Curio Vignettes 04 Confession (4 page)

“It did not rain in my fantasy.”

I laugh.

“But reality has been better in every way. Including the
weather.”

“What was the sex like, in your imagination?”

“Tender. And passionate.”

“Oh good. That’s exactly what I want.”

“And without condoms.”

“Darn. Well, soon, maybe. And we can always pretend.”

Didier replies with another kiss and our conversation is
done, drowned in desire. I’m pushed gently onto my back and he eases the dress
from my shoulders and halfway down my arms, pinning them slightly, and not
unpleasantly. His mouth lavishes my neck and collarbone, my shoulder. I feel
the sweet drag of his lips over the sensitive skin of the top my breast, and
his warm exhalation. His arms look strong, braced as they are, his shoulder
blades jutting.

He widens my legs, getting to his knees between them and
dropping to his elbows. Warm breath on my breast, the feel of satin growing
damp. The soft scrape of his teeth against my tightening nipple and a spasm of
pleasure curls my spine like a wave. I fist his hair and whisper his name, the
sound lost as his lips close over the point of sensation.

He turns his attention to my other breast, then my navel, my
hip bone. I know where he’s headed—toward an act we both love, but tonight I
want perfect equity. I need his face near mine so I can see his eyes and hear
his every breath.

“Not tonight,” I say as he hooks his fingers under the band
of my panties.

He stares up at me with raised eyebrows.

“I want us equal. No one serving the other.”

“Very well.” He sits up. “Come, stand with me.”

He takes my hand and we get to our feet before the candles.
Behind the thin silk of his shorts, I can see the outline of his ready cock. He
slips my dress from my arms then reaches around to unclasp my bra. The damp
satin drops from my shoulders. Slowly, almost cautiously, he tucks his thumbs
beneath the sides of my panties and pushes them down my thighs.

For a long moment he stares, gaze making an inventory of me.
“You’re the most stunning creature I’ve ever seen.”

My blush is hot as a fever, my smile goofy. I step close,
cupping his bulge. I run my palm along his length a few times, and he eases his
underwear down and kicks it away. Now we’re just two naked people—friends and
lovers, boyfriend and girlfriend. Partners, I suppose, or on the way there.
Whatever that means.

I picture Didier still in my life in ten years. I picture
his wavy dark hair streaked with gray, the lines beside his eyes and lips
deeper and all the more striking. I picture his intense beauty fading as he
relaxes into a dignified and handsome middle age, and I want him all the more
for it. We’re in the summer of our lives now, but I welcome the fall and winter
too—cool black nights warmed by bright fires.

The day’s been humid, and the soft skin of his cock drags
against my palm as I stroke him, light as a whispered fondness. He does the same
to my shoulders, arms and breasts, faint caresses echoed by the awe in his
eyes.

“Come to the bed,” he says softly.

I let him take my hand and we sit together on the mattress,
me between his spread legs, my thighs over his, chest to chest. We touch lips
and noses, nearly kissing.

I never knew love would feel like this, before I met him. I
never knew how right it could feel, simply being this close to a man’s body,
seeing him and smelling him, touching and tasting and feeling his warmth,
knowing his mind. I want so many things. To wrap myself around him and keep him
from harm, and have the same done for me. Make him laugh. Soothe his worries.
Turn my body over to the desires of his.

His cock is hard, glancing my belly. I reach between us and
stroke him, filled with wonder to realize I know the exact speed and pressure
and angle he likes. My hands are as confident now as they were clumsy and
nervous the first time I touched him. I’ve learned so much in this room, well
beyond the physical mechanics I’d come in search of.

The tiniest moan vibrates against my lips, and he whispers,
“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“Let me make you feel good.”

“Okay.”

“You on top,” he says. “If you don’t mind.”

“Whatever you like.”

Didier shuffles backward, sitting upright against the
headboard with a pillow behind his back, legs stretched in front of him.

The condoms are in the bedside table drawer, and I open one
and straddle his calves, sliding it down his length.
Not for long,
I
promise him with my eyes.
Soon it’ll be only you and me.

