K. Bromberg - Slow Burn

To go for it.

My smile grows even wider because I know somewhere in Heaven, Lexi just stood up and cheered for me. And the thought alone gives me the confidence I need to continue forward and tell Becks the one thing he needs to hear.

By now I’m standing next to the couch, looking down at him. I force a swallow down my throat as I realize that my fears have been irrational. That God can’t be that greedy to steal my mother’s breasts, extinguish my sister’s light before her time, and then want my life way too early as well.

And as I stand in this darkened condominium, where a Keurig sits askew next to a half-empty clear plastic container of sugar cookies, my realization is like a weight off of my shoulders—I want this. I want it with him.

I let the blanket slip off my shoulders and fall to the floor with a soft whisper of sound. I pull my shirt over my head and toss it beside me. My hands pull my cell from my pocket and place it on the table before finding their way to the zipper on my skirt, opening its teeth, and pushing it down until it pools around my feet.

Tears well in my eyes as I dredge up every emotion I’ve shoved away over the past six months, every denial of wanting more since my first time with Becks. I stand there in this strange apartment with Becks snoring softly before me. It seems silly to have this epiphany here of all places, but it also feels imperfectly perfect. I’m naked in so many ways that processing the magnitude of what I’m opening myself up to is impossible. All I know is that the silence in my head has turned into a loud buzz of thoughts that seems harsh against the raw honesty of my decision.

My mind spins in a dizzying eddy of possibilities as I sit my hip on the couch beside his waist and breathe him in momentarily. My rational side tells me to shove up from the couch and escape as fast as I can, but then every other part of me has me lean forward and press my lips to the middle of his chest.

I keep my mouth there, and the warmth of his skin and the thunder of his heart beneath my lips combined with my sudden courage are an intoxicating mixture. I begin to lace soft, gentle kisses up his sternum. His breathing changes, becomes less even with each breath he draws. I inhale the scent of his cologne at the dip beneath his Adam’s apple before lifting my head and brushing a kiss against his lips. I repeat the motions with soft whispers of touch until I hear a muted moan from him as my actions slowly stir him awake.

I know the minute his mind has caught up when his lips are already kissing me before he’s even awake. His muscles tense; then the arm above his head juts forward until it lands on the bare skin of my back.

“Haddie,” he says in a dreamlike voice as he attempts in his sleepy state to comprehend what’s going on. I just keep meeting his lips over and over until his hand on my back finds my hair and fists in it so that I’m forced to meet his startled blue eyes. He’s trying to work out how I went from hating, then wanting, and then crying to now needing him.

And the smart-ass in me thinks, Welcome to being a female , but the moment is so much more poignant than a quip can signify. So I stay quiet, and as our eyes hold each other’s, I know that this unspoken connection is so much more intimate than words could be right now.

So we sit like this, his hand in my hair, our breathing uneven, and an unasked question hanging between us that once it’s answered can offer so many possibilities. Becks just continues to stare at me, the crystalline blue of his eyes holding me hostage, and I wonder what I look like in his eyes.

“I—I woke up wanting to kiss you.” I fail miserably at telling him what I need to, stumbling through the words so I offer up this lame explanation for my about-face. Confusion and rejection flicker through his eyes, and I lean forward and tease his lips ever so softly with mine to buy myself another few seconds to build up the courage for what I want to say.

I pull back and look into his eyes so chock-full of concern. “I can’t … We can’t keep—”

“Sh-shh!” My finger is on his lips, stopping him instantly. “We are,” I whisper to him, looking at his lips and then back up to his eyes to reinforce the words I’ve just said. His mouth falls lax as he sucks in a breath from my unexpected answer. “I need you, Becks.”

And I’ve never spoken more honest words in my life.

His eyes widen, the pupils overtaking the irises and his mouth smiling cautiously beneath my finger. I lean forward—praying he doesn’t reject me—and slant my mouth over his again. And this time he responds. He parts his lips and allows me to slip my tongue between them and lick softly against his. It’s a soft sigh of a kiss, so very different from the earlier frantic energy, but there’s still an underlying desperation that I can sense … and I’m just not sure if it’s on his part or mine.

But I choose to push the thought away. I choose to get lost in him instead. So I reach down with the hand not resting against his cheek and make quick work of the buttons on his jeans. I take a second to savor the warmth of his skin before pushing down his boxer briefs so I can take him in my hand. It takes a few uncoordinated moments of him raising his hips and helping to shove the waist of his jeans down.

No words are spoken—none are needed as we use the intimacy of our mouths to express what we feel about the chances I’ve just given us.

I continue to kiss him softly, gentle draws of mouth on mouth, while my hand encircles him and slides over his length. Every moan he emits as I repeat the action makes me crave another from him.

He reaches over and puts his hands at my waist, and I can feel him jolt with the awareness that I’m already naked and ready for him. And I can’t deny the charge I get in knowing that I can come to him completely naked and know he’s going to want me. There is something most definitely sexy and empowering in that feeling.

His hands direct me to rise up and settle over his hips so that I’m on my knees with my hand still stroking him between my parted legs. I look at him now. Run my eyes up his golden skin, the tightened disks of his nipples, to the bottom lip his teeth are biting into as he fumbles to put on the condom that he’s produced from his wallet. When he’s protected, his eyes meet mine just as I line him up at my entrance and lower myself onto his wide crest. I can see and feel his whole body tense at the partial sheathing—my tease to his more than ready cock—and his hands reach back up to my hips to urge me to lower myself onto him.

I don’t even fight the smile when I choose to ignore the pressure at my hips and sink down at a torturously slow pace. It’s absolutely killing me with a potent combination of pleasure and anticipation, so I know it has to affect him just as much, if not even more.

He hisses out when I’m over him root to tip. For a moment, I just sit there, letting the slow burn of his girth subside, before I pop my hips forward so that I slide up and down on him, earning a soft hiss of pleasure. I continue controlling the pace, the movement, and angle myself expertly so I can make sure that my inner hot spot is hit each time.

The pleasure is so strong, so intense that I’m in a state of indecision—I want to slow down, draw it out so I can enjoy every single withdrawal and subsequent settling back down onto him, and at the same time, I want to be impatient and selfish and push myself to climax as quick as I can. Find my release so that he can chase his.

He’s so incredibly deep inside me—feels so fucking good—that I don’t even realize my eyes are closed, face angled up to the ceiling, and hands are gripping Becks’s hands, which are still holding on to my hips. The pressure begins to build, spears of white-hot heat shooting sparks up my spine, causing my breathing to quicken but my rhythm to remain even and seductively slow, despite his hands urging otherwise.