It makes him want to get closer, learn her even more, and—
And then she’s telling him to stop.
It takes a moment to penetrate the trance he’s been put into, but when it does he goes still. “Have you changed your mind?”
“No. But we should do . . . other things.”
“You don’t like this?”
“Well, I’ve never . . .”
Adam tries to imagine having sex with Olive and not begging her to let him do this. Seems absurd. Beyond belief.
“But I’m the one who put you up to this,” she adds, “so we should do things that you are into, and not stuff for me . . .”
He finally catches her meaning and growls deep in his throat. He closes his eyes, lays his forehead against her thighs, and contemplates trashing the entire damn hotel room. But it would scare Olive, and do absolutely nothing to convince her that she is beautiful and fuckable, that he wants to absorb her into himself and lick her dry, that this is for him more than for her. So he opts for something else: pressing his tongue against her clit, gripping her squirming waist to still her, to make her take his fingers and his tongue inside her. He holds her wide open, watches her arch on the mattress in a beautiful, perfect bow. He hears her soft noises and feels her tense, clutch at his hair and shoulders with a frustrated, impatient sort of desperation, like she wants to come but she’s afraid she won’t, and he loves the feeling of it, the illusion that this precipice they’re hovering on together is unending, hidden in space and time. An arc of pleasure, suspended. But then she comes with sweet whimpers and slow, strong contractions, and Adam’s gut tightens, and his vision whites. He’d love to fuck her, but he might come from just this, and that’s okay. He wants to watch her again. She’s sensitive, writhing, laughing, small and tight and warm, beautiful, so beautiful, so powerful and perfect and beautiful. When it’s too much, when she pulls him up to her, he presses her into bed with his legs and his arms and his hands, watches her twitch with the last aftershocks of pleasure, feels her little heart beat a drum against his own. In this moment, he has everything. Every last thing he needs.
“Can I fuck you?” he asks against her mouth.
She kisses him back. Pulls him closer. Traces his hot, sweaty skin. He’s not worthy, but he wants her anyway. “Mmm?”
“Can I fuck you? Please?”
She nods and reaches down for him, but he’s not sure there’s time for it.
He’s hard in a way that’s painful and urgent, different from ever before, and
Olive’s flawless, soft, tight pussy is right there, ready for him, and when he begins to slide inside his existence narrows to bare details: the pressure around his cock, strained, world-defining; Olive’s eyes holding his own, shocked-wide; the air between them, warm, heavy.
“You’re so big,” she gasps.
He groans into her neck. Maybe he is big. Still. “You can take it.” Nothing, nothing exists, except for the pleasure tingling at the base of his spine.
“I can,” she agrees. Adam has to close his eyes, or it will be over right now.
He rocks inside her, and it’s torture. Delicious, drowning torture. “What if it’s too much?”
It seems like a distinct possibility. He can’t imagine thrusting into her the way he needs to, because she’s small, and he’s not. “Then I’ll fuck you like this.” It’s already getting better. She’s still sealed tight around him, but he’s making progress, getting a little farther, and the way she pulsates around him is splendidly, obscenely good. They’re both breathing fast, loud. She’s not positioned right for him to push deeper, that’s the problem. He lets his hand slide to her thigh and shifts it to open her more. Just a little more.
“Is there something I should be–”
“Shhh. Be quiet for a moment, so I don’t come already.”
She’s starting to move underneath him. Like she’s impatient for this to progress, even though he’s about to snap from the tension of keeping it slow.
He wants to sink his teeth into her. Tether her to him. Keep her in check. He withdraws a bit, which his body hates and seems pretty fucking stupid, but pushing back in is beyond anything.
“Maybe you should.”
He should what? Ah, yeah. They’re talking about him, coming. “I should?”
She nods, and he wants to kiss her, she wants to kiss him too, but they’re not quite able to do it, too distracted, too dazed, and he lets out a silent laugh, thinking about the two of them attempting this. Both of them barely knowing what they’re doing, and yet somehow making this spectacular, magnificent chaos. “Inside you?”
She nods, like whatever he’d ask of her, she’d give him. “If you want to.”
He does. He thinks of it a lot—base, filthy fantasies of making a mess on her, making a mess in her, leaving his mark. He has lots of those. A few more than he should. “You’re driving me insane,” he says into her clavicle, and that’s when something gives. A second of slick friction. Then he finds himself as deep as he can go, and everything stops.
The universe rearranges into something better.
They’re both still for a moment. Then they exhale sharp sounds in the silent room. Olive lifts a hand, just to run her fingers through his hair, and Adam is speechless. Mindless.
This is—Jesus. Oh, God.
She smiles at him, happy, hopeful, beautiful and says, “Hey.”
Adam smiles, too, and thinks, This is it. He thinks, I love you. He thinks, Maybe, one day, you’ll even let me tell you.
And he says, “Hey.”
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