“Show me how,” he says softly, but I can hear the tension and the excitement in his voice.
“No!” I almost don’t have breath enough for that one syllable.
“Yes.” And then, even more softly, “Please.”
He gives me a second or two, and when I don’t comply, he leans forward, and while he is kissing me, makes me fall flat on my back by the simple method of jabbing the crooks of my elbows. I try to protest, but his mouth is back on mine, and when he finally releases me and sits up, his cock still hard in my belly, he takes my hand and guides it between my legs.
“You’re safe. I’ll be watching you the whole time.”
There is a faintly malicious note in his voice; he is still angry with me for switching off the light. He settles my butt on the mattress and stretches out next to me, his legs tangled with mine, careful not to slip out of me. Props himself up on one elbow, draws me closer with one arm around my waist. Clasps my uncommissioned fingers with his other hand. Pins my left arm above my head when I try to free myself.
“Giles, no! This really isn’t—”
“You look extremely sexy like this, you kn-know that?”
I can tell that he means it; his voice close above my head is so strained it cracks.
“No, I don’t!”
He thrusts himself into me again, slowly but deliberately, and it’s as if a vial of hot oil had been poured onto his cock.
“Liar,” he whispers into my hair, and I giggle and groan at the same time. I hate that he knows how much he is turning me on, hate even having to admit to myself how much it turns me on to be pinned down like this, by his body and his cock, held like this, exposed.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire…” he whispers. Hesitates, almost stops breathing. “…cunt on fire…Show me how to make you come.”
I couldn’t say whether he pushed my hand back between my legs or whether it crept there of its own accord, but I don’t care anymore. I press my face against his chest. His skin is hot and smells of sex and fresh sweat.
And then I show him.
Sometime later, I float up from what feels like twenty thousand leagues under the sea to find that gentle fingers are caressing the back of my neck, kneading the muscles in my shoulders. A body lies warm and naked against mine, and a voice whispers like an echo from the deep.
“I can’t keep my hands off you.”
I grunt softly and arch myself against his fingers in languid invitation. They need no encouragement. Slowly but inevitably they work their way down the long strands of muscle next to my spine until a large, sure hand molds itself around the warm globes of my buttocks. It needs no more than that. Or perhaps it is because my defenses are down. I want to spread my legs, but at the same time I don’t want to show my need to be touched so blatantly. Down my thighs his hand travels, to the back of my knees, and up again on the inside of my thighs. I only realize that I have lifted myself up and toward him when I hear a noise of amusement next to my ear.
“Here?” he whispers. “You want me here?”
His hand slips into the hot, slick cavity high up between my thighs, almost but not quite reaching my center. Still I am hoping he will nudge my legs apart to give him more scope, but he does not. I must do it, offer myself to him in the silvery darkness, hiding against the mattress. I moan when he slides into me, when he bites into my neck, plays with my ear. His loins feel so smooth and strong against my naked butt. The bed sags. He has taken the weight off his elbows.
This time I come against his hand.
When I wake again, my mouth is so dry I can hardly swallow. I was dreaming I was in an exam situation—fully clothed, at least—and I had to pick one from a table covered with hundreds of cards in wild disorder. I knew that the card held the question I would then have to answer, and I was terrified because I had not prepared myself well for the exam. Hoping against hope to pick a question I could handle, I turned one over, and instead of letters it showed