I settle on his lap and he angles his cock. He slides inside
with only a breath’s friction before he’s wet and deep and welcome. He bends
his knees to cradle me, holds my hips tight, guiding their motions until I find
my way. His dark gaze wanders my body but his cock is hard and steady and
still, the shaft stroking my clit each time I take him deeply.

“Good,” he murmurs.

Usually I’m awkward on top, but tonight I feel fearless. I
have everything to gain and revel in, nothing to lose. He’s mine, and in more
ways than just this time we’ve set aside. His cock is still a shared commodity,
but not his heart. Not that look in his eyes, not the thoughts he bared to me,
under that blanket of clouds.

“You’re mine,” I whisper.

“I am.”

I smile, wrapping my arms around his neck and falling into
the rhythm. He strokes my back and hips and butt, cups my breasts between us.

“And you’re mine,” he breathes.

“I always was.”

He grazes my nipples with his palms, lighting me up. He
pinches them gently, rolling them between his thumbs and fingers. The
sensations seem to go from monochrome to full color, my body connecting,
sizzling with electricity. Inside me he’s stiff and thick and so fucking close,
so familiar.

For a long time, our bodies dance. His moans are quiet,
thighs strong and warm, hands possessive. We kiss deeply, slowly, languidly.
Desire simmers inside me, hot but calm for minutes on end. Then I feel a shift
in him, a sharpening in his excitement that I can feel in his touch and hear in
his throat. My pleasure changes too, dropping lower, drawing tighter. Our
mouths lose the beat, so we press our foreheads together and concentrate on our
bodies.

I’d been thinking only of us for so long, but now I feel his
cock explicitly. My hips grow needy, my sex owning him more roughly than
before.

“Yes.” His hands slide to my waist, urging each motion.

I lean back, and the look in his eyes sucks the sense from
my head. There’s awe in that stare still, but lust too, and mischief. There’s
possession in his touch and urgent male need throbbing between my legs each
time I claim his cock.

I do as his hands dictate, feeling a pang in my hip growing
from mild to sharp in time. The discomfort is welcome. Sex is physical and
visceral and impolite, and I’m coming to savor its challenges as much as the
moments of perfect delight. Even now I feel my focus shifting, rhythm and
coordination losing their primacy to the baser elements. The slick slide of his
flesh inside mine. The smell of his sweat. Someday I hope we fuck so hard it
feels like fighting, setting aside the tenderness and letting our bodies’ most
animal impulses mingle, until sex becomes violence and vice versa. Things I’d
never wanted, all from this man who makes holding back the only shameful act
there is in bed.

My limbs grow sloppy and selfish, desperate. I feel foolish.
I feel exposed, using his cock this way, my pleasure so obvious and my pursuit
so physical. Only infrequently do I take, preferring to have pleasure given to
me, and now I’m greedy and graceless. All that matters is his arousal stroking
mine. His hands on my body in ways I couldn’t have imagined those short months
ago.

“You feel so good,” he says. “So warm and soft.”

Warm and soft
, when I’d been thinking of much rougher
things.

“No other man’s ever done this with me.”

He reacts just as I’d hoped, with a groan of filthy awe. I
love when he gets riled up. Anything that strips away his perfect control and
lets me glimpse the helpless side of his sexuality.

“And you’re the only man I’ve ever touched. Or tasted.”

“Yes.”

He releases my waist, tucking my wild, damp hair behind my
ears before scooting us down the bed a few inches so he can brace his palms
behind him and join the motions. He meets every roll of my hips with a short
thrust, his mastery as hot as the friction.

With each push he moans, the faintest sigh to start, soon
loud and deep and shameless. I peek between us to watch his clenching chest and
abdomen and admire the sheen of summer sweat on his skin. He’s so beautiful. I
still objectify him sometimes. Often. But my awe runs deeper than his face and
physique now. It worships his tender heart and his unusual mind. I love him
this way, so in control and at home in the sex, but I love him just as well
when he falls apart. More so, maybe, to know he wants me. And trusts me. That
maybe I excite him as much as he does me.

Need claims my body like a possession. The need to feel him
close, to own him. I rest my forearm on his shoulder and clutch his hair, so
tight it must border on pain. Whatever he feels, it spurs his hips.

