Wicked Restless

As I come down from my high, he kisses his way back up my stomach, worshiping my breasts until he’s completely holding himself over me, his body matched up with mine, his hard cock hot against my skin. He takes himself in one hand, and runs the tip down through my wet and still-pulsing center in long, slow strokes that almost send me over the edge again. The sensation has me raising my hips, begging for him to penetrate me.

“Patience,” he says, his mouth an arrogant grin as he dominates me. Andrew moves to his feet, stepping around to the side of his bed where he slides open his night table drawer to pull out a condom. I watch as he tears it open and slides it over himself, my mind a little worried over his size and how this is all going to feel. We’ve reached the limits of my sexual experience, but I’m also desperate for him to take me beyond them.

Andrew positions himself in front of me again, repeating the same teasing strokes along my center, his cock in his hand as he pauses and pushes just enough against me to have my body completely ready to accept him. Leaning forward, he runs his hand behind my neck, tilting my head back slightly as he kisses me hard, possessively, then drags his hand in a hard line down the side of my body, his thumb grazing my nipple as it passes. He reaches the inside of my thigh and pushes my right leg out, opening me to him more, my left leg following his lead as he guides himself to my entrance. His eyes concentrate on every movement, and I’m completely seduced by the vision of him looking at me like this, of him watching himself slide inside me, slowly.

His movement is slow at first, taking long seconds in one place to let me grow accustomed to his size before sliding back out and entering me again, each time falling deeper and deeper until he finally thrusts forward, filling me completely.

“Oh god!” I cry, arching again, his arms sweeping under me, holding me to him while his hips take over the work of pumping in and out in long, tortuous strokes.

“My dreams, Emma. This is better than my dreams,” he says, his breath hot against my ear.

I wrap my legs around him, searching for ways to feel him even deeper inside, and Andrew responds, his hands moving to my ass, pulling me up into him with every pummel, our pressure meeting, the sweet ache growing and growing with every thrust.

I can feel the sweat beading on my body, and Andrew’s back is moist as his muscles work to hold us together, to send us both over the edge.

“I’m so close, Andrew. Please…just a little more,” I gasp, my teeth grazing his shoulder, my fingers digging into his skin as he rocks into me. The need to release builds until I can no longer breathe, and when I feel Andrew begin to push harder, I know he’s with me, so I let everything go.

“Come for me, baby. Please…come for me,” he growls into my neck. I cry out loud until all I have left in me are soft whimpers of pleasure as I feel Andrew thicken inside me, his breath held as he follows me into bliss.

“Emma! Fuck me, Emma,” he grunts, pulling me into him harder and harder, exploding inside me until all that is left is exhaustion and two satiated souls in love.

Andrew doesn’t still right away, sliding in and out in slow movements, wanting to drain every last moment of pleasure from my body. He finally pulls out of me completely, then kisses my scar softly before whispering against my skin. “For always, Emma Burke. For always,” he breathes.

* * *

Showered and now nestled deep in Andrew’s sheets and arms and clothes, reality begins to settle in, and I grow still and quiet. For long minutes, Andrew doesn’t ask why, instead content to have me here and hold me, to stroke my hair and press his lips to the back of my head every so often as I lay here in the safest place in the world.

“Do you know that the only time I ever smoked a joint was that one time?” Andrew says, breaking the silence. I swallow hard. “Once. Ha! I’m like the perfect anti-drug campaign. Don’t do drugs, kids. Even just once could ruin your whole life.”

His joke is the sad kind, and I squeeze his arms, pulling them tighter around me. “I’m sorry, Andrew,” I say, kissing his hand and pressing it against my face.

“Don’t be. I made my choices. I made every single one of them,” he says. I’m not looking at him when he speaks, but there’s something about the timber in his voice that lets me know he’s smiling. Right now—with me—he’s smiling.

“You still shouldn’t have had to go through any of that,” I say, shutting my eyes at the thought of his younger self at the hand of someone hurting him. “They shouldn’t have punished you at all, let alone to that extent.”