Pearl
His mouth covered mine, his tongue spearing home as he turned me onto my back—nothing gentle, nothing measured—just raw possession and claim staked. I hadn’t wanted time to think anymore, and he didn’t give it to me.
Clutching his bare shoulders and the arms that surrounded me like indestructible bands, I gave myself over to every trembling response he lured from the buried recesses of my heart. As the storm ebbed outside and sporadic volleys of lightning shone through the window and flickered across the room, he peeled away my clothes and kissed me until I was gasping into his mouth and surging against his hand.
I whimpered as he held his body inches away, hovering over me, so close that I could feel the heat radiating from his skin. With a muffled chuckle, he kissed and teased his way over my breasts and ribs and belly, his lips and tongue stroking unerringly. His hair was soft against my palms as he drifted lower, and I writhed and arched, craving his touch, the feel of his body against mine.
His hands connected with my thighs, and I wailed like I’d waited for days as he dipped his head and slicked his tongue over me before plunging it inside. Arching like a bow and fisting the tangled sheets beneath me like I was clinging to the surface of the earth, I panted a garbled expletive and almost cried. There was no way I could hold still, no subtle response possible.
“Mmm,” he hummed, and I came undone.
He slid up my sweat-slicked body and into me, reclaiming my mouth in the same instant. I convulsed around him, my brain screaming about protection to no avail, drowned out in waves of bliss as he cradled my head in one hand, turning my face for a deep, slow kiss as he rocked into me and came, his mouth breaking from mine to utter my name and, “Godfuckingdammit.”
Foreheads pressed together as if fused, we panted. I closed my eyes, panicked that everything I’d ever felt for him would spill out.
When he withdrew and dropped to my side, he rolled onto his back and dragged me close in one movement. His chest still rose and fell, and I watched my hand ride up and down, curled over his heart. I slanted one leg over his and he tightened his hold, but neither of us spoke. Heart rates decelerating, limbs relaxed and languid, our echoed breathing patterns returned to normal, and the comprehension of what had just occurred presented itself.
I took stock. I’d come to his door like a panicked child, afraid of the sort of thunderstorm I’d never enjoyed but had survived dozens of. He’d invited me into his bed with no seductive propositions or wisecracks. I’d turned to face him. I’d run my fingers over the soft scruff at his jawline and then kissed him there. He’d been hard against my stomach. You ready? he’d said, and I’d nodded.
I tried to be sorry and couldn’t. What a lie that would be, and I wouldn’t tell it. Not to myself. It wasn’t just as good as I remembered. It was—impossibly—so much better.
Finally I mumbled something about the bathroom and slipped out of his arms. The night table drawer was ajar, and a condom wrapper was on top, empty. I hadn’t noticed him reach for it, but I hadn’t noticed much of anything past what he was doing to me. I plucked my T-shirt off the floor and pulled it on as I padded from his bedroom, through the kitchen, and past the living room with my disheveled sheets on the sofa as I’d left them.
I washed up in the dark by the light of the lone porthole window over the shower, unable to look myself in the eye just yet. What now? Back to the sofa? I had no idea of the time, but there’d been no hint of dawn through the windows as I passed them. The rain was still falling, quietly tapping against the roof and windowpanes, but the lightning strikes had abated and the menacing winds had calmed like exhausted toddlers after a tantrum.
Boyce was just outside the bathroom when I opened the door. He caught my hand as I passed and pulled me close, tipping my face up and kissing me tenderly, slowly—nothing like our turbulent coming together moments ago. By the time he released me, I was light-headed. I turned and walked to the sofa, sitting and then curling under the sheet, my mind more muddled than ever. What did it mean? Anything? What had I done?
Minutes later, he exited the bathroom, walked directly to the sofa and scooped me up, sheet and all.
“We’re not done yet,” he said, and my heart launched into a staccato beat as he carried me back to his bed.
This time everything was slow motion. He drew me astride his body, his hands enveloping my face carefully before sliding into my hair and pulling me down for long, deep kisses. Once he was sure of me, his fingers wandered down my arms and back, caressing over my shoulders, along the center of my back to finally duck beneath my shirt and set fire to my skin. His kisses gentle but insistent, he gripped my hips and pressed me against the hard length between my legs.
This time I was aware when he reached into the drawer. Aware when he tore open the wrapper behind my back and tugged me up on my knees while he rolled it on before pressing me back down, hands at my hips, impaling me, filling me. His face disappeared beneath my shirt as I came down and he rocked up. I felt but couldn’t see him tug a nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue round and round the tip until I moaned, then sucking so forcefully it was almost painful before alternating to the other, his hand moving to cover the first sensitive, wet nub, pressing his palm to my breast like a blessing.
This time when I began to come, he flipped me onto my back and pressed deep, one hand between us, thumb and forefinger stroking lightly—once, twice, three times—until I bucked and screamed with the unbearable pleasure, cresting and shuddering until I thought it would never end. Before the tremors subsided, he withdrew and surged home, setting me off once more when he came, my name in his mouth before he kissed me like it was the last time.