“Jo!” he shouts.
And his erection pulses in my fist, and I watch as thick, viscous white liquid, his cum, spurts out of the tip of him and splashes against my belly and over my hand. I keep going, because he’s still growling and thrusting. Again, he spurts, and now his seed mixes with the conditioner smearing my hand and his member. Another jet leaves him, accompanied by a deep-throated groan, lifting up onto his toes, driving into my touch.
God, it’s beautiful.
Messy.
But beautiful.
He’s wild, half animal, crazed. Completely under my thrall, locked into my touch. I remember how I felt, when he was making me come—maddened, primal, desperate. I would have done anything, said anything, to keep him touching me, to keep the feeling going.
So I keep touching him, stroking him as he comes and comes, spurting his seed onto my hand and belly and himself. He slows, and quiets, and I don’t stop.
Finally, I feel him subsided in my hand, fading.
He’s gasping as if he sprinted a mile.
“Jolene…my god.” His eyes meet mine, awed, overcome. “God, that was the most incredible thing I’ve ever felt.”
I swell with pride. “For real?”
“I swear to god, Jo. I’m…I can barely stand up.”
I’m still holding him—but now it’s half the size it was, if not smaller. Soft, almost delicate…and kind of funny. I look down at the thing in my palm, and I have to stifle a snicker.
He notices, however. “Are you laughing at my flaccid penis, Jolene Park?” His voice is wry, arch.
I press my lips together, eyes wide, and shake my head. “No sir, Mr. Westley, sir.” I clench my jaw around another snort of laughter. “I would never. That would be unkind.”
He holds a frown, and then a snort escapes him, and that breaks mine loose, and suddenly we’re both laughing. “I mean, it is, objectively, kind of a funny thing, isn’t it?”
I’ve dissolved into laughter, my forehead against his chest, hot water beating on my spine and shoulders. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t know why it’s so funny.” I straighten and hold up my hand. “You weren’t kidding about the mess.”
He twists me to face the spray, my back to his front, and I rinse my hands. His palms scour my body—he’s poured a dollop of shower gel into his hand and he’s lathering me. Washing me carefully, gently, affectionately. Not missing an inch. Shoulders, throat, breastbone, arms—breasts, tenderly, with extra attention. Then my belly, washing away the evidence of his release. Hips. Thighs. I lean back against him, rest my head on his shoulder as his touch drifts aimlessly over my belly, hips, and thighs. I widen my stance, cling to his arms barred over my torso.
“Touch me, Wes,” I whisper. “Please. Make me—” I drop my voice even lower, so I’m not sure he can even hear me over the hiss of the shower. “Make me come.” The unfamiliar words, the strange, sinful meaning of them—they burn my tongue and torch my throat, scorch my lips. I like it. It’s not…dirty. Not sinful. The words taste delicious. I say them again, to feel them. Say them louder. More boldly. “Make me come, Wes. Please.”
He rumbles wordlessly in his chest, and his fingers find me, and delve into me, seeking the soaked, slippery warmth of my sex. One touch, and my body is on fire. Heat and pressure are volcanic within me. My sex feels so wet, slippery and slick—drenched. Making me ready for his touch. His fingers slide into me, one, and then two together, stretching and filling me—then pressing and circling over my clit, and my knees buckle and a whimper escapes my gritted teeth.
“Oh god, Wes!” I cry, and I can’t keep my voice quiet anymore. The desperation is upon me, instantly.
I need his touch. I need more. I reach up and back and clutch his head, scratching my fingernails over his scalp, through his hair. Then drop them and reach back to grab at his buttocks. Pull him against me—I feel his manhood against me, sticky, a thick lump between our bodies, nestled against my backside. I like it. I like everything about this. About Wes. His body. My body. Touching. The sensuality. The thrill. The heights of pleasure and the delightful, incredible journey to climax.
I can’t wait for the next step—I’m eager for it. But I like the process, too. Each step is its own beautiful journey.
And this, in the shower, exchanging orgasms? So beautiful.
His fingers press so lightly against my clit that I can barely feel it, but it drives me wild. I gasp, whimper. Press my hips forward in a plea for him to do something more. Oh, he understands my needs all too well. His hand drops from my breast and delves between my thighs, and then a finger slides into my sex and fills me and his other hand is busily touching my clit with slow circles, and now I am comprised entirely of sensation, of his touch. All of me is him—his fingers, there. I can’t even breathe and I don’t care to—all I want is touch.
My knees buckle, and I dip—sinking his finger deeper into me. When I manage to get my knees to lock once more, he adds a second finger…and then a third, and I’m stretched to capacity around his fingers, and they slick into me and curl and retreat, and my knees quake, and his fingers circle. And oh god and oh god and oh god, this is everything. He gives me a rhythm, then, and it’s heaven on earth. Fingers slide into me, again and again, in a slow press and pull, curling as they enter me to rub against my inner walls in a way that makes eyes cross and a moan escape my lips, and the other fingers press more firmly against my clit and circle faster, and now my body moves, instinct takes over. My hips behave as his did—flexing and thrusting as if on their own. Pressing me into his touch, demanding more, demanding he give me more and more and more.
He does. Incredibly, beautiful more. Faster. Deeper.
Until my thrusts are fast and rough and wanton and I’m whimpering in time with his circling fingers and plunging fingers and gasping as waves of intense pleasure wash over me and the need to explode deepens, heightens, intensifies.
“Oh god, Wes,” I gasp. "I’m…I’m gonna come.”
He just growls in response and continues his rhythm.
And then it hits me.
All at once, and in a barrage of waves.
I cry out, and then the wave becomes a vise grip of climax crushing me into paroxysms, and the cry becomes a scream, and my hands claw roughly into his butt and my hips press forward and freeze, and my knees give out and my spine arches and my mouth is open wide and the scream goes silent as my lungs empty.
An eternity passes as the climax rips through me, tears me to delicious pieces and leaves me wrung out and panting, and then my legs truly give out and he catches me, holds me. Twists me to face him and clutches me against him. I taste shower water on his skin, and I taste skin and I feel his manhood against my belly, just above my sex and he’s holding me and kissing my temple and the top of my head.
I tilt my head up and wrap a hand around the back of his neck and pull him down and demand his mouth. I kiss him and tangle my tongue against his and my other hand is pawed into his butt and I’m clutching him with all my strength and kissing him with every last ounce of my need and passion for his body and his touch and his everything and I understand utterly and into my very soul that to finally unite with Wes in the final stage of this sexual awakening will be beauty and harmony and wonder and perfection made flesh, made real, and I want it.