Contrast Ch. 04

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In a whisper, she says, "Kiss me there."

As if he needs the encouragement.

By now he knows every ridge and valley of her pudenda almost as well as the shapes of his own teeth in his mouth. His tongue knows where to flick and where to flit, how deeply it can probe and when to do so. His lips know the pace at which to widen and close, to latch and to loosen, to nibble, to enfold. His ears know the catch in her breath that says more and the soft moan that says there.

Above him, she seeks her own pleasure not from carnal appetite but because she knows how much it delights him to give it to her. She has never been told how beautiful she is any better than his tongue and lips are telling her now. In the darkness behind her eyelids, she lets go of the rest of her existence and becomes her clitoris, her labia, her slit - the wet, lush engorgements that he delves into with exquisite care and perfectly timed moments of fervor.

When she lifts up and crawls forward, he tries to stop her, putting a hand about each thigh, but she laughs and rolls and ends up on her ass, slipping one big toe into the waistband of his underwear.

"How about let's get these off?"

He doesn't say anything for a moment, head tilted back to look at her, upside-down from his angle. He breathes in the smell of her still glistening on his lower face, licks his lips to taste it. Then he shrugs and grins.

"If you say so, I guess."

She stands, hands on her hips, watching as he crawls out of his underwear and gets up to face her. His look is earnest and heated, almost worshipful, but that cock seems to have its own swagger, like it knows how it makes her burn every time she sees it. They kiss and swivel and turn. She ends up seated at the edge of the bed, with him on his knees between her legs. The book is long gone, vanished from her head and from his. There is only this: his steady push up and in, her grateful, slick acceptance, and then their passion, swirling and surging, bowing the mattress, shaking the frame, mouths locked together, hands everywhere, voices a symphony of moans and murmurs and gasps.

"Bitch," he whispers, "your pussy is so, so good."

She rolls her hips the way he likes and whispers back, "It loves the way you fuck it. Ah - yes, fuck it ..."

They kiss and clutch and hump with rising urgency, rattling the bed.

"God ... damn ..."

"Yes, baby, take it. Take - that - "

"Uhh! God, close - "

"Yes, come on - come for me!"

"Hahh ... Hnghhhh ..."

The clench of her jaw, the furrow of her brow, the hook of her ankles around behind him, the dig of her nails into his back - if there's a muscle in her body that's not responding to the stroke of his cock, he certainly can't tell which. Not that the tight, perfect squeeze of her cunt is letting him do a full inventory. But whatever geology lab might have a seismograph turned on nearby, he's pretty sure it must be scribbling out the tremor of her approaching climax.

And ...

"YES!"

It hits her. Lifts her. Peels her chest back away from him as her spine arches. The heat between her legs becomes fire, roaring through her in an orgasmic conflagration, like a wildfire sparked by lightning.

He sees it, feels it, hears it, and is pulled up into it - carried aloft by the updraft of her inferno until the blazing, dizzying heights ignite his own ecstatic explosion.

From each of them, at the same moment, bursts an exultation:

"Oh my god, I -"

"Holy fuck, I -"

But there is no verb, because even in this moment of insensate bliss, they both know the only proper verb is forbidden, and instead they turn it into the loudest groan of mutual passion they can manage. When the drumbeats of their pulses calm, they heave up onto the bed together and lie gasping in each other's arms.

"More Chinese food?" he asks, a little later, caressing her bare shoulder with his eyes still closed. "Or more sex?"

She snuggles in tighter to his warm, perfect body. Her sigh of contentment fills him up more than either of those alternatives would.

"Both," she says, inseparably close and still. "But not yet."

* * *

Her

I turned twenty-six this morning. Now he's on me, and inside me, and he doesn't have any idea.

The smoothness of him pushing up through my cunt has me just shy of paradise. We're on our first fuck of the night. I'm twenty-six, and I've had more sex in the last year than in the twenty-five before that.

He sighs into my ear: "Ahhh." I love his breath heating the whorls and curves there. We're on our first fuck of the night, but I already came hard from him putting his face between my legs and kissing there like he was born to do it.

"So good ..." he whispers.

