"Again," he demanded, fingers slipping under the material, moving up my slick cleft, circling over my clit until it felt swollen and too sensitive, then moving back downward.
Two fingers tapped against the entrance to my body, making my thighs clench the sides of his hips, making low, mewling noises escape me, wanting the pressure, needing the invasion.
"Christopher, please," I demanded as he continued the torment.
Dark eyes on me, his fingers pressed inside, slow, all the way, pausing, refusing to budge.
On a grumble, I lifted up a bit, then rolled my hips, feeling his fingers press against my top wall as I did so, making that shock of G-spot contact tighten my walls around his fingers as he started to gently thrust as I continued the circles, both of us driving me up, then sending me crashing over once again.
Christopher's hands left me once more, grabbing my dress, bunching the flowing fabric up, inching it upward, exposing my belly, my bra, pulling it up over my head.
Greedy fingers reached out, fumbling with his shirt buttons, yanking at the fabric of his shirt to free it from his waistband, so I could spread it wide, slide it off of his magnificently tanned shoulders.
He always looked good with his shirt off. In the mornings before he got dressed for the day. During and after his workouts. But he looked especially good right there, right then, for my eyes and hands only.
My fingers traced over his shoulders then inward and down at his chest, over the muscles of his abdomen, feeling them twitch at the contact.
My fingers snagged the side of his belt, working it out of the loop, slipping the prong out of the hole, sliding it free from the rest of the loops, dropping it down on the floor beside me. When my fingers sought his button and zipper, though, his moved behind me, slid up my back, snagged my bra, working the clasps free, exposing me, then distracting me from my task as his fingertips grazed the undersides of my breasts, thumbs moving out to stroke over the hardened peaks, working them into tighter buds.
A shiver started at the base of my spine, worked upward and spread out, taking over my whole body as he leaned forward, lips sealing over one of my nipples, sucking hard. Then, before I could take a deep breath, he moved across my chest to continue the sweet torment before suddenly anchoring his arm around my lower back, lifting me up, turning, dropping me down on the mattress, body moving over mine, lips sliding between my breasts, tongue moving out to stroke an unhurried path downward, stopping only when he met the waistband of my panties, lifting up to remove them from me before dropping down again.
His fingers traced slow circles over the ultra-sensitive skin of my inner thighs until he had me writhing, begging for more.
Then and only then, did his head dip again, lips closing around my clit, sucking in short, uneven pulses, keeping my body guessing, refusing to let it get used to the motion.
"Not yet," he said in a hushed, husky voice when I begged for release, fingers scraping at his neck, shoulders, arms as he moved away from me, going to stand off the end of the bed, eyes roaming over me hungrily.
Gaze finding mine, they held as he reached downward, worked his button and zipper free, slid his pants and boxer briefs down over his hips, thighs, discarding them, then standing there gloriously naked.
My eyes broke contact first, too desperate to take him all in to not appreciate the whole view. The thick lines of corded muscle, the dark smattering of hair, the hard desperation of his cock, promising fulfillment.
My gaze made its way back upward, seeing the heat in his eyes as he put his knees to the end of the bed, moved toward me, came over me, body pressing mine into the mattress, the weight something I hadn't realized I had been needing so badly.
His lips claimed mine once again, but softer, less demanding. Almost... sweeter.
Sweet and sex were not things I really thought went together too well.
Until now.
Until Christopher.
I don't know how long it was, where all there was in the world was his lips on mine, the pressure of his body, the heat that seemed to overtake every inch of me.
But then his weight shifted, balanced on one arm as the other reached into the nightstand.
He slipped on the condom then claimed my lips again, the sweet, unhurried exploration leaving me in this floaty, dreamy highly sensitive state, a place I wasn't sure I had ever been before, where I felt everything at once, and deeply, every sense overwhelming me.
His lips moved from mine as he pressed up slightly, looking down at me, waiting for my heavy eyelids to flutter open.
Then, hungry gaze on mine, his hips shifted, pressed, his cock pushing inside me in one slow, deep thrust, claiming me entirely.
My back arched as my fingers curled into his shoulders, nails digging crescents into his back as a low moan escaped me, making his cock twitch, making my walls tighten.
He withdrew slightly, slowly, pressing back in, stealing my breath, making the entire world fall away.
Again.
Twice.
Three times.
Ten.
Twenty times.
Before the need seemed to grip us both at once, making my feet plant, my hips driving up against him as he thrust faster, harder, deeper, my whimpers becoming moans, my fingers raking down his back as he drove me up, as he pushed me to the edge.
"Come with me, Melody," he demanded, voice rough and soft somehow at the same time.
His hips thrust.
And I just... shattered.
Waves crashed over and over as he thrust through them, only planting, body stiffening, my name cursing out from between his lips after he felt my orgasm ebb away.
He rolled to my side, pulling me with him, hooking my leg over his hip, pulling me onto his chest, his chin resting on the top of my head as we both worked to even our breathing, slow our pounding hearts, process what had just happened.
Something more than what it seemed, I decided immediately.
Sex was sex.
It could be enjoyable and uncomplicated, bodies just seeking relief in one another. Nothing more.
But this wasn't just sex.
This was intimacy.
This was something deeper than I was used to. There was a connection here.
Where, in the past, sex was always the end of something, this felt undeniably like a beginning.
The part of me that had always been wary of feelings with men said to shutter up, to batten down the hatches, to make sure he couldn't get in deep enough to do any damage.
The other part, though, was curious.
And maybe even, I don't know, hopeful.
Christopher's fingertips stroked lazily up and down my spine, an almost meditative motion, each lap bringing more calm to his body.
"Stay," he demanded softly as he pulled away from me, got to his feet, made his way toward the bathroom.
Stay.
As if I was capable of moving at all, let alone leaving.
And that was the weird thing, wasn't it?
Because this would be the time when I would normally be jumping off the bed, shrugging into my clothes, likely shoving my bra and panties into my pockets or purse in my desperate attempt to get out of there before someone asked me to stay the night.
But there wasn't a single part of me that wanted to get out of this bed, to get out of this room, to get away from this man.
In fact, I wanted him to come back, to curl into me, to fold me into him, to feel him hold me like he'd done in his room back in Santorini. But for longer. For the entire night.
I wanted to wake up in the middle of the night to see his face softer in sleep.