I feel…wet.
Down there. If he were to be touching me bare, he’d know how wet I am—it’s embarrassing. I wonder if he can smell me—when I touched myself, that one time, I smelled myself. It was on my fingers, afterward, and I had to wash my hands three times before the smell went away.
I can’t stop him—not that he won’t, but I’m not capable of asking him to. I don’t want him to.
I want this.
God, it feels incredible.
I feel like a woman, complete. For the first time in my whole life, I feel desired. I feel beautiful. His eyes, when I whipped my shirt off, raked over my body as if I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He looked at my chest—which I always thought was basically nonexistent, as if I was the most well-endowed woman in the world. The hunger in his eyes for me was…well, I’ve never been drunk before, but I imagine this dizzy, heady feeling is how being drunk or high would feel.
I’m not a girl, anymore. I’m a woman. A man, a handsome, sexy man with a six-pack and big muscles and hard hands and kind eyes and hot skin and clever fingers and a hungry mouth...is touching me.
His mouth is so eager. He kisses my freckles with adoration, as if he loves each one. I’ll never be self-conscious of them again.
I tingle everywhere he kisses me.
My chest is tight—my nipples ache, throb.
My sex feels…like I could just explode any moment, yet each touch of his fingers only sends me higher on this impossible roller coaster, and I can only wonder where it will end, how that will feel. I’d do anything to keep this going, to never stop.
I’m sitting on his thigh—it’s thick, wide, and powerful.
His hands and mouth are everywhere at once, and I can’t breathe for the glory and ecstasy of his touch. Yet, I know—I know—if I asked him to stop or slow down, he would, instantly.
I want more.
I want to let myself reach that farthest edge, where I was too self-conscious and afraid to go on my own. I’m safe with him. He’ll take me there. With him, everything is okay. In a way it’s never been before, with him, everything is okay.
I’m okay.
More than okay.
There’s just him and me what I want, and what he wants. Nothing else exists, in this time, in this space.
I hear my voice, but it’s almost disconnected from me—I’m fractured by this experience. I’m calling out to God, and saying Wes’s name.
I feel no guilt for this, no guilt for calling out to God—he created this, so it can’t be bad. It feels like the closest thing to heaven that could ever exist on this earth. I’m meant to be here, like this, with this man. Being touched. Being made to feel beautiful. Treasured. Accepted. Wanted.
I touch his face, his stubbled jaw, cup his cheek. Feel the corner of his lips as they meet my skin, traveling from ribcage to outer breast to nipple to valley to inner breast to nipple, in a trail of kisses, a skein of tongue-touches, a knot-work of licks. One hand through his hair, my other cups the back of his neck, and then his hard shoulder. I need both hands to explore his body. It’s so hard, so perfect. A dream, a fantasy. I clutch his biceps, brush his pectoral muscles. Trace over his abs. Scratch fingernails up his back.
His touch is wild on me, and an increasingly loud voice in my soul is begging me to get his touch on my skin, bare.
I’m not brave enough, yet.
Am I?
The closer I get to that far wild edge of this, the braver I get. And I’m so close, now.
Trembling, shaking, I feel my hips pushing against the press and circle of his fingers over the silk of my underwear, against that almost-hidden nub of nerves. I know anatomy, okay? I took human anatomy courses. But even in my own head, I can’t bring myself to use the terms.
I just know his touch there is at once swift yet sweet, tender yet insistent. Eager, yet patient.
His lips close over the aching button of my left nipple, and he suckles, and I cry out, and his fingers pinch the other one, sharply, and now something hot and tight and sharp happens inside me deep down and low, and I cry out loud, a wordless sound. His fingers move between my thighs faster, then, pressing harder, and now I’m there, at that edge, the cusp where I pulled away, last time.
I won’t, this time.
I claw at his chest, his shoulders. I need something.
More.
Something more.
I fall forward, head dropping against his neck. His breath is on my scalp.
I’m so close, but something is preventing me from breaking through to what’s beyond.
“Wes?” I whisper. It’s a plea. I don’t know what I’m even asking. “Wes, I—”
“Stop?” He breathes.
I shake my head vigorously. “No!” I hiss, my voice a squeak.
“Then what? What do you need, Jo?”
I don’t know how to say it.
Just more.
I grab his wrist—the hand at my sex. Shaking all over, terrified at my own daring, I press my palm flat against the back of his hand, fingers tugging to the spaces between his fingers. Lift, guiding his touch up, away from my sex. Up. To the edge of the waistband. I’m gasping. Not having his touch is, suddenly, the worst kind of torture. I’m gasping as if I’d run up the stairs. I press his fingers and palm against the warm skin of my belly, just above the elastic waistband. And then, guide his hand under.
“That’s what you want?” he whispers.
I nod. Words fail me.
“Trust me?”
I nod again.
He lifts his knee, the one I’m sitting on, toppling me toward him. At the same time, he lays backward onto the bed, and just like that, I’m lying on top of him, and I feel him beneath me, feel his hand trapped between our bodies—and I feel something else, too. His sex, a thick ridge against my hip.
Before I can dwell on that, he’s scooting up onto the bed further. His mouth finds mine, then, and I’m lost in the wilderness of his kiss, caught up in the wonder of his tongue and lips on mine, seeing stars as my eyes squeeze shut tight. His hands roam me, coasting over my shoulders, both of them, over my back. Tracing my spine. He clutches my bottom gently, fingers dimpling, and then he’s caressing and petting, and if I wasn’t already breathless from his kiss I’d lose my breath at that touch.
Oh, to be touched.
To be wanted.
Needed.
He caresses me as if it’s as much for his pleasure as mine.
I rake my hand through his hair and claw the other into the thick meat of his hard shoulder where it rounds to become bicep.
And then he rolls.
He’s above me.
On his side, then, not on top of me but angled against me, and he’s still kissing me and his tongue is eager and quick and insistent, and I give him mine, taste his mouth and our tongues soar and sing against the other’s.
His hand traces the circumference of my breast; I gasp into his mouth. Lower, then, tickling over my navel, dipping in, a tease. Down to the edge of my panties, pausing. Waiting—asking? I repeat my action from before: press my hand on his and push his touch lower, under the elastic.
When he takes over, certain that I’m still wanting it, I grasp his wrist in a vise grip, then force myself to loosen.
He’s touching me, then, touching my bare skin. At first, his hand just cups. Delves, fingertips pointing downward, palm over my clitoris, middle finger against the seam. I gasp, breath sucking in sharply. My eyes flick open, and I see his hand under the green silk of my panties.