His lips brush gently at my neck as he eases his cock forward within me, slow and wonderful. Its whole stiff length rests at full penetration for a moment before he draws it just as gracefully back.

I love it when he fucks me like a lust-crazed stallion, but I love it even more when he does this.

I love you.

I'm twenty-six years old, and I've never felt this way about anyone - and I don't even know his name.

I want to know it so badly.

I want to know it right now, so that a few minutes into the future, when he works me up into a thrashing, catapulting orgasm, I can scream it out at the top of my lungs. So the neighbors will know who this man is and how I feel about him. So he understands that it is him I'm coming for. Not just the feeling of a dick between my legs, but him.

He rises up and puts his lips softly to mine. I watch his closed eyes, his expressive eyebrows, the look of total peace and pleasure that being with me puts on his face.

I love him.

I think he loves me.

He has to love me.

I'm twenty-six years old, and I've been fucking this man for almost exactly a year, and I don't know his name, and if I don't know it soon, I'll go crazy.

And if I screw it up and he doesn't want to tell me or he doesn't want to know mine and I scare him off by telling him how I feel, then I'll also go crazy.

Somewhere along the way, thinking and feeling all of this, I've stopped moving, stopped responding to his movements, without realizing it. He opens his eyes and sees me crying.

"What's wrong?" His arms, around me, suddenly tense with concern.

"Nothing."

A second of pain shows in his face. Not pain like I hurt him, pain like he feels my hurt in the tone of my voice. He blinks a little faster than normal, puts one hand up to my cheek, gentle, brushing at the tears.

"No, really. I want to know." The softness in his voice makes me cry even more. He does. He really does want to know. But if I answer him, there's no going back.

"Please," he says. "It's okay. You can tell me."

I shut my eyes and breathe, feel the solidity of his body above mine. Inside I can tell his erection is fading, but we're both still, so it doesn't slip out.

"Do ..." My voice shuts down as I look in those grey eyes. I have to swallow and start again. "Look, do you know what Thursday is?"

Something widens in his face. Not physically - some emotion. Oh my God, he does. He knows.

"Sure," he says, in this ridiculously casual voice. "It's our anniversary. I didn't think you'd be keeping track."

Bullshit, I think, barely able to stop myself from screaming it in a maniac laugh. Oh, you beautiful silly bullshitter.

It's going to be okay. I can hardly breathe, but I do, enough to say back in my own casual voice, "Pretty easy for me to keep track, coz it's four days after my birthday."

I see him doing the math in his head and I wait, wondering what he's going to say, but no longer worried, not worried at all.

* * *

Him

Holy shit.

This is it. The moment it all changes. Only no, it's not - it's just the moment when we both admit that it's changed. Somewhere in between, somewhere in the last year, not on any day or at any hour you could put a finger on, it changed, and we've both just been trying to figure out if the change was real, or if we were dreaming it.

"Huh," I say, wondering how it is that her face looks giddy and calm at the same time. Does mine look that way too? "So ... happy birthday. Anything particular you want? Besides orgasms, I mean. I was already planning to give you several of those."

She laughs and grins, just a flash of each, and then she's staring at me, getting ready to say something - to ask something, I can see it. Something I'm going to say yes to.

"You remember what you told me, that first time, the very first time, right after we finished fucking and I asked how often you were going to come back?"

I think for a second, not because it takes me a full second to remember, but because even though I shouldn't be able to believe what she's saying, I do. I believe it completely.

"I said I was ready to move in and spend all day every day screwing you."

She nods, once, not a hint of humor in her eyes. "That's what I want."

I have this intense impulse to kiss the tip of her nose. Instead, I ask, "You always go this big when you ask for birthday presents?"

"I didn't ask - you offered."

I tilt my head to concede the point. "You realize I'd have to put my name on the lease, and then you'd know what it is."

She shrugs. "Guess I could live with that, if the tradeoff is cock on demand."

"Hm. Should we maybe have a look at my place, though? See if we'd rather shack up there?"

"Why?" she asks. "Does it matter where it is or how big it is, long as it's got room for a bed, and us?"

"No."

