Beautiful Beginning(56)
across my tongue and teeth and lips, he’s holding steady, deep inside and
coming with a low, rasping groan.
I pull my mouth away from him and he runs a shaking finger across my lip as
I swallow.
“So good,” he exhales.
I fall back on the pillow and feel like my muscles have been completely
silenced after the frenzy of my entry into the room. I’m leaden and numb,
and other than the heavy echo of pleasure between my legs, the only thing I
can feel is my smile.
The room has turned pink in the sunset pouring through the window, and
Ansel hovers over me on rigid arms, breathing heavily. I feel the rake of
his gaze move across my skin, come to settle on my breasts, and he smiles
at the same time I feel my nipples grow tight.
"I left marks all over you last night." He bends, blowing air across one
peak. "I'm sorry."
I laugh and tug his hair playfully. “You don’t sound sorry.”
He grins up at me, and when he pulls back to admire his handiwork again, I
give in to the unfamiliar instinct to cross my arms over my chest. In
dance, my small frame was a benefit; my small breasts were an ideal non-
hindrance. But in the bare skin world of sex, I can't imagine my 32Bs cut
it.
"What are you doing?" he asks, tugging on my forearm as he kicks off his
pants. "It's too late to be shy with me now."
"I feel tiny."
He laughs. "You are tiny, cerise. But I like every tiny inch of you. I
haven’t seen your skin in hours." Bending, he circles my nipple with his
tongue. "You have sensitive breasts, I discovered."
I suspect I have sensitive everything when he's the one touching me.
His palm spreads across one breast while he sucks at the other and his
tongue begins to move in small, flat, pressing circles. It revives the
delicious throb between my legs.
I think he knows it, too, because the hand cupping my breast slides down
over my ribs, across my stomach, down my navel and between my legs, but he
never stops circling with his tongue.
And then his fingers are there, two of them pressed flat, and he's making
the same circles in the same rhythm, and it’s as if a tight band connects
between where his tongue and fingers are, pulling tighter and tighter,
warmer and warmer. I'm bowing up off the bed and gripping his head, begging
him in a hoarse voice to please please please.
The same rhythm, both places, and I’m worried I’ll fall apart, melt into
the bed or simply dissolve into nothing when he hums over my nipple, his
fingers pressing harder, and then he lets up only long enough to ask me, “
Won’t you let me hear you one more time?”
I don’t know if I could survive it. I can’t survive without it.
With him, my sounds are hoarse and free, I don’t seem to hold back words
of pleasure and it’s completely without thought. I offer up everything and
my sounds spur him on until he’s sucking frantically and I’m arching into
his hand crying out—
Coming
Coming
Three fingers plunge into me, the heel of his hand taking over outside. It
’s pleasure so intense it hurts. Or maybe it’s knowing how easy this is
and how good, and that I have to either give him up or do something crazy
to keep him. My orgasm lasts so long I run through both of these scenarios
multiple times during the most intense pleasure of it. It lasts long enough
for him to unlatch his lips from my breast and move to my face and kiss me,
sucking all of my sounds into his mouth. It lasts long enough for him to
tell me I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
My body quiets and his kisses slow until it’s just the small slide of his
lips over mine. I taste like him and he tastes like me.
Ansel leans over the side of the bed to pull a condom from the pocket of
his jeans. “Are you too sore?” he asks, holding it up in question.
I’m sore, but I don’t think I could ever be too worn-out to feel him. I
need to remember exactly what it’s like. The scattered shrapnel of my
memory won’t suffice if I have to let him go tonight. I don’t answer
aloud, but I pull him over me, bending my knees at his sides.
He kneels, brows drawn as he rolls the condom down his length. I want to
pull out my phone, take pictures of his body and his serious, focused
expression. I need the pictures so I can say,See, Mia? You were right about
his skin. It’s as smooth and perfect as you remember. I want to somehow
capture the way his hands are shaking with urgency.
When he’s done he places a hand by my head and uses the other to guide
himself to me. The moment I can feel the heavy press of him, it occurs to
me that I’ve never felt so impatient in my life. My body wants to devour
his.
"Come back with me," he says, moving barely in, and back out again. A
torture. “Please, Mia. Just for the summer.”