“Well, I mean it.” And if she only knew how much I did mean it . . . how she was the only woman I fantasize about doing that with now. Elle’s pretty lips on me . . . oh man.
“Did she swallow?”
Geez.
Knowing I have to prolong my story, I shake my head. “No, I needed to fuck her, so I lifted her onto the bed.”
Elle is pressing her thighs together rhythmically. “Did you crawl over her like a wild beast?” She undoes another button on her shirt and pulls the collar further open.
“Is that what you would want me to do, Elle?” I ask, my gaze falling from her hooded eyes, to her flushed neck, to the sheen of perspiration at her cleavage now exposed.
She reaches over and digs her fingers into my forearms. “Oh, yes. That’s what I would want.”
“Well I did that. And she started to beg for it, so I pulled her legs apart and rubbed myself against her to make sure she was ready for all of me. Cause you know . . .”
“Oh God, she must have been so wet. I am,” she groans.
My eyes bug out. “You’re wet?”
“Hell yes. I’ve never been this turned on.”
Now that I think of it, neither have I. But I don’t want to tell her that. This is confusing enough as it is. I’m trying to find the brain in my foggy head—since all the blood is below my belt—when I suddenly feel her hand skim all the way up my fly. There’s no question anymore for her as to whether I’m aroused or not. I’ve never been this hard. As a matter of fact, I’m surprised my cock hasn’t done a Hulk move and busted out of my jeans.
“Wow, Paul,” she moans.
I’m barely holding on at this point.
She closes her eyes and takes several deep breaths like she’s trying to calm herself down. I’m not sure I’ll ever be calm again.
“Should I stop?” I ask in a ragged voice.
“Please don’t stop,” she gasps.
“Where was I?”
“So did you fuck her hard? How did she like it?” Her hand wraps around her flushed neck.
I imagine Elle spread out on the bed under me, and the look of want in her eyes. I know for a fact that I’ve never wanted anyone more. What if?
My impatient friend squeezes my arm. “Well?”
“Did I fuck her hard? No, not at first. Slow. I fucked her slow. I wanted to let it build so she’d feel everything. I wanted to watch her and see what she liked.”
“Of course you did,” she says with an envious sigh.
“And I kissed her, and gave her breasts the attention they deserved. She liked that a lot. It made her wild.”
She runs her hands up her torso and over her breasts, which only pulls her shirt open further. “Oh . . . I bet she did. Did she let you know how good it was?”
“She begged for more and thrashed and moaned a lot . . . so yeah.”
“Were her legs wrapped tightly around you?”
“Naturally. Her movements were in perfect rhythm with mine. It was unbelievable.”
“Please tell me you kissed her breasts, too?” She undoes another button.
We’re in the danger zone now. I’m already imagining I’m doing all of these things to Elle and not Melanie. I’m not sure how much restraint I have left in my reserve. I want her desperately.
I lean in closer to Elle’s face and look her in the eye. “I didn’t just kiss her breasts. I sucked them.”
As I look at her I find myself licking my lips, they’re so dry from my deep breathing.
The intensity must be too much because she shuts her eyes and turns away from me. I see a tear make its way down her flushed cheek. I slowly run my fingertip along its wet path to take it away as my mind tries to process where I screwed this up. Just because she said she wanted to hear about the sex, doesn’t mean it was the right thing for her.
“Elle?”
She’s taking short, choppy breaths and a sudden fury explodes in my chest. Why did I go along with this? Any man in his right mind would know this was the worst idea ever.
Rising up on my elbow, I gently take her chin in my hand and tilt her face back toward me. “Elle. Elle,” I say softly, “what’s wrong?”
She shuts her eyes and shakes her head, which sends new tears cascading down her face.
“Please tell me what’s wrong? I’m sorry. I thought you knew I was making up that stuff. I swear, Elle, it didn’t go like that at all.”
“Really?” she asks with wide eyes.
“Really. I promise.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t be sorry. I’m just sad because I want all that and who knows when I’ll ever have it again.”
The tears fall faster now.
“You mean sex?” I ask.
“Not just sex. It’s being intimate, and being touched. I’m just wired that way, Paul. I need to be touched. It grounds me. It’s only been a matter of weeks and I feel like part of me is dying inside.”
“I can touch you,” I say, in a lame attempt to soothe her. I run my hand up her arm and squeeze her shoulder.
She sighs and it’s the saddest sigh I’ve ever heard. “I adore you for that, but I want my body touched.”
“How about if you got massages. I know a place that’s supposed to be great.”
She looks at me like she can’t decide whether to laugh or cry. She runs her fingertips up and down my forearm. It sends an electrical charge right through me.
“Will they massage my boobs?”
“What?” I ask, trying to keep my eyebrows from darting into my hairline. The hormones have clearly rendered her with temporary insanity. What woman gets a boob massage?
“That’s what I want more than anything. I want my boobs touched.”
I clear my throat. “Um, I’m pretty sure this place doesn’t do that. And places I know that will I wouldn’t ever take you to.”
“You could do it, you know. You could touch them.” She bites her lip and looks up at me.
That doesn’t help—at all.
“That would be really difficult and complicated for me,” I stutter. She’s pregnant and hormonal for God’s sake. My physical desire for her is so far past my craving to get off with a hot woman. I’m desperate to make love to her, but every choice I make now, no matter how tortured, has to be what’s best for her and the baby.
She takes my hand in hers and slides it over her chest. “It’s really not that complicated. Pretend I’m a mannequin.”
“Right, a really chatty mannequin,” I say as she moves my hand over her chest in broad circles while I desperately try not to glance down.
As her movements continue her expression softens, almost melting. She looks positively blissful and it keeps me from doing the right thing and pulling my hand away. I realize that there’s heat emanating from my hand, like one of those creepy faith healers I’ve heard about. The question is, am I healing her or is she healing me?
A moment later I feel flesh against flesh and I look down to see that she’s opened her shirt completely and my hand is resting just above her cleavage while she unhooks the front of her bra.
Oh good God.
“Elle,” I groan.
“Please, Paul. Just a minute or two. Please?”
When our eyes meet she looks hopeful yet full of fear that I’ll turn her down. I know she needs this but how dangerous is it for me to be the one to give it to her? The thing that makes up my mind is wondering if not me, who? That’s unfathomable to even think about.
As I slide my fingertips down between her luscious breasts and circle her torso I take in her perfection. She is completely vulnerable and exposed, and her trust in me takes my breath away.
“You’re so beautiful,” I whisper.
Her breath catches as my right hand moves up to cup her breast, so full and perfect. When my left hand cups the other breast her back arches up to meet my grasp. I am gentle and slow as I touch her, and her tears are still flowing but I know it’s different now. She’s smiling like I’ve never seen her smile before.
I love her breasts. They’re my new favorite part of her as I palm and squeeze them and she sighs with contentment below me. Her skin is exquisitely soft and her nipples a ruby rose. I avoid touching them, even though I ache to. It’s just more than I can handle.