The insanity of the moment is hopping up and down waving its arms trying to get my attention, but I ignore it. Gabe and Susie will think I've gone crazy - they know I'm seeing someone, but I've been downplaying it the whole time, saying it was purely physical. Technically, the absolute truth, but also a giant fucking lie.

"So," she says. "When?" Her face glows with sensuality, and before I can answer, she goes on, "Thursday would be kind of cool, wouldn't it?"

"It would ..." I say. And we've already talked about how shot both our schedules are for Monday through Wednesday. But ...

Putting on a disappointed look, I sigh and say, "I've already got something on Thursday."

She knows I'm messing with her and lifts a mean eyebrow. "Really. What?"

"Well, this is kind of awkward. It's a blind date. With this chick whose name I don't even know. I'm supposed to meet her at that Mexican restaurant across the street - the one we've never been to?"

"That place sucks."

"Damn. That's too bad, because everything's set up. I told her to wear a camo tank top and jean skirt, and I'm supposed to wear a concert t-shirt for this really filthy rapper that she apparently gets off to."

She laughs and her fingernails scrape down my naked back. "Like you've got the balls to go out and buy a gangsta t-shirt."

I shrug. "Yeah, my plan was actually to show up in my work stuff and scope her out without her knowing I'm there yet."

"Boy, don't fool yourself. That girl's gonna see you comin' from a mile away. A thousand miles." She pauses, lets her grin soften into a smile. The sharp edge in her eyes goes misty and deep. "From the other side of the world."

"Well," I say, "I guess it'll be a pretty interesting date, then."

* * *

Them

He sits on a bench in the foyer of the Mexican place, tapping his foot. It's a small foyer and a really small bench - she seems to be right about the place being crappy. The noise from the kitchen grates on him even from here, and it's got to be worse in the dining area. He's kind of bummed about that because he's got something in his pocket that's not his phone or his keys or his wallet, something that probably won't come out in a cheap-ass hole in the wall like this. It probably wasn't going to come out regardless, but he bought it and brought it just in case. If there's a chance you might decide to propose on a first date, and especially if there's a chance she'll say yes, you damn sure want to be prepared.

She waits on her side of the street for the crosswalk signal to change. How many times has she jaywalked this intersection to get to the bus stop on the other side? But tonight she is one hundred percent damn sure not getting herself hit by a car going across the road. The little white guy walking comes on and she laughs. Oh, you cute little white guy walking. One year ago. One fucking year ago this morning, at this same intersection, she turned to bitch out some creep trailing her ass, then decided to taunt him with what he couldn't have - then saw this harmless, awkwardly handsome dude who clearly just wanted to cross the street, wasn't trying anything at all. So she toyed with him, and then she made a decision, and then he followed her like a puppy, neither one of them paying a damn bit of attention to whether the "Don't Walk" was flashing.

Tonight she waits for the little white guy to blink on, looks both ways very carefully, and then sets out with an electric power to her stride.

He looks at his watch. He's been here a while, and it's still five minutes before time. He straightens his tie, thinks again about taking it off. It's a work tie, and he's left his blazer in the car, but he still feels overdressed. The box in his pocket puts in its two cents: You take the tie off, it means you're definitely not taking me out tonight. Which means the sensible thing is to take the tie off, but he still doesn't do it. Instead, he stops tapping his foot and picks the book up from the bench next to him. It falls open pretty easily to his favorite scene. He wonders if it's her favorite scene too.

On the way through the parking lot she realizes she's breathing hard and forces herself to slow down even though it's not walking too fast that has her lungs in a twist. Her dress is black and tight, low-cut and short in the skirt. Should she have worn the camo top and denim like he'd joked? No. She needs to sizzle for him tonight, and this is the sizzling-est thing she has. She hopes the ivory handbag and shoes are tasteful enough to keep her from looking like a hooker. But if not, what the fuck.

The door.

A little stiff, with a jangly bell at the top, some kind of silvery tint job making the glass hard to see through. It opens with a gust of Tejano music, and there he is on the bench.

Where in the shit did he get that? she thinks, staring at the sky-blue book in his hands. He folds it closed and stands up grinning, one finger in a spot that she thinks may actually be page three hundred and sixty-eight. She shakes away the daydream of him being exactly at her favorite part of the book. Guess he really paid attention when I left it on the nightstand that night, didn't he? Can't believe he'd go and steal that off my bookshelf when I wasn't looking, sneaky bastard.

