Chapter 7 #3
He hooked his arms under my thighs, pulled me to the edge so I was angled against the mattress with my legs over his shoulders, and bent his head. The first contact of his tongue—flat, broad, against my clit—pulled a sound out of me I hadn't made in years.
He didn't tease. He didn't make me wait.
He worked me like a man who'd been thinking about doing exactly this for two hours and wasn't going to waste the access.
He sucked my clit into his mouth, then released it, then circled it with his tongue at a rhythm that was somehow both precise and savage.
He slid one finger inside me, then a second, curling them up against the spot that made my hips lift off the bed.
I tried to bring my hands down, to his hair, to his shoulders, to anything, and he caught both my wrists in one hand and pinned them above my head. The other stayed between my legs.
“Look at me.” His voice against my thigh.
I looked.
His eyes on mine, his mouth on my cunt, two fingers working me from inside, and the combination of all three was so much more than I'd been prepared for that I felt the orgasm gather at the base of my spine before I'd registered it building.
I tried to hold it back. The reflex of a woman who'd spent her life regulating every output.
He felt it. He pressed harder, faster, sucked my clit and curled his fingers at the same time, and the wave broke over me so completely that I came with a sound I wouldn't have recognized as mine.
He didn't stop. He worked me through it, slower now, gentler, letting the aftershocks settle without releasing them entirely. When the last tremor passed, he kissed my inner thigh, then the line of my hipbone, then my stomach, working his way up.
Holy shit.
He moved up beside me, propped on an elbow. He let me come down, but didn't rush it. When my breathing steadied, he brushed the hair away from my face and said:
“Querida.”
The first word in Portuguese he'd ever used with me.
It went through me like a current. The shock of it, the intimacy of it, the way the word fit into the architecture of the moment, made everything else louder.
I reached for him. He let me pull him down, kissed me, and I tasted myself on his tongue, which was the most intimate thing that had ever happened to me.
I worked at his shirt buttons, fingers clumsy with the residual tremor. He helped me. He shrugged out of the shirt, then stood to get rid of the trousers and the boxers in two efficient movements. The watch stayed on. Of course the watch stayed on.
He was beautiful. Lean, dense, a body engineered for compressed force. A pale scar down his left thigh from the karting accident I'd never asked about. The line of his cock, hard against his stomach, was the only thing about him that didn't look calibrated.
I want that in me. Now.
He saw the thought before I said it.
“Turn over,” he said.
I turned.
He ran his hands down my back, mapping the line of my spine, then pressed gently between my shoulder blades until my face was in the pillow and my hips were lifted.
He took a second behind me, just a second, the rip of a wrapper, and then I felt the head of him against me, blunt and hot, and he pushed in slow, all the way, until he was fully inside me and I was so full I lost track of where I ended.
He held there. Not moving. Letting me adjust.
“Christ,” I said, into the pillow.
He laughed, low and rough, the sound vibrating through his chest into my back. “Sim, querida.”
Then he began to move. Slow at first. Long, deliberate strokes, the kind that made me feel every inch of him, every drag of withdrawal and every push back in. His hand came up to the back of my neck, not pressing, just resting there, the weight of it grounding me. The other braced at my hip.
He fucked me like he raced. Reading the data. Adjusting the angle, the depth, the rhythm, calibrating to my response. When my breath hitched, he repeated the motion that had caused it. When I tried to push back into him, he held my hip down so I couldn't, made me take the pace he was setting.
I was already close again. I hadn't thought I would be, this soon, but every stroke was hitting somewhere new, and the pillow under my face muffled the sounds I was making, which were sounds I didn't recognize.
“Don't hide,” he said. He hooked an arm under me, pulled me up to my knees so my back was against his chest. The new angle was deeper. I gasped, and he caught the sound in his hand at my throat, not squeezing, just there.
“Tell me when,” he said. Mouth at my ear.
“Now,” I said. “Right now.”
He moved his other hand around me, found my clit, and circled it once. Twice.
I came so hard I sobbed.
He held me through it, both arms around me, his face buried in my neck, my body locked against his while I shook.
He didn't stop moving, but he slowed, letting me ride it out around him.
When the worst of it passed, he eased me back down to the bed, face into the pillow, and started again: harder this time, faster, the bed frame making the small protesting sounds I'd never thought I would associate with myself.
I felt his rhythm break. Felt his fingers dig into my hip. Heard the low sound that came out of him from deep in the chest, the kind of sound that wasn't a word in any language but meant the same thing in all of them.
He came inside me with my name on his lips. Not loud, but with a finality that made it sound like a confession. He stayed inside for a long moment after, head buried in the crook of my neck, his body so hot I thought it might fuse with mine.
When he finally pulled out, he rolled onto his back, hands covering his face. I turned to look at him, but didn't touch him.
We lay there for a minute, both of us catching our breath. I could feel my heart in my throat. My thighs were going to be sore tomorrow. I didn't care about either of those things.
He recovered first. He sat up, reached for the discarded dress, and laid it over my body, as if the act of covering me would put back something that had been lost.
He dressed in silence, pulling on his shirt, not bothering with the buttons, then found his shoes and stood at the door. He didn't look at me.
After a minute, he said, “I need to clear the deck. Give me five.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He left, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
I stayed in the bed, letting the feeling circulate.
Querida. The word kept playing back at me.
The way he'd said it. The way it had felt to be that thing, even for an hour.
I pulled on the dress, found my shoes, and stood at the porthole, watching the city's lights flicker on the water. It was nearly four in the morning.
Five minutes later, he returned.
He didn't say anything. He watched me walk to the door, then down the corridor, then out onto the deck, where the night was cooler and the sound of the city very far away.
At the gangway, he stopped.
He looked at me for a long second. Then he said, “Saturday.”
I smiled. “Saturday.”
He didn't kiss me again. He watched as I walked off the yacht, barefoot, the city and the harbor lights stretched out before me.
I walked, and for the first time in my life, I didn't look back.