lift my lips from him long enough to respond. “Good.” I tell him. “I want you too.”
Shifting my hands along his shoulders to adjust my angle and hopefully alleviate some of the throbbing between my legs with some much needed pressure, I inadvertently, brush his chest and find myself sort of hanging on for dear life for a moment when he heaves violently beneath me.
He grabs my hands as he settles back into the sofa and presses them against his pectoral muscles. “Here,” He gasps. “Touch me here.”
Shifting my weight back onto my knees, I begin to rub and stroke his chest through the fabric of his shirt.
He slides his hands down to my knees and runs them up along my thighs to my hips where he uses his thumbs to caress and massage the sensitive area at the front of my hip bones and I feel my clit tighten and begin to throb in anticipation of those hands moving lower. I try to shift, try to release myself from those strong hands so that I can find something, anything to press myself against; something to appease the relentless ache building between my legs.
Seeming to sense this, even in his state, he slides his knee up until I can feel the pressure of his hard, muscled thigh where I need it.
The pressure, solid and real grounds me enough that I am able to refocus on what I am doing to him even while the movement of his thigh causes me to swell and throb with my own growing sexual urgency.
I use my hands to stroke and knead down along the muscles of his pecs until I reach his nipples and then I use the base of my hands to press against him while I circle and stroke his nipples with my fingertips.
Eager to push him over the edge, I return to the corner of his jaw with my lips.
His orgasm comes, crashes down on him in a roaring, arching, twisting, gasping, shivering wave.
I feel a sense of smug satisfaction as I watch him. Knowing that I did that to him—that I can do that to him is a rush.
It’s a moment before he regains his breath and comes back to me.
When he does, he grins and I am struck by how much younger he looks. I imagine that this is how he looked before he went off to war.
He is still fighting for control of his breathing when he begins to rub his thigh against me.
“Good?” He asks accompanying the question with a questioning brow and a cocky smile.
I let him do it; revel in the arousal thrumming urgently in my body, but, wanting to watch him come undone again, I continue to caress the sensitive areas of his chest. He is so beautiful in his pleasure.
For a moment, his face slackens; becomes unfocussed—dreamy, and his eyes begin to drift shut and then he squeezes my hips lightly.
That is all the warning I have before he uses his strength to once again reverse our positions.
His eyes gleam with amusement and satisfaction as he looks down at me.
“I think,” He tells me as he hooks his fingers into my pajama pants and panties and begins to pull them down. I lift my hips to assist because I’m cooperative like that. “that you—” He tosses the pajama pants and panties to the floor and slides his hands up along my calves to my knees and then down my thighs to my hips stirring the heat in my blood until it is my turn to arch in pleasure.
When he slides his hands back up to my knees using his thumbs to tease the sensitive flesh of my inner thighs I feel all the blood in my body rush to my clit and I want to squirm though I am not quite certain if I want to squirm closer to him or away.
“—have—” He continues as he gently pushes my knees open and his hands begin their return journey toward my hips. “—way too much—” I feel his weight against my legs as he begins to shift down and forward, and then I almost hit the ceiling as he lowers his head and I feel his breath against my core. “—ammunition.” He murmurs against me and then I hear nothing more as he takes me into his mouth.
Owen
I feel her shift onto her side and instantly I am awake. For once though, I am not startled, not filled with panic, I am just aware. I think that the way we slept—the way I slept—me with my back pressed solidly against the sofa back and her pressed solidly against the front of me; knocked my tattered nervous system into somethin
g approaching a normal rhythm for the night and I am still there.
I run a hand across my chest to verify the very regular rhythm of my heart only to find that it skips a beat when she swings her legs over the edge of the sofa and pushes herself to her feet. “Where are you going?” My body demands a stretch, so I stretch as I look up at her. Despite the fact that I slept very well, there is no getting past the fact that I am too tall to be sleeping on the sofa, and I am stiff and sore.