“Are you going to come on my cock?”

“Yes. But I’m not in any hurry.” I run my hands down his
back and drag my nails back up. He moans against my throat. I rub his skin,
cradle his head, clutch his hair. I can’t hold him tight enough, can’t possess
him fully enough.

“I thought I might never find this,” I whisper, stroking his
shoulders, his arms, his sides.

He shifts between my legs, letting me feel his excitement. I
want him so badly it hurts. Inside me, above me, his voice in my ears and his
mouth on my skin.

“Neither did I. I didn’t know what I was even missing.” He
ravishes my throat and shoulder, hot breaths flaring between nips and kisses.

There’s one request I want to make, one trick I know he must
be capable of. “I want to come when you do.”

“Then you will.”

“I’ll tell you when I’m close.”

He leans back to smile at me. “I’ll know.”

Of course he will. He can read me like a map. Which is
funny, as he’s useless with direction. But whatever compass he lacks in the
outside world, his prowess here says my body’s a landscape he’s memorized, down
to the last blade of grass and wrinkle of tree bark.

I say, “I want you on top.”

He holds me tight to his waist with a strong arm, never
breaking our bond as he turns me onto my back and plants his knees between mine.
I hug my legs to his sides, eager for him to lead, thrilled to be cast in his
shadow. I stroke his back as his hips begin to pump.

“Like our first time together,” he says.

I remember it perfectly, us in this bed, him on top, the
first time I felt a cock push inside me. And still only one man’s gifted me
that sensation.

“You excite me now as much as you did then,” Didier tells
me.

The thought thrills me in turn. I fist his hair, holding his
head. The possessiveness goes both ways, it seems, as his rhythm grows quicker,
fiercer.

“Take me.”

He locks his arms against my ribs, edges his knees wider.

“Touch yourself,” he says.

So often that task falls to his capable fingertips. But he
must feel, as I do, that no one is being spoiled tonight. We’re catering to
each other, as equals.

I slip my hand between us and rub my clit with two fingers.
He watches, fascinated by my hand or our point of penetration, or perhaps even
by the silver bracelet he clasped around my wrist. The charms brush my belly
and tinkle softly.

“Yes.” His voice sounds deeper and shallower at once.
Strained, just as his handsome face has become. His brows have drawn tight and
his eyes have narrowed, nearing that expression he wears when his role for an
evening has been wrapped and the moment for pursuing his own pleasure has come.
So many times I’ve glimpsed that look over my shoulder, when he owns me from
behind. My favorite position, because of how commanding he looks and feels. But
tonight’s not about that. Only us. Only this.

I’ve gone kinky places with this man—kinky to me, anyhow—but
tonight is hotter than any game we’ve played, his hands and mouth and eyes more
arousing than any toy or tie or borrowed persona. What I feel for this man
magnifies my awareness, so I feel every slick inch of his cock claiming me,
hear every breath at his lips, feel every thump of his pulse.

My pleasure is gelling, going from a promise to a looming
reality. It’s gathering in my core like a tangle of heat and muscle, growing
mean and demanding.

“I’m close.”

“Good.” He takes me harder for a flurry of thrusts,
reactivating my fantasies of harsh, adversarial sex. “Good.”

I watch his chest and face, his arms. I watch Didier, the
most extraordinary person I know, giving me all this. Everything a man should
be—kind and sensitive and passionate and dripping with lust. He groans each
time his body meets mine, the noise more ragged and rough with every push.

“Didier.”

“Yes. Come for me.”

My hand is a blur, his hips racing to match. The bubble of
my pleasure grows bigger, bigger and I tease my clit, aching to burst. I say
his name again, and one last time, just as the orgasm arrives. A long, harsh,
exquisite release, drawn out by my fingers and his slowing thrusts. For sweet,
endless seconds, the world is just his skin and mine. Two bodies brought
together by unlikely circumstances, kept together by affection. By love.

As I come down, I realize something. He smoothes the hair
from my face and I stare into his eyes, feeling the pulse of his swollen cock.

“You didn’t come.”

“Not yet,” he says.

“You promised you would when I did.”