9. Chapter Nine #2
When the silence had extended too long, I cleared my throat. “I think I ought to amend one of my rules. Maybe anything not covered by my thermals would be all right to touch. And to kiss.”
It wasn’t much of a concession, I’ll give you that, since barely any skin showed outside of my thermals.
Luckily Ursa didn’t need much encouragement.
I gasped his name as his lips found my neck.
Found was not a hyperbolic verb choice, either.
There was very little of my skin showing anywhere.
But he tugged at my collar enough that the front of my pajamas began to shift down just a little, so he could ravish my neck, too, with his lips and teeth and tongue.
It felt so blissfully good. Nevertheless, I was determined to keep my responses muted, not only for fear of being overheard, but also as part of the game Ursa and I were playing—I had to put up a little fight, didn’t I? I needed to let myself be hunted.
As Ursa hardened behind me, though, it was becoming more and more difficult to remember why I was so determined to enforce these self-imposed rules. I wriggled to press my bottom back against him; he groaned, a sound so unrestrained in its pleasure that my core throbbed in response.
My zipper shifted with all the movement.
Very shoddy workmanship on these things, it turned out.
Anyhow, not much more skin was showing, just my clavicle, but it gave me an idea.
With trembling fingers, I reached up to unzip the thermals down to my navel.
Cold air rushed into the open gap in my clothing, but that was not, I think, the only reason goose bumps broke out across my flesh.
Taking a shaky breath, I adopted my sternest tone once again. “Remember, Ursa, only where I’m not covered.” But as I said the words, I drew his hand to the opening in my jumpsuit, to the bare skin waiting underneath.
Eyes covered, my back turned to him, I had no warning of where Ursa would touch me next.
I didn’t have long to worry about it, though, because Ursa’s hands slid into my clothing, his skin warming my skin.
He was always so warm. Even in space, somehow he was warm, whereas I was a human Popsicle most of the time.
I suppose it could have something to do with the sunlamp shining on his skin all day, but even when he’d been ill, he had an innate heat to him, some fire that warmed him from the inside out . . .
I’d expected he might be frantic, urgent, now that he’d gotten permission to touch me again.
To my surprise, though, Ursa seemed content to take his time.
Somehow, the very languidness of his exploration actually made it more unbearably tantalizing.
He touched me on my upper chest, along my collarbones, over my stomach, seeming happy to ignore the places I most wanted to be touched.
I thought we were making some progress when he (finally!) lightly grazed his fingertips over my nipples, making me gasp and arch against him.
But then he retreated, his touch moving back to less lurid areas.
He began to carefully skirt down to where the zipper had continued to descend, following the path of exposed skin and getting teasingly close to where I most wanted him to be—only to redirect, each pass making me feel helpless and desperate.
I only realized he was teasing me when he laughed softly at my growl of frustration. “Ursa,” I chided him, half reprimand, half plea.
A moment later, I felt the softest of touches at my entrance, over the thin material of my underpants. I gasped eagerly and tried to buck up into his hand, but he pulled it away. “Yes?” he asked me, voice warm against my ear.
He was, of course, reminding me about our earlier conversation, when I’d instructed him where he could and couldn’t touch me—at the most inconvenient of times, I might mention. “Yes,” I told him impatiently, trying to arch up into him again.
“Yes?”
Not even the cocky edge coloring his voice could douse my arousal. I needed him. I reached out blindly, grabbing for his hand and trying to direct him down to where I wanted him. “Ursa, now, please, I need you.”
When his fingers brushed over my clit once, then again, I cried out in relief—a desperate, whining noise that I knew would haunt me later, though I couldn’t seem to stop myself in the moment.
His own teasing laughter faded, his breaths growing labored and needful as he slipped one finger into my waiting warmth.
Then another. He began to move in and out of me, spurred by the sounds I was making, the way I squirmed against him.
The pleasure of his touch was extraordinary, unlike anything the Pleasure Machines on Haven 3 could have prepared me for.
Those had created a sensation like a little trickle of water, whereas this was a gushing waterfall.
One was contained and orderly, nice but sedate—the other chaotic and perhaps even dangerous, but a force of nature that could not be stopped.
There was something missing, though. Moved by instinct more than anything else, I reached one hand down between my legs as he continued to pump his fingers into me.
I remembered the feeling, that first night we were together, of his nose, his lips, his tongue, brushing over such a sweet and sensitive spot.
I found it with my thumb and mimicked the way he’d searched me then.
I felt him still as he understood what I was doing.
Then with his other hand, he put his fingers near mine, tentatively echoing what I’d been doing for myself.
He continued his ministrations, amplifying the feelings surging through me, the warmth and the coiled energy inside me waiting to burst. My inner walls began to throb with pleasure.
I pressed his hand down into me, silently urging, Harder, harder. I clenched around him.
Then a sharp wave of pleasure bloomed through my core. I cried out, my body instinctively and needily grasping his fingers.
Curiously, my pleasure seemed to actually stimulate his own pleasure, even though I was not similarly fondling him.
His erection was pressed up against my posterior region, though, as I moaned and writhed under his hands, and that seemed to provide him equal gratification, as he grunted and ground against me.
And this, in turn, heightened my arousal, and so on, and so forth—really, it was an endless cycle of carnal bliss.
Ursa waited until I was finished before he moved his hands.
Gripping the edges of my open thermals, he began to tug.
I wriggled along with him to help him disrobe me, trying to make it as efficient a process as possible so he wouldn’t get frustrated and tear them into pieces.
3 Once that was accomplished and I was naked, he eagerly pressed his bare skin against mine.
Gripping my hips, hard enough to leave a bruise, he ground himself against the softest, roundest part of my backside.
Again and again, until he, too, went rigid and cried out, then collapsed behind me.
For a long while, we simply lay there, both breathing heavily.
Then he leaned forward and bit my shoulder—a playful nip, hard and teasing, but not anything that would break the skin or leave a mark.
I knew he would be dreadfully smug about lowering my defenses.
Indeed, I was relieved I still had my eye covering on and couldn’t look at him.
I had tried to set some new rules and had failed miserably, due to my own reckless wantonness.
“We ought to go clean up,” I murmured after a moment, pushing aside my eye covering as I sat up.
Ursa caught me before I could go too far.
He really knew me so extraordinarily well, could sense every shift in mood almost before I knew what I was feeling myself.
Taking me by the chin, he forced me to meet his gaze.
He looked, as I had imagined, both quite pleased with himself but also perplexed as to why I would try to reject what we had just shared.
“Good?” he asked me, eyes flickering down in the direction of his explorations moments before.
I blushed. “Yes, but . . .”
He gave my chin a firm tug, shaking his head at my budding protest. “Good?” he persisted.
“Not everything that feels good is right, Ursa.”
He just frowned. I realized it was pointless, trying to explain such a complex concept to someone who had grown up outside of society.
His life had always been simple, uncomplicated.
If he felt an urge, he acted on it. If he was hungry, he ate.
If he was tired, he slept. I knew all of the rules of society rules must seem pointless and petty to him, and perhaps he was right.
But it struck me, and not for the first time, just what I was taking him from, and what I would be leading him to.
1. I can already anticipate the Brethren are going to get overly excited about that detail.
I will have to assure them that nothing untoward happened; I was solely focused on helping Ursa get clean.
One cannot feel one’s best, after all, when one is unkempt, and I took my duties as nursemaid very seriously.
2. It was, of course, Andromache. No need to rub my face in the shame.
3. I really was very fond of those thermals.