Captured(49)

He’s tongue-f*cking my mouth.

God, I love it.

Oh, shit. Ohshitohshit. He’s rolling with me and I’m on my back, and he’s still got my damn hands pinned above my head, except now his mouth has finally left mine and he’s kissing down my throat to my chest, between my tits, cupping one to bring it to his mouth and sucking my nipple in, and I actually squeak with surprised need. With ecstasy. I soften. I melt, and then I moan and moan and moan as he crosses my sternum with tongue-laving kisses and finds my other boob, suckling that nipple with equally passionate attention.

He moves down my body, kneeling between my thighs, holding my wrists over my chest now.

“Derek?” I don’t know what I’m asking, only that I’m pleading with him.

I’m scared and I’m needy and I’m on fire and I’m nervous and I’m self-conscious. My core trembles. His eyes are on mine, unwavering and intense. He gathers a handful of the front of my underwear, a pair of deep crimson silk, high-cut bikinis, and drags them slowly and deliberately down, removing them the rest of the way.

“Lift up for me, sexy.”

“Sexy?” It’s part question, part protest.

But yet, I’m lifting up — my hips are off the saddle blanket to let him pull the silk the rest of the way off.

“It’s not a strong enough word.” His eyes are still on mine, unwavering all this while.

Now that I’m totally naked for him with the evening sun streaming through the trees and bathing me in golden light, his eyes rove downward. They search me, take me in totally and completely, head to toe, up and down and up and down. Perhaps more than anything he could ever say to me, the best motivation for me to realize my own beauty in his eyes is being able to watch his zipper tighten and tent out, watching his nostrils flare and his breathing deepen, his tongue wetting his lips in anticipation.

Being told you’re beautiful? Unless you never hear it, it can quickly become cheap. Any guy desperate for sex will tell you you’re beautiful. Friends or family will say things like, “oh, well you’re a beautiful woman, so…”, and it just becomes part of you, people telling you you’re beautiful. I know what I look like. I’m beautiful. Fair, attractive, proportioned features. Curves, nice eyes, thick hair. Whatever. That doesn’t mean I don’t have my insecurities. I dare any woman who has carried a child to tell me she’s never, ever felt insecure or self-conscious about her stretch marks. Some use oils and lotions and yoga to get rid of them, some don’t. I haven’t. Haven’t had the time. Some learn to own them, to rock bikinis and strut their stuff on the beach. Good for them. That’s just not me.

And really, it’s not like I’m paranoid about it. It’s less about the stretch marks and more about the fact that I’ve not been looked at as a sexual creature in so long that it’s unfamiliar and scary. It’s about the fact that I only had two partners before Tom, both short-term, awkward, teenage romances. Then I was with Tom, and only Tom, for the rest of my life. And he was gone for most of our marriage. Meaning, there have been many long periods in my life without sex. Tom was my best friend and my husband, so it was easy with him. He knew me, he got me. And even still, I’d be nervous the first time after he was back on leave.

So now, with Derek staring down at me, I’m rife with insecurity and nerves.

Yet Derek’s expression…it reassures me. He’s nervous, too. And looking at me, he’s clearly attracted to me. His gaze rakes over me, takes in my breasts, my thighs, my stomach, my core, my eyes, my face. My lips. And with the way he looks at me, the appreciation so apparent in his eyes, I feel beautiful. I feel wanted.

I feel sexy.

He lets go of my wrists. “Leave ’em there, okay?”

I nod. I don’t question. He smiles at me. Licks his lips again and touches his lips to the side of my boob, the underside, my rib. My stomach. And then, ever so gently, ever so deliberately, he kisses each mark on my stomach. Each blemish, each gap in the tautness of my belly, he kisses. He draws his tongue up, pressing his lips over each…and every…one.

I’m crying by the time he’s done. He didn’t have to say a thing, but his meaning was clear.

I let my tears fall, tears that are soft and gentle, appreciative and thankful. He looks up at me, his chin on my hipbone. “Okay?”

I can only nod. My heart rate ratchets up between one second and the next, though, because his gaze slides away from mine, over my body once more, down between my thighs. Hooo…shit. No insecurities here. I did Kegels and all those other exercises to keep things tight down there, so I feel fine about myself in that area. What I’m feeling right now is just raw nerves. He’s moving, his hands sliding over my hipbones, trailing down through the trimmed “V” of hair—I wonder if I should have shaved it for him?—his finger sliding over the seam of my opening. I tremble. Exhale. Keep my eyes on him, hands above my head as requested.

A finger inside me. His mouth on my stomach, then my left thigh, then the softness of my inner leg, near the knee. All of that is within the bounds of what I was anticipating. I close my eyes, thread my fingers together, and sigh at the soft, wet feel of his mouth on the crease of my thigh where hip meets leg.

I don’t expect his tongue sliding up my opening. I gasp out loud, eyes jerking open, knees closing around his shoulders. “Derek! What are you—?”