Chapter 33 Nothing Is Perfect #2
“No.” He smiles sideways and buries himself between my legs again using his mouth, tongue, and fingers this time. I think my eyes are rolling back in my head.
I don’t know how long passes before he stops.
All I know is that it’s long enough to break down every last inhibition and make my hips sway to the rhythm of his tongue.
I’m about to come when he sits up and puts himself between my legs.
He grabs his cock and starts slowly touching himself in a kind of sexual exhibitionism I wasn’t expecting…
and it’s weird how he’s the person I know best in the whole world, but we’re in uncharted territory.
He licks his lips and comes closer, rubbing the tip of his cock against my sex.
We’re wet, so close, on the brink—one thrust and he’d be inside me.
“What were you thinking about?” I insist as I watch him grab his cock again.
“Let’s talk about that when we fuck like dogs. I’m dirtier than you were expecting, and right now I want to make love.”
He lines his cock up with me and hovers over me, holding himself up with his arms. He moves his hips forward, and I feel pressure. It’s thick, and my skin stretches to make room for him inside me. I close my eyes and moan, “More…”
He pushes in until I don’t even have room to breathe, I’m so full. I can almost feel him pulsing. And he stays there, inside me, quiet, for a few seconds that feel eternal.
“Ah…” he moans when he moves a little.
“Keep going.”
“God…ah…” He pulls out and pushes back in. “Coco, I don’t know how slow I’m gonna be able to go…”
I climb up until my arms are around his shoulders and bring my mouth to his ear. I close my eyes and whisper, “I just want to feel you close…closer. Nothing else matters.”
“Inside,” he answers. “So close that I’m inside you.”
The words, the ones we so often didn’t need, occupy every emptiness that could be on our skin.
They see us, they protect us, they’re the pleasure that’s growing between us.
Because what’s the difference between fucking and making love?
Maybe it’s the words, the ones that are said, the ones that float, the ones we slurp hungrily from each other’s lips before they even emerge.
The words embroidering the moment and making it special forever.
“It’s you,” I say to him. “It’s always been you.”
He doesn’t answer. He presses his forehead against my lips, and his moans and gasps warm my throat, condensing on my skin. I can smell his hair. I caress him, tousle it, wrap my fingers around it.
He pushes in and pulls out…one, two, twenty, fifty times. I close my eyes. So deep. So hard. So wet we can hear it, the sudden emptiness, the pushing in.
His cock, fuck… His cock that finds a way of pushing even deeper in, making space, invading this intimate zone that feels like it belongs to him in a way that’s never felt like this with anyone else.
We don’t talk, the silence of our mouths supplanted by the sounds of our skin.
The pounding, my hips, his moans, my whimpers of pleasure.
I want all of him, all of it. So much. I’m so ravenous that I might have to concede that after all this desire, all this thinking about it, all this wanting, I haven’t actually been focusing and I won’t be able to come this time.
Ah. Umm. Spit mingling on our tongues. Tired moans into each other’s neck. The sound of his fingers in my hair. The groan as he speeds up… His hips are rocking between my thighs faster and harder every time.
“Coco…I’m not wearing a condom.” He looks at me finally, still moving. “Are you on…something?”
I nod. Blessed IUD. I stroke his hair; he smiles, closes his eyes, lets go. I stroke his back.
“Tell me you’re close…” he whispers.
“I don’t know if I’m going to be able to come.”
He bites his lip. He’s holding back. He raises his eyebrows. “Am I doing something wrong?”
“Yeah, making me like it too much. I’m really nervous.”
“It’s me…” He smiles. “It’s me, Coco. And this was meant to be.”
I have an “I love you” on the tip of my tongue, and I hold it and smother it with my tongue as much as I can. Finally, I pour it into his mouth in a kiss, wordlessly, as his movements get even faster.
“Please…” he moans. “I need to feel you do it with me. Touch yourself. Let me feel it.”
I slide my right hand in between us and delicately rub myself with my finger.
Marín watches me writhe and encourages me with his moans, which are getting higher all the time, clearer, wider, fuller.
His moans are eating the oxygen, leaving us swimming in a bubble where we can’t even feel the sheets.
“A little more. I need you to touch yourself a little more.”
It’s not happening, and I’m not even feeling a tingle.
Should I fake it? No. We’re done with lying, Coco.
After this, when he fills you up with semen, when you lie on his chest, when you feel like crying from how much you love him, tell him, tell him everything you think he still doesn’t know.
The pleasure… Pleasure will come. The orgasm will come; maybe not right now, maybe not like this, but it will come.
Marín stops and pulls out of my body, panting. He looks at me.
“I’m coming, Coco.”
“Do it. I want you to.” I touch his hair and smile.
He teases me with a beautiful smile. “No, sweetheart, my orgasm doesn’t matter more here. We either both get there or neither of us does.”
He lies next to me and flips me around so I’m on top. He slips in so easily, so clean, so wet…that my nipples get hard.
“You do it. Do it your way,” he begs.
My hair sways to the rhythm of my hips, even though a few strands are starting to stick to my neck and back from the sweat.
I lean down, find my friction point, and let my hips move through animal intuition.
I find the angle where he’s deepest, that’s right “there,” that place he already knows.
I melt, and then I touch myself. Marín caresses my thighs, grabs my hips, looks at me, smiles, says, “Yes, like that, yes.” And I smile at him too.
Describing an orgasm is so hard that I wouldn’t know how to put what I feel into words.
A tingle, a threat of tumbling down into a dark place where everything is amazing and you don’t know if you’ll make it back whole.
It’s my skin, like a living organism, feeling like it’s breathing, pulsing, spreading to every crevice, confirming that this is right.
I know that a moan is clinging to my vocal chords, suspended in the air, halfway between an “ah” and an “mmm,” an “I love you,” “don’t stop,” “don’t leave yet.
” And his answer is a hot torrent that fills me in two, three, four spasms. And while his orgasm and mine collide inside my body, Marín exhales a long, raucous moan, half groan, half plea that drips into my mouth as we kiss hungrily.
Tongue, saliva, teeth, sighs. My sex is full of him, my mouth too, my hands are trying to trap something that doesn’t exist except invisibly, and everything, everything is Marín in my body. And I’m everything in his.
Blanca once told me, in a confession that I now understand much better, that making love isn’t exactly what they sell us. It’s actually feeling vulnerable.
“We’re used to fucking affectionately, Coco, but people only make love a handful of times in our lives.
It has nothing to do with doing it slowly or kissing a lot—that’s not what it’s about.
Making love is breaking. It’s feeling vulnerable and letting the other in, with everything that means.
You let him in, he enters you, and in that moment, you both understand that you’ll feel alone in your body for the rest of your life without him there.
Making love is finding something worth dying for. ”
And maybe I’m a naive idiot, but suddenly I find myself thinking that, fuck, after this, dying, life being finite, is worth it because at least I know what making love is and everything else fades away. How would we feel if forever really meant forever?
No, I’ll never lie to him again, I promise myself. So I have to tell him, even if it scares him, even if I shouldn’t, even if it’s clearly too soon or too late, but definitely not the right time.
“I love you. And I know, Marín… I know you’re the one.”