Thunderstorm

“Would you rather just make love?” he asked.

I reached up to cup his cheek in my palm, trace his jaw with my fingertips.

“Yes,” was all I said.

He joined me naked on the bed, all smooth skin and muscles, warm mouth open on my breast, artist’s hands stroking my skin. Then his mouth sought mine, his kiss demanding, a little frantic, his mouth forcing mine open, my mouth welcoming him inside. His lips soft, tongue wet, he tasted of coffee and tobacco.

I stroked his hair, his neck, the supple skin of his arms, strong shoulders and seasoned muscles of his broad back, sure and steady under my hands.

His knee parted my thighs and his fingers found me wet with need of him. He moved down my body, mouth finding me as he threw my legs over his shoulders and I cried out as his tongue flickered, his mouth sucked and nibbled, playing me like some lost piece of music. My toes curled into his sides and my thighs clenched. My hips moved in a rhythm I didn’t recognize. My hands found his at my waist. He held my hands as tightly as I held his and I cried out at the wonder he brought to me.

When he raised himself above me, I took his face between my hands and drew his mouth to mine. I opened my lips to his and tasted coffee and tobacco and a sweet musky scent-taste that I knew was my own.

“What is it you want?” he asked, his mouth against my ear, his knees forcing mine wider.

“You,” I breathed, “just exactly this,” I said as my hips rose to meet his first thrust and he found me, unerringly and was in me. I wrapped my legs around his waist and my arms around his back. We fit together like we were carved from the same block of stone, hewn from the same tree, petals of the same flower.

Fingers clenched and clutching, mind inarticulate with the sensation flooding my body, I could only breathe and move and feel.

My hands followed the line of his back, smooth muscles under my hands, up and down.

His hands captured my wrists, pinning them away from my body as his mouth found mine and we matched thrust and stroke.

My fingers found his and we linked hands, lay there crucified on a bed.

Our movements became a dance, our breathing a matched set of woodwinds.

He let go of my fingers to hold my head between his hands, I buried my fingers in his hair.

“I’m going to come, do you want me to come in you? Do you want me in you?”

“Yes, yes,” I cried, I yelled.

Every one of my muscles convulsed and I heard him cry out his own release, his face buried in my neck. Slowly our bodies became our own again.

We lay like that for a time, he inside me and on top of me, and I kept my ankles locked at his back. He stroked the hair back from my face and I let my fingertips trace the outline of his eyes and nose and mouth.

“Incredible,” I whispered, “Are you alright with this?”

“Yes, are you?”

“Of course. I have been waiting years for you to make love to me.”

“You have?” His surprise was real.

“Yes.”

“You never said.”

“You never asked, and I think it never even occurred to you to ask. I wasn’t ready before.”

“You are now?”

“Oh, very much so.”

We lay together, side by side, my head on his shoulder, his arms keeping me warm. We were quiet for a time and there was no more need for words, there were too many words for us to ever express. He stroked my back, feather light fingertips warming my flesh.

“Fingers on skin are nice,” he whispered in my ear.

“Skin on skin is nice,” I whispered back.

I let my fingertips explore his chest, pebbled nipples, indentation of his navel, my nails raked lightly on his strong thighs. He groaned. My hand parted his thighs and my fingers stroked him, combing through the tangled wet hair around him stiffening against my hands. I followed with my mouth, first finding and sucking a nipple, then kissing down to his knees and back upwards to the top of his thighs with open mouthed kisses. Licking him from balls to tip I finally took him in my mouth and hands to stroke and suck. He gasped a surprised sound. He tasted of us both, a musky combination of warm and wet.

He sat up to take my face in his hands and kissed me, drawing me over him to straddle his hips. I took him inside again and ran my hands over his chest, kneading his shoulders. My hips found a rhythm with his. I leaned down to kiss him and he wrapped his arms around me, holding me close to him. His mouth grazed my ear.

“What do you want?” I asked.

His mouth still next to my ear, his breath warm and sending chills down my skin he replied, “I want to lick you, I want to lick the come off your pussy, will you give me that? Will you give me your pussy, let me have you.”

“Oh, yes,” I could barely whisper.

He pushed my shoulders so I was on my back again and his hands parted my knees, ran up my thighs and his head was between my legs that quick.

It was more frenzied, more beautiful, more tearing than the first time. Sounds came from my throat I didn’t recognize. I tore at my hair and clutched the bedspread under me as if it would anchor me against the way I felt like I was flying. I cried.

When he finally rose above me again and entered me, I wrapped myself around him and pulled his mouth down to mine to kiss. I pushed my tongue past his teeth and his mouth opened on mine to take me, then pulled back.

“I love how you taste with me all over you,” I murmured against his cheek. He groaned, a deep surrendering sound and buried his face in my neck. I held onto him, and our cries grew louder.

We lay again as one being, leaving small kisses and tastings against each others skin, avoiding as long as we could final separation.