hard against my writhing crotch, and I try to stifle my moans in the warm, fragrant nook of his throat, in his hair, my burning face against his.
“Say that you want me!”
His voice rattles in my ear, and I can only whimper in response; my bones and my flesh are melting down into a heaving mass of sensation, melting against his fully dressed body, when I’m so naked. I know what he wants. He wants me to bare my soul to him. He wants to see me naked and defenseless, while he is safe in his tweed armor. I lean away from him so that I can reach down between us. The fabric of his jeans is stretched so tight by his erection I have difficulties even opening the top button, but feeling it, just feeling it through his pants, makes me nosedive for disaster.
I jump down from the table to pull down my underwear, but my boots take forever to unlace. Giles laughs and curses with frustration as he watches, then—“Oh, damn it all!”—he lifts me up onto the table top, crouches down and pushes himself up between my legs, as if he were the thread and my legs, held together by the pantyhose, were the eyelet.
“Very sexy, these boots, but not very—” he brushes against me, misses me “—not very practical!”
We laugh, and then we moan, because there is nothing under the sun and the moon like this fusion and this friction. No wonder the Ancients thought that the universe was made by gods and goddesses fucking.
Held fast between my legs, he doesn’t have a lot of room to maneuver, so he plunges deep into me, moves with deep, short thrusts, pulling me hard against his stomach.
“Look at me.” His voice is like the low rumble of thunder at the end of a scorching summer day.
I peel my cheek from the damp tweed of his shoulder and try to focus on his eyes. They are flickering, like those of a man determined to maintain consciousness under the influence of an overpowering drug. Even now, with my arms and legs clutching him to my body, my pubic bone grinding into his stomach, and his cock wreaking havoc inside me, the sight of his face gives me a jolt. He’s so beautiful, I want to die for him, and I’m going to die, here, right here on his cock, if he keeps on doing what he is doing.
He stops.
“Look at me!”
“I c-can’t!”
I can hardly breathe, let alone speak, and as for looking at him while he is doing this to me—he must be joking. I try to ride him, to tear my pleasure from him on my own terms, but he holds me fast by the waist, neither pressing me down nor lifting me off, he just holds me still, and I want to howl with frustration.
“Anna.”
It crunches my heart into a tight, frightened ball, he says the word so quietly, so tenderly.
“Please,” I whine. “Just fuck me! Just fuck me, please…”
“Anna. I want you to look at me.”
I do, like a girl awaiting a particularly insidious kind of punishment.
“I will fuck you. I am fucking you. But I want you to look at me while I’m doing it.”
And he rocks against me, slowly, so deeply, and when I whimper, he leans forward and kisses me as slowly, as deeply and as thoroughly as he is fucking me. It’s not enough for him to make me drown in my desire for him, the sheer, voluptuous pleasure of feeling him with every square inch of my body, inside as well as outside. He wants to make me drown in him.
“Come for me, Anna.”
I’m close, so close, my feet are halfway over the ledge of the cliff, but I’m afraid to jump, frightened of the fall, frightened that he won’t catch me.
I feel him hunch his shoulders, then he pushes his hand down the front of our bodies, the large palm of his hand lies flat against my hot, sweaty stomach, then his fingers reach my clitoris and press it, just press against it, his mouth is on my breast, and he sucks me into an orgasm as keen and hard-edged as a swig of whisky straight from the bottle—sharp, almost painful. My cry of release echoes in the firmament like a cry of pain, and I claw at his shoulders, at his back, to pull him still deeper into me. The still center of the turning world.