by Elle Maxwell
If my body is an instrument, he is a virtuoso. He hasn’t forgotten a single note.
I lose the rhythm of our kissing, only able to lie back and focus on breathing.
I accepted years ago that it was hard, if not impossible, for me to orgasm with a man. When my thoughts were inevitably drawn back to my relationship with Graham, I convinced myself it was a product of all those haywire teenage hormones that made it easy to climax, not replicable as an adult.
Graham is busting all the myths I’ve taught myself to believe. And this one is about to explode into nothing but ash.
“That’s right, Z. Give it to me.”
Hearing his secret nickname for me, the special ones we came up with together that no one else knows (“Z” and “Y” … MackenZIE and WYatt), hits me right in the feels. It acts as a trigger, and I spasm through my release. All I can do is gasp and hold tight to him as I plummet over the edge.
As I wait for sensation to return to my limbs, I inwardly admit that my self-induced orgasms over the past five years have merely been pale substitutions for the real thing—the way wax figures look realistic from afar but reveal their inauthenticity when you get close. I fear I’ll never be fooled by the knockoffs again.
Graham is still kissing my neck, my face, my chest, murmuring low words I can’t make out. I roll over until I’m on top then reach down and grab the waist of his jeans. I slowly tug down his zipper. In no time I have released him from the constraints of his boxer briefs and have my hand wrapped around his warm, hard length.
“No, babe,” he grunts, trying to push my hand away.
“If my nipples are yours, then this dick is mine,” I breathe directly into his ear while giving said dick a squeeze for emphasis.
His whole body is tense, and his voice sounds tortured as he tries to resist again.
“It’s been too long. I won’t last. Wanna make you come again. Then I want to be inside you.”
“You’ll recover,” I tell him, not releasing my grip.
I know I’ve won when he lies back and throws an arm over his eyes.
I stroke upwards, my core clenching when I find he’s already leaking. I smirk with pure womanly power as I rub a thumb over his tip, spreading the moisture around and using it to lubricate my palm before making my way back down his length.
“Fuck.”
His hips buck upward as though of their own volition, but he can’t go far because I’m sitting on his legs.
He wasn’t wrong—in just a couple of minutes, he’s letting loose a string of panted curses interspersed with my name, hips thrusting into my hand as I stroke him through his release.
Finally, he can’t take anymore and pulls my hand away. Not letting go, he threads his fingers through mine and lifts our entwined hands so they’re resting on his sternum. He lies back and pants as if he’s just run up ten flights of stairs, powerful chest rising and falling beneath our clasped hands.
After a moment he seems to recover, kicking off his jeans and using his boxer briefs to wipe his abs free of all evidence of his orgasm. Then he reaches for me and pulls me so we’re face-to-face. He looks into my eyes with so much intensity, I fear for a moment that he’s going to voice the things shimmering in the air between us, things I’m not ready to deal with yet. Instead, his free hand snakes back down between our bodies to cup me between my legs.
“One more.”
He pushes one finger inside me, then two. His lips are on the skin of my neck. Then his teeth are on the shell of my ear and his voice is rasping into it.
“You have no idea how many times—hundreds, thousands—I’ve jerked myself off thinking about you … this.”
His words send a wave of desire through me, and my cheeks heat in embarrassment knowing he can feel the evidence on his fingers. He just smirks and kisses me. I’m so worked up, and his fingers play me so masterfully that he has me coming again not long after.
Myth thoroughly busted.
We lie side by side with our whole bodies pressed together, and I am suddenly horrified to discover he still has his shirt on. I sit up and straddle him, one leg on either side of his thighs, and I start pulling off the offending fabric. I’m no match for the sheer size and strength of his body, but he dutifully lifts his back and arms for me until he’s bare.
I sigh in satisfaction when he’s finally naked. My eyes caress his arms, one bearing the gorgeous black and gray ink of his tattoo, then travel down to his muscular thighs and the large beautiful organ (which I’ve just declared mine) that seems to be recovering nicely. I run my hands over every dip of his beautiful abs, the ones I’ve been trying not to think about ever since he came to yoga. My fingers trail over his pecs, and I run a fingernail over the edge of one nipple, making his chest muscles contract swiftly. Beneath me, another muscle is poking at me—and it’s fully hard again.
You’re not the only one who remembers the notes, I think smugly.
“I have an IUD,” I say.
He just stares at me blankly.
“And, um, I’ve been tested and I’m clean …” I’m suddenly awkward. Warmth creeps up my cheeks until I’m sure they’re completely pink.
I watch Graham’s eyes clear in recognition of what I’m saying. Then they darken with desire.
“I had a full physical when I got out. But I also haven’t been with anyone but you … ever. So, I’d say I’m good,” he says.
Surprise jolts through me. I mean, I guess I could have figured that out since he’s been in prison all this time, but … wow. The knowledge fills my chest with warmth, and a part of me wishes that I could say the same to him.
