Georgie, All Along (65)
He laughs against my neck, tickling my skin there with his beard. “That’s not the sort of thing I ever want you to be sorry for. I’ll be right back.”
When he goes, I push myself farther onto his bed, and it’s soft, clean perfection, with sheets that smell like Levi’s skin. I want to roll around in them while I wait for him, want to press my face into his pillow, want to see a strand of my hair on the bright white of his pillowcase.
It’s amazing how many things I want.
He comes back with a box of condoms, un-self-conscious in his nudity, and I know I haven’t been in this house with him for very long, but I can already see the way he’s different here—looser and less restrained, not the kind of man who keeps to himself or worries over his reputation. I decide right then on another thing I want.
I want to see him let go completely.
I want him to feel the freest he’s ever felt.
I sit up and take the box from him, grabbing his wrist and pulling him onto the bed, pushing him onto his back and straddling his thighs. I take him in my hand, stroke once, and his breath hitches. “Georgie,” he says, his voice low and desperate, so I keep going.
“Is this okay?”
He half laughs, half groans. “It’s not gonna be okay for long.”
He closes his eyes and inhales. Steadying himself. Controlling himself.
I firm my grip and slide my other hand down to cup the soft weight of his sac, rubbing him gently, and his hips thrust, quick and probably involuntary. He breathes out a curse.
I bend to his mouth, still stroking, and run my tongue across his lip—a reward for what he’s shown me, and when I pull back he thrusts again, letting himself give in to it. In this position, I can look my fill at all the things I felt move against me—the network of cording muscle from his shoulders to his wrists; the dark hair across his strong, broad chest; the narrow, shallow trench that shows off all the definition along either side of his long, tanned torso.
“Open your eyes,” I tell him, because I want to see those, too—that dark blue gaze, hungry and desperate.
“I won’t last that way,” he says, keeping them closed, and I decide I have to scold him for that disobedience.
I lean down and lick along his shaft.
“Jesus,” he breathes, and then he lets go—jackknifing upright, gripping my arms and pulling me off him so he can roll me beneath his tense, trembling body. He hooks one of his legs to the side, spreading me wide beneath him, and reaches for the box of condoms. His face isn’t soft and satisfied anymore, the way he looked after he licked me; instead it’s all the hard, impatient lines I first saw on his face in line at Nickel’s, or standing in the doorway of my parents’ house that first night. In those contexts, it was off-putting, rude; it made me feel messy and inconvenient.
In this one, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
It makes me think I’m the hottest thing he’s ever seen.
I watch him smooth the condom over himself, trying to hide all my own impatience, but when he touches the broad head of his cock to the place where I’m wet, I’m pretty sure I whimper.
“All right?” he asks, which obviously isn’t impatient, but it’s perfect—the sentiment makes me feel safe, but the strain in his voice makes me feel so wanted. I nod and lift my hips, and oh . . .
Oh God, it’s good.
One hard thrust to put him deep inside me, one of his palms pressed into the mattress beside my head. Both of his eyes on mine as he rolls his hips and grunts, using his other hand to grip my hip and lift me toward him, exactly where he wants me. He’s so hard inside me, the pressure of him insistent and perfect and I don’t know how I’ve never felt sex like this—rough and gentle, filthy and sweet, selfish and still giving. It’s everything all at once and I decide that must be Levi, who’s been everything all at once ever since I first met him. Mad at me while he buys me my milkshakes; sharp with me but only because he’s so soft.
I don’t expect to come again—I never have before, not so soon after one orgasm, but when Levi’s thrusts get even harder, something tentative builds inside me. When he leans down and takes my nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, I gasp and jolt beneath him, nothing tentative about it now. He lifts his chin and scrapes his beard across my breast, a perfect, electric sensation that I know I’ll ask him for again later. For now, I relish the way he tucks his face against my neck and murmurs my name, that vulnerability the perfect contrast to the way he somehow shoves deeper, hitting a place inside me that shocks me into another orgasm. It’s fast and clenching, my nails digging into his back as I inhale a sharp gasp of surprise, a rush of perfect, wrecking release between my legs. For a split second, I’m almost angry about it—I didn’t keep my control, couldn’t wait for him.
But then there’s Levi’s rumbling grunt again, his hips pounding against mine in a rough, uneven rhythm. He shoves an arm under me, banding it around my lower back, holding me close to him for when his body turns stiff and unmoving all over, for when he lets out the most gorgeous, ragged sound I’ve ever heard a man make.
I hold tight, wrapping my legs around him again, keeping him against me while he breathes heavily, his forehead pressed into the mattress, and I can’t help it—I think about it again.
Everything. Infinite.
The very opposite of a blank page.