“You seem upset,” she says. “Is something wrong?”
“Nah,” I tell her. “Everything’s fine. I’m just kind of tired.”
“Well, in that case,” she says, moving close and putting her arms around me. She looks up at me with those gentle eyes. “How about we watch a movie or something? There’s plenty of room on the couch for both of us to lie down,” she adds. “That is, unless you’d rather keep your personal space.”
“I would not like to keep my personal space,” I tell her, bending down to kiss her on the lips. “Really, I’m kind of hoping for a blanket, few if any clothes and absolutely no personal space for either of us.”
“Hmm…” she says, playfully tapping her chin with her finger. “We might miss a lot of the movie if we did that.”
“Damn. I was really excited to see whatever it was we’re going to watch,” I tease. “Oh well, I think I’ll live.”
“I think you’re right,” she answers and makes her way to the couch.
She pulls the afghan from atop the ottoman and spreads it out on the couch. While I’m getting settled in—read that as undressing—she uses my preoccupation to seize full control over our movie-watching itinerary.
I really could not care less what we watch.
That’s what I honestly think, right before she turns around with When Harry Met Sally in her hands.
She’s actually suggesting a movie which is famous for, among other things, Meg Ryan demonstrating how easy it is for a woman to fake an orgasm. There are ways a person can tell if he’s not a complete idiot, but still, I’m not a fan of the pairing.
“I know you’re probably not into chick flicks, but this is my favorite movie ever,” she tells me.
Fuck.
Now I can’t possibly protest, and she’s going to be watching to see how I react to it.
“It’s been a little while since I’ve seen it,” I tell her.
It seems like my best play. We’ll still end up watching it, but if I don’t end up with some massive, life-altering epiphany which leads me to tears, it won’t be such a big deal. I’ve already seen it before, so it couldn’t possibly strike me that deeply, right?
Then again, maybe she’s expecting me to have a stronger reaction to the movie because I’m watching it with her.
This is a fucking minefield, and I’m actually dreading watching what I’ll admit to be a classic movie that I quite enjoy when not under these horrific conditions.
Don’t tell anyone I said that.
Any of it.
Thanks.
She puts the movie in, and I lie down on the couch. I lift the blanket as she comes close, and as she stops to get down to her bra and panties, I start thinking that maybe I’m thinking about this whole situation in the wrong way.
We don’t see very much of the movie.
Chapter Seventeen
It’s Complicated
Leila
The last time I looked at the screen in any meaningful way was about five minutes into the movie.
The movie’s been over for a while and we’re still enjoying the foreplay.
I don’t know whether it’s because he’s with me or whether I simply pigeonholed him that first day he came to the apartment, his tattoos suggesting a sense of unsavoriness about his character, but he is already the most thoughtful lover I’ve ever had.
We threw off the afghan a while ago, but there’s no lack of warmth between our bodies.
Right now, I’m straddling his wonderfully curious mouth and taking his hard cock into my own. I never liked the term “69,” but the performance, the experience, that’s something else entirely.
As he explores my folds with his lips and tongue, I feel that familiar shiver that so recently I’d all but forgotten. And as that shiver turns into a soft explosion, I take him ever deeper into my mouth, using the reverberations of my own response to encourage his.
I’m not expecting it when it happens. All I can do is hang on and move as necessary while he grasps me tightly with his arms, arching my back and supporting myself as he sits and then holding on tight as he stands.
His grip is firm and I’m not afraid of heights, but returning to suck and play with him while suspended in his arms as he again uses his deft tongue to keep my fire stoked is a little disorienting.
He pulls his head back just far enough and just long enough to ask me if I’m okay.
I’m more than okay.
I’ve never felt anything like this before.
After a while, though, I start to wonder how I’m going to get back down.
I pull my mouth from his pulsating dick and merely whisper the word.
“Down.”
He directs one of my legs to join the other on one side of him, and he’s surprisingly gentle, though just as surprisingly quick, to guide my body right-side up and lower me until my bare feet come to a soft, slow landing on the carpet below.
I’m impressed.
I’m no virgin, not by any use of the term, but this man has made every sensation feel so new. So I pull his face down toward mine and I kiss him deeply, moving my body just enough to wrap my fingers around his shaft once more.
I push him backward onto the couch and before he’s settled in place, I’m straddling him, rubbing his penis between my legs and delighting in the jolts of warm serenity before I guide him inside of me.
He kisses my breasts softly, his mouth eager, but not desperate.
I tease him a little, putting my hands on his chest and pulling my upper body just out of the reach of his mouth just to watch that urge in his eyes grow.
I rock my hips over him and move my shoulders back and forth just to tempt him further. He leans forward, but I press my hands firmly into his chest.
That drive in his movements, his expression, it’s not a selfish one. After all, I’m already giving him my body the way he’s giving me his. That drive in his eyes is merely evidence that he wants to give me more.
He’s respectful, though, and he doesn’t try to push his luck. So long as we’re playing, this is a game, and it’s one that pays dividends for the both of us.
“So,” I say, brushing the hair out of my face and directing it to cover the upper portion of my breasts, “is this what you imagined it would be?”
It’s a terrible question, I know, but that’s what these moments are for.
“Better,” he says. “I couldn’t have imagined this.”
“Good answer,” I tell him and lean forward enough to give him temporary oral access to my nipples.
It’s his reward, and he revels in it.
After a few moments of elevated bliss, I pull back again.
“Now that’s just fucked up,” he says.
He’s smiling.
I shrug.
“Tell me your fantasy,” I mutter, slowing my pace a little.
“I don’t know,” he says.
I lean back a little farther. My upper body is already far enough away that only his hands could touch it, but the action still has the desired effect.
“The bathtub,” he says.
I stop moving a moment.
“The bathtub?” I ask.
He shrugs, and I resume my motion.
“You mean to tell me that you, Dane Paulson, chef extraordinaire, pretty much all-around male slut—”
“Hey!” he protests.
“You’ve never had sex in the bathtub?”
“No,” he says. “I’ve had sex plenty of—”
Wisely, he doesn’t finish the sentence.
“No, I’ve never had sex in the bathtub,” he says.
“I was expecting something involving anal beads. I’m glad to hear that’s not the case.”
He smirks and shakes his head.
“Well,” I say, “I wish I could help you, but all we’ve got is a shower.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Too bad.”
He doesn’t seem too broken up about it, though, as I lift myself almost to his tip and then slide all the way back down him, grinding my core against his base.
“What’s your fantasy?” he asks.
“Does it have to be something we could actually do right now, or like yours where it currently isn’t possible?” I ask.