“So?” he asks, hips thrusting lightly against mine.
“So,” I respond with a nod.
Then he’s pushing inside me, gliding easily through the slickness of my arousal, and we’re one. The look of ecstasy and wonder on his face is a perfect mirror for what I feel. He kisses me, this time tender, and our tongues caress each other in contrast to their earlier frenzied wrestling.
We begin to move together, so in sync that we might as well be choreographed. As the urgency rises between us again, we pick up speed to the soundtrack of our heavy breathing. Then Graham is tensing and shuddering above me, eyes closed in ecstasy. He curses and apologizes that it was “too fucking good” and “it’s been five years.” He promises he’ll make it up to me in a few minutes.
But I can’t stop smiling. I want no apology for what just happened. The only way to describe it is … perfect. Right.
Regardless, he keeps his word and makes it up to me. Repeatedly. All night.
16. CONGRATULATORY HIGH FIVES
Graham
I wake up to a view more gorgeous than any multi-million-dollar oceanfront property could boast: Mackenzie Thatcher sleeping next to me, curled on her side so all I can see are copper locks contrasting vibrantly where they’re spread over her white sheets and down the pale skin of her bare back and shoulders. The best part is that if I drag that sheet down, I’ll have an eyeful of her perfect ass (no joke, I’m ready to make a donation to the yoga gods), and if I reach for her, as I have so often over the past six hours, she’ll willingly turn to me revealing and offering the rest of her luscious naked body.
I hold back, though, and tell myself to be satisfied for the moment by caressing her with just my eyes. I’ll let her sleep for now—she’s going to need it if I have any say in the matter. Since it’s Saturday, she has no classes or work to go to, and I have important plans to stay here and do nothing but her all day.
I suppose it’s technically morning now—I can see the glow of sunshine through her bedroom window—but it feels like the night never ended. Neither of us slept much, only taking brief naps to recharge before the need for each other won out again. It’s like with that first time we pried a lid off the box keeping our sexual chemistry at bay, and once opened there was no suppressing the flood of insatiable craving after five years apart.
Mackenzie drifted off a little while ago, but
I can’t seem to sleep.
Last night was … beyond description. And not just because I was so horny after five years I was ready to die. It’s always been more with Mackenzie. Being inside her again was fucking magical—somehow, I think it even topped our first time together. This time there was that same sense of newness, the excitement and sense of exploration, but there was also the weight of history between us, a rightness as we tapped into and rediscovered all the ways we used to connect. And though we never spoke of it, there was an extra layer of significance created by everything we’ve been through that got us here.
When we were teenagers, the only obstacle we had to overcome was figuring out when my parents would be away from the house (and she made me drive to the next town to buy condoms because she was justifiably concerned the second I checked out at the Westwood CVS, the gossip mill would take off and the whole town would consider us devirginized before we had a chance to remove our clothes).
Admittedly, that first time I brought shame to every Wyatt male since the dawn of time. But really, I was doomed before it even began. Not only had it been five long sexless years, but I’d never gone bare before (later, I used some very creative persuasion tactics and got her to admit she’d never done it either, and thank fuck, because I really don’t want to go back to prison and I’d probably have felt the need to track that guy down and do some damage). The second I entered that snug, warm heaven for the first time, my dick and I had no chance.
My only saving grace was that I managed to get her off twice before we got to the main event, (if I have a son and I only get to teach him one thing it will be that you always make your girl come before you take yours—maybe I’ll write a children’s book and start him young on bedtime stories of sexual chivalry), but I still knew I needed to redeem myself and my ancestors.
I think it’s safe to say … mission accomplished.
Not to sound like an arrogant motherfucker, but by round four I’d bet even cranky Grandpa Earl was wiping away a tear of pride and cheering along with the rest of the old Wyatt perverts watching from their skybox seats. I made her come so many times (with my fingers, my tongue, and my greedy unwrapped dick) that I lost count.
It’s unbelievable how many options suddenly open up when you remove condoms from the equation. For instance, when we ventured out to forage for food in the kitchen at some point and on the way back to her room, I noticed the back of her couch appeared to line up perfectly with my hips; I could test my theory immediately by lifting her up and placing her seated on top of the piece of furniture. And I was completely right—I was perfectly aligned to push right between her spread legs. Standing like that, I could use my legs for stability and power as I pounded into her over and over, my tight grip on her hips and her legs wrapped around me the only things keeping her from tumbling backward through the open air on her back and onto the couch seat.
The memory turns me on all over again. Okay, I think she’s slept long enough.
I decide that I’ll be less of a jerk for waking her up if I make it worthwhile for her, so I tunnel underneath the covers until I’m staring right at the heaven between her legs. Reuniting with Mackenzie’s body—her nipples, her lips, her clit—feels like being back with old friends. Her clit and I spent a lot of time together back in the day, and I sure as hell missed it. I waste no time now, diving right in to do some more catching up.