“I’m going—” She leans down to smooth the blanket over my chest and drops a quick kiss on my lips. “To the shower—”She neatly evades my attempt to pull her back down onto the sofa and steps backward away from me with a grin. “Slugabed.”
“Slugabed?” I find myself grinning at her word choice as my body thrums with feel good chemicals. Involuntarily, I reach up to touch my lips where a curious warmth lingers in the wake of her contact. “Where did you get that monstrosity from?”
She shrugs as she continues to back toward the bathroom. “1950’s literature for girls probably.”
“Come back here woman.” I hear myself growl as the sight of her bare legs sparks a primordial craving to get skin to skin with her. “I need more cuddles.”
Evan as that comes out of my mouth, a small part of me cringes at the admission and waits to see how she responds. That wasn’t the most manly way to put that.
She tilts her head back in the direction of the shower. “We can cuddle in the shower.”
“Oh? Am I coming with you then?”
“I don’t know, are you?” With a raised eyebrow and a teasing tilt of her head, she disappears into the bathroom leaving me to catch my breath in the face of how much I like waking up to her. I wasn’t expecting that.
The sound of the water hitting the floor of the shower spurs me into action and throwing back the blankets, I force myself out of bed and pad after her.
The sight of her naked in the glass shower stall makes me hesitate as I realize that I am going to have to strip as well which means that she’s going to be able to see clearly just how erect I’m not right now.
When I step into the shower with my pajama pants on and my chest tight with the breath I am holding; she takes it in, but doesn’t comment or even so much as bat an eyelash in my direction.
I know I am being stupid and that within seconds of stepping into the shower the thin material of the pajama pants will be translucent and plastered against me by the water in a way that hides nothing; but having the barrier—flimsy though it is—makes me feel less exposed.
Wanting to serve her; wanting to explore every part of her body; I reach up and take the cloth hanging from a hook near the shower head and squeeze some shower gel onto it.
She watches me intently as I set the bottle of shower gel aside and begin to work up a lather with the cloth. “You do realize that if you are intending to do what I think you are with that, you can own me?” She asks conversationally. “Particularly, if you also wash my hair.”
“Own you huh?” I lower the cloth to her collarbone and begin to run it up along her shoulder.
“Oh yes.” She tilts her head back in bliss and I make a mental note to get this woman in the shower every chance I can get. “Particularly, if you wash my hair.”
It comes out as a groan this time and I feel every nerve ending in my body stir to life in response. “I think I can get behind that. What is this obsession with hair washing?” I tease as I take my time lathering soap over her breasts.
“Haven’t you ever had your hair washed?” She reaches out to brace herself against the tiled back wall of the shower as I move the cloth lower, down past her breasts to her flat stomach.
“No.” I take in her reactions as I work. This is pure pleasure I realize. Not sexual pleasure—though I am certain that I could light that fire with a few touches—this is a sensual pleasure; the pleasure of one human being enjoying being touched, being taken care of by another human being.
“Well then,” She winks at me. “Brace yourself because, it’s going to blow your mind.”
This sends a shiver up along my spine that is half anticipation and half fear as I realize that she intends to reciprocate.
“Later.” I tell her as I focus on her legs. “Right now, this is about you.” It comes out more roughly than I intended and she stills.
She’s silent, but I can hear her brain whirring away.
When I finish with her legs and feet and stand back up, she regards me solemnly through eyes that see too much. “This is about us.” She tells me firmly as she reaches for the bottle of shower gel.
Not bothering to take the cloth she pours the gel directly into her palm and after setting the bottle back down begins to work up a lather.
I watch her dumbly as I try to articulate a response that would get me out of this.
And then I feel her hands stroking and circling as she lathers the scarred landscape of my chest and I have to close my eyes as I am very nearly undone by the sensations that run through me.
“I thought the cloth might be aggravating to your nerves.” She explains and I find myself very humbled that she would have gone to the effort to think about that. It makes me wonder, briefly, what it would’ve been like to have had her with me, after I was first injured. Not, that I would wish that on her.
