Various Various - My Secret Life

She has to.

This is a different kind of kiss, also their first, and softer than the mouth on mouth of earlier. Not hesitant, but gentle. He lingers, the pressure of his lips unbearable until his tongue adds to it and then she understands exactly how much more she can take. Smooth and slow and soft and sweet, that’s his tongue against her. The brief press of teeth. The gentle tug of his lips on her clit, and then oh, fuck yes, one finger, then two inside her.

She’s been on the edge for days, thinking of this moment. She’s been so caught up inside her head that hours have passed without her knowing the full passage of time. She sits down with a book and the pages turn, the chapters end, the book is finished and she can’t recall a word of what she’s read. People talk to her and she replies without being sure of the question or the answer. The memory of his voice saying her name has made her weak.

And now, all of this is real. It’s happening. His mouth is moving on her cunt and she is going up, up and over. She is breaking. Undone. She comes so hard she’s not sure if it’s a pleasure or a pain, only that sensation slams through her so fiercely she can’t do anything but let it hit.

Forever ends, and she looks to find him kneeling between her legs. He’s smiling. His hand cups her still-throbbing flesh.

‘One,’ he says.

She’s joked that she’ll require at least two, possibly three orgasms before he has one – it’s something to aspire to at any rate, though she was only ever half serious. At the moment she’s not sure her body could ever possibly rise to climax again, that’s how hard the first one hit her. But she’s sure willing to try.

She sits. She traces the line of elastic at his waist and admires the bulge of his erection as she cups him through the soft material. ‘Take these off.’

He does and kneels again between her legs as she takes his cock in her hand. It’s lovely, not that she has a requirement for length or width. When she strokes him, he shivers. She cups his balls while the other hand moves along his shaft, palms the head. He bites his lower lip; it’s his turn to close his eyes.

She lies back, her dress still open but not removed, her panties gone but not the stockings. She rubs a satiny foot up his thigh to his belly, then back down. Her legs spread, nothing to hide, he’s already had his mouth there after all.

‘Fuck me,’ she says.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he moves his body over hers, his cock thick and hard against her, not inside. She’s wet from his mouth and from her orgasm, and his prick slides slippery smooth over her clit. Back and forth. His weight covers her. His mouth finds her neck, kissing. Nibbling. When he pushes up on his arms to keep from crushing her, his cock pushes against her. Always against, not inside, though it would take nothing but a shift of his hips, a tilt of hers, to put him there.

Pleasure builds, slow and steady. She moves with him. Her fingers cup the back of his neck, hold him close as they kiss until, gasping, they need to break for air. Tongues, teeth, lips, he mouths her jaw, her throat, her collarbone. She turns her head to offer her neck, and his teeth leave marks she will only notice later.

There is a point where nothing can stop, no matter what. She’s reaching it. His cock on her clit, teasing, teasing, then just the taunting press of the head against her entrance – but he doesn’t push inside. He’s just getting himself a little wetter so he can slide over her flesh with his and make her crazy. Make her beg for him to fuck her, and she’d do it. She would beg if only she had the voice for words instead of the low and breathless moans.

She uses her hands to speak instead. Nails scratch lightly down his back, anchor at the base of his spine. She pulls him closer and opens herself, tilting her hips so that maybe, just maybe he’ll slip inside all the way. Fill her up. And then, before he can, she’s coming again in silent, quivering spasms.

‘Two,’ she hears him say and even in the midst of ecstasy, she’s able to laugh.

After that comes a string of words, maybe hers or maybe his. Fuck me, I want you to fuck me, I want to fuck you, yes, yes, oh, please. Fuck me.

Fuck me.

I want to fuck you so much. So hard.

Yes. Fuck me hard.

Mindless fuck-talk, it would sound ridiculous if they weren’t both naked and sweaty, if he wasn’t poised with his cock against her cunt. If he hadn’t already made her come on his tongue. But he has, and the words spill out, raw and rough and more honest than anything else they’ll probably ever say.

And then at last, he’s inside her. All the way. Fills her so deep it almost hurts. And when he moves, oh fuck, oh God, the pleasure doesn’t stop, it just keeps going on and on. Her knees press his hips, her feet anchoring at the backs of his thighs. Her hands run up along his smooth chest and discover all his sensitive spots.

It would be OK with her if he let the weight of his body cover her, but he’s more of a gentleman than that. He holds himself up to fuck her, at least until she can’t stand it any more and pulls him down for another round of kisses that bruise. Bites that sting and send shudders of pleasure through her.

She might be coming again, or she might not have ever stopped. It doesn’t matter. They move together just right. Like magic. He’s magic for her, and maybe she’s a little bit magic for him too.

He’s said her name before of course, both the real and the false, but now there’s an edge in his tone when he murmurs it. Once, then again. These are not words of love. That’s not what this is or what it’s meant to be. He says her name as he fucks her because he knows how it makes her feel to hear him say it. Or maybe, she hopes, just a little, he can’t keep himself from saying it.

Her name becomes a groan when he comes. His face, pressed to her neck, is hot. Their bodies have become slick with sweat, and her dress has crumpled beneath her. The fabric has bunched and shifted and will leave marks on her skin.

Afterwards they don’t sleep, but they do lie side by side in companionable silence while the sweat dries and cools their skin. The sound of the air-conditioning unit kicking on is loud and startling. It turns her head towards him, and she pushes up on one elbow to brush a kiss over his mouth.

She doesn’t say she’s leaving. She simply gets dressed and goes. In the hall outside the room, she pauses when the door clicks behind her. She turns and puts her hands on it, presses for a moment her cheek against the cool metal, but though she has the key and could open the door, go back inside, get on her knees for him the way she’s thought about … she doesn’t.

Tess leaves her Angel and goes home to her family, where she wears a different name and is a different woman. Where she cooks and cleans and folds laundry, where she carpools, where she sends spouse and spawn off to work and school every day with a smile so shiny and bright nobody would ever guess what it hides.

***

This is the last time.

They meet at his house, a flattering honour she’s not sure how to accept gracefully except by agreeing to go. They make small talk in his spotless kitchen. It feels somehow safer and more intimate than meeting in a hotel as they’ve done every other time. That’s why it scares her.

That’s why as they face each other from a distance made up of uncertainty and desire, she takes one step, then another, until a third puts her right up close to him. Her hand on his shoulder pushes him back against the marble-topped counter. He’s wearing khaki shorts, a white polo shirt. A belt. Nothing wrinkled or rumpled about him. There never is – unless she’s had her hands on him the way she does now, tugging his shirt out of his shorts. She slips her hands beneath, palms flat on his belly for a moment before she pulls his shirt off over his head.