At some point she wakes up, and air washes over me as the sheet flies up and her hands come down to grab my hair (she seems to enjoy doing this, and I fucking love it—an unforeseen benefit of my haircut hiatus). Her hips start bucking off the bed like she’s trying to get closer to my mouth. I reach up and hold her down with a palm flat to her pelvis, keeping her still. Patience, babe. I’ll get her there—her clit and I are doing great work here, and we don’t need her assistance. I give that perfect pink bud a nice suck, and I hear her let out a high-pitched gasping sound. Using my tongue, I share a quick congratulatory high five with her clit—Mackenzie’s never been very vocal in bed, definitely not a moaner or a screamer, so I love it every time I manage to wrench a new sound from her. Soon, her thighs are shaking where they’re squeezed along the sides of my head. I continue licking her through the spasms of her orgasm.
Then I crawl up to face level with her. She’s breathing heavily and her eyes are barely open, but she reaches out and pulls me in for a slow, wet kiss that tastes of her release. When we break apart to catch our breath, I run an appreciative eye down her naked body, which is now fully exposed. I frown a bit when I see red marks all over.
“I guess beard burn is real,” she says with a sated and relaxed smile.
What the …
I examine her again, and sure enough, she looks as though she’s been thoroughly dragged over a rough carpet, or attacked with sandpaper … on the skin between her thighs, her stomach, her breasts, her neck, even on her chin and the skin around her mouth.
“Babe …” My voice is laced with regret. “I’ll shave it off, I promise.”
But her face takes on a coy look, and she reaches up to stroke along my jaw. It’s not quite to Griff’s mountain man level, but it’s definitely more than stubble.
“I like it,” she tells me.
When I shoot another worried glance to the swaths of red marring her creamy skin, her eyes follow. And she laughs lightly.
“Okay, it’s pretty bad,” she admits. “But last night was pretty crazy, right? I can’t imagine we’ll ever be having that much sex all at once again, so it should be fine.”
Wait … why won’t we be having that much sex again? I was thinking it should be an every Friday sort of deal. What was the word her crazy roommate used? Fuckfest. Yeah. Weekly Friday Fuckfests.
Her giggles are louder this time, and I can tell by her face that she knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“Don’t look so sad. I’m not saying never—but I think we’d die if we kept at this!”
We both laugh now, and I decide to take it as a win that she’s talking about a future at all.
* * *
It takes two hours for her face to take on the look I’ve been waiting for and dreading: uncertainty, regret, worry.
We’re sitting on the couch, eating cereal. She’s only wearing a pair of panties and a shirt (which is twice as much clothing as I voted for), with her legs crossed and tucked underneath her. I try to do some quick calculations to figure out if I can jump her and distract her with an orgasm, but I can’t see it happening without milk spilling everywhere. Plus, though I’d never admit it out loud, I’m tired. The sleepless night and all the—let’s say, vigorous activity? —has finally caught up with me.
“Okay, let’s have it.”
She jerks a little, like I’ve surprised her out of deep thought. Then with a nod, she places her bowl and spoon on the coffee table and untucks her legs, so she’s sitting properly and facing me. Instantly, the mood in the room shifts to something solemn. I put my bowl down too and try to breathe through my sudden nerves.
My eyes race over her as fear rushes back in that this might be the last chance I have.
“I still have concerns,” she begins hesitantly.
I nod, encouraging her to go on, even though I have to swallow down a knot of panic. If last night couldn’t convince her we’re supposed to be together, I don’t know if anything will work.
“I’m not this reckless person who rushes into things. Maybe I was once, I’m honestly not sure, but now I think things through and weigh risks before acting, especially when I’m not totally sure about something.”
Her face blushes bright red, and I see it racing down her neck and disappearing behind the hem of her shirt.
“I’m kind of ashamed, honestly. I basically forgot all logic and reason and threw my self-respect out the window. I mean, I jumped you.”
I can’t help but chuckle.
“I’m not complaining.”
I feel myself smirking at her, thinking about everything that happened after
she jumped me.
She rolls her eyes.
“Well, of course not. You got what you wanted.”
Oh hell no. I’m not going to let her even pretend to believe that.
“Hey…” I take her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me “…I didn’t come back into your life to get laid. I’m obviously not gonna lie and say that wasn’t something I wanted—but that’s not what this is about. I want you—whatever way you’ll have me.” I pause and search her eyes, looking for a sign that she’s really hearing me. “I may not be in an addiction program, but I have a shit-ton of amends to make. When I was in prison, I did a lot of thinking about everything—going back through all the things I fucked up and figuring out what’s really important in life. And, babe, you’re at the top of every one of my lists. I know I failed you the first time around. But I’m here now to finally start on that forever I promised you. It begins right now—hell, it began the second I saw you again—and it never ends.”