Only no, the copy he's got is missing the big diagonal crease across the back cover from where she'd dropped it on the bus that one time.

The look on her face when she sees the book - it's absolutely, perfectly her. A blink, another blink, and then a flash of those brown eyes straight into his, lids narrowing, one eyebrow daring him to play whatever trick he has up his sleeve. He's pretty sure, though, that he's going to surprise her several different ways tonight. Recovering, she moves in and lets the door swing closed behind her. He's looking really pleased with himself, and then a second later he's looking even more pleased with her outfit.

"Hey," he says, stepping toward her. "I think I'm supposed to be meeting you here, but that is damn sure not what I suggested you should wear."

She tips her jaw up like a challenge. "Yeah, I wanted to make sure I showed you up if you really had the cojones to wear that rapper shirt. But I guess you get the reward even if you chickened out."

"You look nice," he says, his grey eyes glowing in a way that says those words are the understatement of the year.

"You look nice too," she says, reaching out to trail her fingers down his tie while her smile tells him how much she means it.

With a wry expression he doesn't quite have under control, he puts one hand out, the one without the book.

"I'm Dan," he says.

Her eyes flicker down toward the blue cover of the book and the name under the title, and then she just laughs, a little wildly, showing lots of teeth, and takes his hand.

"Jenice," she says, even happier to say it than to imagine he's not playing a joke with his name and a copy of her favorite book by her favorite author.

"Jenice," he repeats, feeling the softness of her fingers in his hand and the strength of her gaze in his eyes. "That's a beautiful name."

"Thank you," she says, smiling. It occurs to her that her cheeks are going to be really tired by the time dinner is over. "It sounds better than usual when you say it."

Eyes twinkling, he says, "Well, it's going to sound even better when I say it later."

"Promise?"

"Oh, yes, I promise."

"Good."

The server comes, and they sit down to have dinner.

* * *

Jenice and Dan

Dan orders a Dos Equis. Jenice orders a margarita on the rocks. They both agree on queso instead of just chips and salsa before the entrees arrive. The waitress leaves water and menus, then sees to another table instead of heading for the kitchen to get their queso going or the bar to put their drink orders in.

The strangeness of it hits them both as soon as the waitress steps away - alien territory, sitting across a table to enjoy a meal and talk, not just refuel in preparation for sex. Dan picks up a menu to cover the fact that his brain is suddenly empty. Jenice, having experienced this menu before, knows it won't help her, but realizes that it gives her something to say into the silence.

"Just order the enchilada plate," she says. "Trust me."

The confidence in her voice comes as a relief to her. Having something to respond to comes as a relief to him.

"The enchilada plate's good?"

"No," Jenice says. "The enchilada plate sucks. But everything else here sucks too, so there's no point spending ten minutes deciding which sucky thing to get."

He laughs, a real laugh, but with a thread of nerves tangled in it. Knowing that he's nervous too makes her feel a little better.

"So ..." he says. Nothing occurs to him after that, though. Holy crap, am I totally fucking this up?

On the corner of the table, the blue-covered book sits waiting. Jenice has been working to keep her eyes off it, but it's begging to be talked about, and neither of them is coming up with anything else.

"You're teasing me with that, right? I mean, rubbing my nose in it for leaving the damn thing out."

He raises his eyebrows as if to say, What? Me, teasing?

"Cut that out," she says. But now it's her turn to laugh, and that at least feels good. There's some relief, too, in being committed now: they have a subject. A little worried about the answer, a little regretful that the book just wouldn't be postponed until they were both more comfortable, she asks, "So are you really reading it, or did you just find a copy to play games with me?"

"I found a copy to play games with you," Dan says.

Oh no, Dan, she thinks, finding it weird to know his name at last, please don't do this to me.

Then he goes on, "I have read it a time or two, though - had to dig through some boxes in my garage to find it."

Oh god, don't do that to me either! "You dick. Why didn't you say anything that night, if you knew what it was? I mean, especially if you liked it enough to read it more than once?"