lust-inducing, heart-stopping shimmy again and the black lace joins denim and underwire on the floor of her bedroom. I didn’t think I could feel desire any more painfully, but at the sight of Nadia, naked, for me, I do. I groan, rub my palm over my mouth.
“God…damn, Nadia.”
She seems to melt at my words. “You look at me like…like I’m the most beautiful thing there is.”
“Because you are.”
She steps forward, closer. Eyes on mine. “I hope—I hope you see the same thing in my eyes.”
“I do,” I whisper. Waiting. “Sure do.”
She frees the button of my fly, tugs down the zipper. I press out of the opening, straining against the imprisoning fabric of my underwear. She lowers both jean and underwear in the same motion, shoving them down to my knees so I can toe them off and kick them aside.
My turn to take over. I step into her, and the bed hits her knees, and she sits, abruptly. I follow her, and wrap one arm around her, under her, cradling her head as I lay her down on the bed. One knee on the mattress beside her, and then she scoots toward the head end and I go with her.
“I want to make you feel good,” I murmur.
“I already do feel good,” she says. Her hand slides from my shoulders down my back, to my butt, where she pauses to spend a while.
“Not what I meant.”
Her eyes glitter in the darkness; the only light is from the full moon through her window, and it bathes her with liquid silver light. “Take me there,” she whispers. “Show me what you mean.”
And so, I do.
A Song Of Us
At first, Nathan just kisses me. But this kiss is meant to distract, to incite, and god, does he do that. His tongue whips my need into a frenzy, and I realize how very, very long it’s been since I felt anything good, anything this good, and I only dare approach that thought before just flinging myself headlong into simply feeling.
His mouth on mine
His body heavy and big and hard above me. His skin under my hands—I touch his broad shoulders and thick arms, his wide back and taut butt, his hairy, strong thighs. The hard weight of his sex is there, hanging and bobbing between us, but I wait. I want to hold him, stroke him, feel him, but I wait. Not quite yet.
He braces himself on an elbow and a hip, beside me more than above me, now, and his kiss seems to slow, as if settling in for the long haul. His hand caresses my breasts, his touch deft and greedy and soft. My breasts feel heavy, taut, my nipples sensitive, and his touch draws fire in my belly. And then, the fire in my belly hardens and descends lower, to the delicacy of my folds, the apex of my thighs. His touch moves there. I’m trembling, afraid and eager at once, and I’m grateful he takes his time. He doesn’t just plunge right to touching, but explores me first, and never stops kissing me. He touches along my thigh, over the top, everywhere. And when he does touch me at last, it’s gentle and slow and light, tracing the seam. I hold on to his neck and his shoulder, angled toward him, one thigh flung aside, opening myself to his touch. I’m greedy for it even as I tremble in anticipation, more than a little fear, as a million what-ifs crash through my mind.
Doubts are silenced when he slips a fingertip through me, and then finds the nexus of my need. I moan, and then he follows the trail of my whimpers and lifted hips to discover what moves me, what draws groans from me. He learns me, becomes a student of me. I can feel him memorizing my whimpers, absorbing the knowledge of where and how his touch makes me shift under him, lift, pulse against him.
Despite my desire, my nerves dull the sharpness, and it takes a while. He is patient, pulling back when I need it, racing ahead when I’m ready. He knows my rhythms, somehow. His touch circles, and I’m on the edge. Teetering, unable to topple over.
I’m becoming frustrated. I want to.
He slides a finger into me, gathers wetness. Pauses, there, just like that. “Nadia.”
I open my eyes. “Hmm?”
“Relax.”
“I can’t. I’m so worked up, and I’m getting frustrated because I can’t just…”
He finishes my sentence for me with a kiss. “Just breathe.” I take a