by D. S. Dehel
Another sigh, and she reached back to grab his ass and push him into her ever more. The nuzzle became a nibble hard enough to drive her closer to full consciousness.
“Oh.” No other words seemed necessary.
Nibbles shifted to delicious sucks, and his hand slid down her abdomen with excruciating slowness until with a taunting brush of her thighs, he returned to her sex and began to stroke.
If she hadn’t been wet before, she definitely was now, her thighs damp with excitement.
Unable to keep her hands still, she shifted to cup his balls then, despite the awkward angle, gently gripped his shaft and stroked upward, losing herself in their matched rhythm and her building orgasm. Her only thought was Don’t stop.
She could feel his own rising tension, his own slippery wetness. One stroke more. Maybe two.
“Wait.” She stilled her hand. “I want you inside me.”
He moaned both in protest and agreement, she knew him well enough to read the single syllable. “Yes.” A breath on the back of her neck, but he shifted and she could hear the crinkle and shuffle of a condom before he reached for her again. “Stay this way.”
It took some maneuvering -- her leg tugged back to wrap around his waist, tilting forward, reaching to press him deeper inside her -- until they found the right rhythm, right pace. In this position he could continue stroking, moving her closer to orgasm, to that final swoosh that sent her vibrating with pleasure.
He paused his hand, the breath before, then gripped her thigh as his orgasm rocketed through him. His pulsing sent her over the edge until she lay breathless and panting into the pillow.
“Wow.” Shock and admiration tinged his voice. “We should do that more often.”
“Oh yes.” She shifted away from him, and while he cleaned up, she smoothed the sweaty sheets and rearranged the pillows.
“Come here.” He climbed into his spot and pulled her toward him. “Back to sleep.”
“For a little bit.” Although as sleepy as she felt now, it might be morning before she woke again.
“Just a little bit.” He sounded equally sleepy. “But not long.”
She settled back into his arms and onto the place near his shoulder where she felt most safe, most whole. I can’t believe I’m thinking these things. But marveling at the thought couldn’t squelch it. For the first time in years, she felt at home, and she wanted to revel in this feeling as long as she could.
D. S. Dehel
D. S. Dehel is a lover of literature, good food, and the Oxford comma. When she is not immersed in a book, she is mom to her kids and spoiling her rather pampered feline, Mr. Darcy or her equally pampered puppy, Jameson, and her slightly psychotic Australian Shepherd, Piper. Having finally retired, she spends her days dreaming up new plotlines. She adores literary allusions, writing sex scenes, and British men. Actually, make that hot men in general. Her devoted husband is still convinced she writes children’s books. Please don’t enlighten him.
D. S. Dehel at Changeling: changelingpress.com/d-s-dehel-a-223
