Christa Wick: Slow Hand Curves

Feeling his hand on my hip, I gave a little jump. I hadn’t sensed him crossing the room.

He turned my face so I was looking at him. “I’m not sure I like what you’re thinking, Hollywood.”

I stared down at the sliver of space between us. “What am I thinking?”

“Big questions is my guess.” He wrapped one of my naturally tight curls around the tip of his index finger. “Serious questions. You want to ask them out loud?”

I immediately shook my head. He didn’t need a front row view of my insecurities.

“Mmmm…Let’s start with the simple questions, then.” He arranged the curl he had toyed with behind my ear. His lips touched my cheek. “Do you want me to touch you?”

That was an easy yes, my reaction so prompt I felt his mouth spread in a smile against my skin. “Good, because-”

The kettle started whistling, drawing him away from me. I started to rise and follow him, but he gestured for me to go into the front room. I sat down on the couch, my legs tucked to the side. The skirt of my dress fell above my knee from the position. I went to adjust it and stopped.

Sam had already seen a lot more than my knee and it was just the two of us. I brought my knees a little higher up on the cushion and let the fabric of the skirt drape behind the back of my lower thigh. I studied the effect for a second and then looked toward the kitchen area to see Sam lift the serving tray.

With his long, muscled legs, it didn’t take him very long to reach me. He placed the tray on the table. Lifting the lid from the sugar server, he raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Three cubes,” I answered.

He lowered three cubes into the cup and slowly stirred the tea, his gaze once again freely roaming my body. He landed, at last, on my exposed knee and a smile crept up the right side of his face. I immediately moved to lower the hem.

“No you don’t, Hollywood.” Placing the spoon on the tray, he brushed the hem of my dress a little higher up my thigh. Returning to my tea, he lifted the small cream jug.

“Just a tip,” I whispered, my throat suddenly dry.

He poured the cream in, gave the tea another stir and then started to hand the cup to me. I reached for it, but he pulled back.

Sam looked at the shake still infecting my hands. “Can you promise me you’re not going to burn yourself?”

Closing my eyes, I tried to calm my nerves. It was ridiculous the way I was shaking. A trembling virgin — so very cliche, but absolutely true. I opened my eyes again, touched by the genuine concern that shaped his face.

“I can’t promise.”

Putting the cup back on the tray, he nodded. “We’ll have tea later. Right now, it’s time for cream and cake.”

“Cake?” I wrinkled my brow at him.

Another nod as he advanced on me. “Yes, baby. I love cake.”

His hands curled around my shoulders and exerted a gentle pressure, pushing me into the side pillows. When I was on my back, his hand wrapped around the calf of my inside leg and lifted it onto the couch as he slid onto his knees.

Pinching the hem of my dress, he slowly peeled it up the length of my thighs. “And, boy, do I love cream. Your cream, Amber.”

“I…we…uhm…” I tried to scoot up the couch, away from his fast descending lips.

“Remember, baby, simple stuff first.” His hands gripped my hips, stopping my retreat. “You want me to touch you.”

Yes, yes, yes! I took a shuddering breath in. I wanted him to do what he’d done at the wellness center. I wanted him in me, too. I wanted him to hold me, take me. I wanted to hear the rough whisper of his voice as he came with me.

“I do.” I agreed.

His eyes closed, his expression serene as he brushed a bristly cheek against the inside of my thigh. When he looked back up, I felt the heat of his gaze searing me. He palmed my mound, gave it a few rhythmic squeezes and then he thumbed the gusset of my panties to the side.

I knew I already was very wet. My juices had been flowing most of the evening. All it took was the briefest caress or contemplative look from Sam and I got all moist.

Sam stood and reached his hands out to me. “Baby, I want you in your bed.”

Holding his hands for support, I rose. My legs were trembling now, the heels suddenly dangerous. He wrapped his arm around my waist, steadying me. It took a full minute to get down my short hall. He pushed me up against the wall at one point, his hands covering my breasts. He mashed them, mauled them, his mouth possessing mine as the hard line of his erection pressed against my stomach.

Still in the hall, he stripped my dress from me. Sinking to his knees again, he pulled the waist band of the panties down to the top of my thigh. He nosed the fur covering my sex and then his tongue pushed through the silky strands to run a line up my clit. He pulled the panties down slowly, a lick for each inch he lowered them. My hips took up a slow grind.

Sam had me step out of the panties and then part my legs. He spread my labia, his teeth grazing my clit before he stood up and led me the rest of the way into my bedroom with only my heels and bustier on me.

Pushing open the door, I groaned internally. The room was clearly no man’s land. I had the same canopied double bed I’d slept in as a little girl. A duvet of white eyelet with pastel colored ribbons threaded through it covered the mattress. Lace fringed pillows rested against a headboard of pale tulipwood. More lace wrapped around the four posts that held the canopy up.

I lived in a Disney kind of bedroom — guilty as charged.

“Sorry,” I whispered.

Maneuvering me toward the bed, he gave a soft chuckle. “Don’t be, baby.”

He placed me on my back, center of the mattress. He raised my hands above my head, crossing my arms at the wrists. “Close your eyes, Hollywood. And keep them closed.”

Aching for the site of him undressed, I shut my eyes reluctantly. I heard him moving around, heard the crisp fabric of his shirt as he stripped it away and the rustle of his dress slacks as he stepped from them. He returned to the bed, pulled my right leg toward the right edge of the mattress. Climbing onto the mattress, he pushed my other leg to the opposite edge.

His hands slipped beneath my bottom and pulled me about a foot down the mattress. My pumps still on, he lifted my legs again, hooking the heels on the top edge of the footboard.

Eyes shut, legs spread, my pelvis tilted up, I felt completely exposed but not the least bit vulnerable.

Sam decided to tease me to the point of near madness. His fingertips traced the inside of my legs from my ankles up to the split of my thighs and back down again. Then he stroked the line of my pussy before kneading its plump lips.

“Baby, you’re all wet.” He tugged at the lips, stretched them to let his thumbs massage the edges of my tight hole. “Bright pink and swollen.”

“You know at the center, your legs spread, I could see you were untouched.” He swirled the tip of his finger in my juices. I felt the whisper of the finger’s pad inside me, stroking not at the sides but at some ultra-sensitive shield. “What drove you to make an appointment with Slow Hand Sam?”

My lips pulled back in a grimace. I felt guilty for even having heard him called that, worse yet for contributing to the rumors he had to live with at work. I grimaced, too, because I felt like a freak. What twenty-six year old woman couldn’t orgasm on her own?

“I had never reached climax,” I confessed. “I tried, on my own…you know? But nothing.”

“I’ll help you learn to enjoy your own body, Amber.” He sealed the promise with a kiss against the inside of my left knee. “But first I want to make you come for me. And I want to come with you — in you.”