“It can be.” I admit.
The way she runs her hands along my body, is hypnotic and by the time she has washed my chest shoulders arms and back, I am nearly comatose with relaxation and pleasure.
That all changes, when she slides her hands under the waistband of my pajama pants at the small of my back and my entire body clenches in fear.
Anxiety roils through me.
Seeming to sense this, she restricts motions of her hands to my buttocks and after a few minutes of this, I slowly begin to relax again.
Ridiculously, as I stand there soaking in her attention, I half begin to wish that she would slide her hands around to the front of me and caress the suddenly lonely skin of my cock and thighs.
I am afraid of it, and I long for it.
I can’t decide if it is worse for that broken part of me to become the focus of things and risk having the rest of me fade into the background and disappear, or if it is worse for it to be completely ignored—regarded only from the corner of an eye as scars and disabilities are regarded—seen, but never looked at fully, or acknowledged directly.
Seeming to sense my confusion, she continues to wash me, moving her hands out along my chest shoulders and back, caressing, massaging, retracing her movements again and again and again until I am circled by pleasure; consumed by it; until I am not quite certain that I am even in my body anymore. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this good—this loved up. And when she drops her hands down along my hips to my waistband, and tilts her head back to give me a questioning look, I nod.
Oh, the fear is still there, but it is almost completely superseded by the desire to feel her hands on me, and I’m able to breathe through the first few moments of insecurity that consume me as she kneels in front of me and gets a good look at the scarred up terrain of my thighs and groin and my flaccid penis. Inevitably though, the doubts well up. “I wish I could —”
“I know.” She tells me as she takes into her hands and begins, matter-of-factly to wash the scarred terrain between my legs with the same easy attention she paid my chest and back.
As with my chest and abdomen, it’s been a long time since I felt a hand other than my own there and I have to force myself to breathe as I try to sort out the new sensations.
The delicate burn of arousal feels strange without the heaviness of blood flooding my cock, and the scars have changed the map of my skin, so much so that I am no longer quite certain which spot will send me careening with pleasure and which spot will cause pain to flare out along my nervous system.
I feel like an untested kid being touched for the first time, and it is all I can do to hold myself steady and bite back the curses that want to come out when
ever she hits a particularly sensitive bit.
Perversely, I am both afraid that she will stop and that she won’t.
I am terrified that she will linger; will try to coax a sexual response from me and that it—I won’t be enough for her; that every reaction I have; everything that I do feel; will be eclipsed by my inability to get hard.
And I am equally afraid that she won’t linger; that she won’t touch me; that the ruined skin and softness of my penis are things she cannot love.
I tell myself that it is best to know now, while we are new to each other and the pain of rejection will not be so difficult to survive; and force myself to stand still under her hands.
Whether she has some inkling of my thoughts, or if it is just her way, Seri goes her own way and continues washing her way down to my feet; then, as she did with my chest, she moves her hands back up along my shins and thighs and hips and cock only to retrace her path to my feet and back up again in an endless caress that goes on and on.
By the time she stops and pushes herself back to her feet I feel so good and relaxed that I feel as though I have passed out in my own body.
By her expression, she seems to know it too; revels in it.
She gives me a knowing little smile as she reaches for the shampoo bottle.
My knees buckle at the sensation of her fingers as they begin to massage my scalp.
I swear then from somewhere deep in the back of my throat and brace myself against the tiled wall of the shower as the world tilts on its axis and slips away under the pressure of her fingers.
Seri
Forty-five minutes later, giant plastic tote full of dog accessories in one hand and dog lead in the other, I return from picking Geronimo up from Theo’s. Theo, whom I rarely see outside of functions because she works in the other building, is an obsessive runner and Geronimo is her greatest fan. Eying my dog as we walk back back to Owen’s I have to grin—even if she hadn’t told me that she taken him for a long run that morning, I would have been able to tell by the way my usually rambunctious dog walks sedately by my side all the way from Theo’s cabin to Owen’s.
