Howie
Horny Ella is really freaking hot.
She kicks off her shoes in the entryway, and I press her against the wall and kiss her the way I've wanted to for months.
I kiss her with my whole body, both hands in her hair, nothing held back, and nobody to hide from.
She grabs my shirt and pulls me closer and moans my name, and I feel it vibrate through my chest.
We stumble down the hall, shedding layers as we go. Her sweater lands on the floor. My shirt catches on a doorknob. She's laughing and kissing me at the same time, and the combination is the best thing I've ever tasted.
We fall through the bedroom door, and I walk her backward until her legs hit the mattress. She sits on the edge and looks up at me, and her face in the lamplight is everything I almost lost.
"I love you," I tell her, because I can say it now, because it's true. Because I spent weeks choking on it, and I refuse to waste another second. "I love you, Ella."
Her eyes go bright. "I love you too."
I exhale a cloud of joy at her words, relief flooding my body alongside a deep desire to please her. “Good,” I grunt. “Now let me show you."
I drop to my knees without a whisper of pain.
Weeks of rehab, PT, ice rotations, and compression wraps, and my knee is fine.
It's perfect. It works exactly the way it's supposed to, which means I can kneel in front of Ella Rujkowski and do what I've been desperate to do since the first time I saw her at the airport.
I hook my fingers in the waistband of her jeans. She lifts her hips, and I pull them down, along with her underwear, and she's bare from the waist down, sitting on the edge of my bed, and with me between her thighs.
"Bernard." Her voice is breathy. “What is this—ohh.”
"I need to taste you." I press my mouth to the inside of her knee. Her leg trembles. "I have wanted this since before I had any right to want it. Please let me."
She nods. Her hand finds my hair. I kiss the inside of her thigh, slow, deliberate, working my way up.
She falls back on her elbows and watches me with dark eyes and parted lips, and I take my time because this matters.
This is the “lesson” I never gave her, the one I kept putting off because I knew — I knew — that once I put my mouth on her I wouldn't be able to pretend this was tutoring.
The first taste of her shuts down every higher function in my brain. I grip her thighs and pull her closer to the edge of the bed, and I press my tongue flat against her clit, and she makes a sound that I want engraved on my headstone.
"Oh, my god." Her hand tightens in my hair. "Bernard… oh my god."
I learn what makes her gasp and grip me tighter.
The place that makes her hips buck off the mattress and the rhythm that makes her voice climb.
I use my mouth, and my tongue, and my hands, and I give her everything I've been holding back, every ounce of the want I stored up during weeks of secret couch sessions and careful car rides and the aching discipline of sleeping on the other side of a wall.
"I love you," she gasps, and her back arches and her thick thighs clamp around my ears, and I can barely hear her, but I feel the words in the flex of her body. "I love you, Bernard, I love — oh, fuck — I love—"
She comes against my mouth, and I hold her through it, hands on her hips, lips on her skin, feeling her pulse and contract and shake apart. I don't stop until she pushes at my head, oversensitive, laughing, and panting.
"Get up here," she says. "Please. I need you."
I climb off the floor and onto the bed, covering her body with mine.
She pulls my face down and kisses me, and I know she can taste herself on my mouth, and the groan she makes tells me she doesn't mind.
Her hands work my belt, my zipper, shoving my jeans down while I kick them off the rest of the way.
I reach for the nightstand, but she puts a hand on my arm. “I had a checkup,” she tells me, “for work. And I asked to get on the pill.”
I freeze, a condom packet in my hand, trying to understand the meaning of her words. “What are you telling me, baby?”
Ella licks her lower lip, staring at my hand, then at my crotch. “I’m healthy, and I can’t get pregnant. And I want to feel you. All of you. Inside me.”
“Bare?” The thought sends a surge of need through my lower half. Can I even handle the idea of sliding inside Ella with no barriers, nothing between us? Fuck, I want to try and find out.
“Bare. Yes, please.” She drizzles lube from a packet, and her slick hand wraps around me, and I drop my forehead to her shoulder and groan. "Ella."
"I love you," she says, guiding me. "I love you, and I want you inside me."
I press into her, naked and throbbing, and we both exhale, forehead to forehead, breathing each other's air.
The fullness of being inside Ella. The heat, the pressure, the feeling of her body opening for mine, never gets less overwhelming.
Every time feels like the first time in the ways that matter: the shock of connection, the certainty that this is where I belong.
"Move," she whispers. "Please."
I move. Slow at first because I want to feel everything. Her hips meeting mine. Her hands on my back. The sounds she makes directly into my ear. “I’ve never done this, Ella, never.”
I feel every bit of her body, the way she clings to me, the way her pussy is made for my cock. Her legs wrap around my waist, and her heels dig into my ass, and I bury my face in her neck and breathe her in.
"You're everything," I tell her. "You know that? Everything."
She pulls my face up so she can see me. Her eyes are wet, but she's smiling, and the combination wrecks me. "You're my person, Bernard."
"I'm your what?”
"My big, ridiculous St. Bernard."
I laugh, which changes the angle, which makes her gasp, which makes me thrust harder. The rhythm builds. Her nails drag down my back, and I feel the sting and love it. She grips my shoulders and holds on.
"Harder," she says, and I obey, because Ella Rujkowski knows what she wants and I will give her anything she asks for as long as I live.
The bed creaks. The headboard taps the wall.
She's loud, and I'm louder, and I don't care that Jason could come home and hear us through the floor because we're done hiding.
We're done with rules, secrets, and separate sleeping arrangements.
This is us, in our room, making noise, taking up all the space we want.
"I'm close," she says. "Bernard — right there — don't stop—"
"I love you." I brace one arm beside her head and cup her face with the other and watch her. "I love you, Ella. Come for me."
She does. Eyes open, locked on mine, and the sight of her face in the moment she lets go is the single most beautiful thing I will ever see. It pulls me over the edge with her. I come hard, burying myself deep, saying her name like it's the only word in any language that matters.
I feel myself spurting in her body, hot and wet, and I imagine that one day, she won’t be on the pill, and this will be me making a baby with Ella. I see our forever together, and it sends another wave of release through my super-satisfied junk.
We lie in the wreckage of the bed, breathing hard, tangled up in each other and the sheets. Her head is on my chest. My hand is in her hair. The lamplight pools around us, and the room is warm and quiet and ours.
"Your knee is better,” she murmurs.
"My knee is great."
"I noticed." She traces a circle on my chest.
I kiss the top of her head. "I'm going to want to do that again. Frequently. Possibly constantly."
She tilts her chin up and looks at me. Flushed, satisfied, hair a disaster, eyes soft. "We have time."
"Yeah?"
"I'm staying, Bernard. I'm staying in Pittsburgh, and I'm staying in the ER, and I'm staying with you."
I pull her closer. Press my face into her hair. Breathe.
“Good because I wasn’t ever going to let you leave,” I say, and I mean it in every way a person can mean it — this bed, this city, this life I didn't know I wanted until she walked through an airport and revealed herself as everything I always wanted.