15. Imogen #2
He shifts his weight, rolls us, and I end up on top of him with my hands on his chest, his hands on my hips, his cock filling me from a new angle that pulls a breath out of me so sharp it’s almost a laugh.
“Problem?” he asks.
“Not even slightly.” I find my footing, brace my knees either side of him, and start to move.
I take my time. I know he wants me to move faster and I set a pace that’s just shy of what he needs, rolling my hips in slow circles instead of lifting and dropping, grinding forward, and his hands tighten on my hips trying to set the rhythm himself. I cover his hands with mine and hold them down.
“Imogen.” It comes out rough, almost pained.
“Thorough,” I remind him.
His jaw goes tight and the muscle in his throat moves.
I watch his face in the dark, watch him fight for control of it, and I roll my hips harder just to see if I can break it.
His head drops back against the pillow. His chest comes up off the mattress.
His hands stop steering and just hold on, his fingers pressing bruises into my hips that I’ll find in the morning and not be sorry about, and the sound he makes when I grind forward and down is the most honest thing I’ve heard from him. Raw, low, bitten off at the edge.
“Jesus,” he gets out.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“Don’t.” His grip tightens.
“You’ll have to speak up.”
He sits up with his arms around my back in one movement, one hand fisted in my hair, tipping my head back, and kisses me hard enough that the whole conversation evaporates.
I feel the flex of his stomach against mine, his arm keeping me tight against his chest, and I move on him like that, both of us upright, my hands braced on his shoulders.
The friction from this angle is different again, direct and grinding, his chest against my breasts, his breath fast against my mouth, his cock deep enough that every small movement is a specific, distinct thing.
When I start to shake he grips my hips and takes over the rhythm, harder, deeper, and I stop trying to be clever about any of it and hold on.
Then he shifts again.
I end up on my stomach, his hand sliding under my hips from below, pulling them up to the angle he wants.
I find the headboard. In this position he’s everywhere, his weight along my back, his chest brushing my shoulder blades, his mouth at the nape of my neck.
When he pushes into me the first thrust is so deep I grab the headboard with both hands and the sound I make into the pillow is nothing I’d claim in daylight.
“Okay?” he asks, his lips at the back of my neck.
“More than,” I tell the pillow. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
His left hand slides from my hip up my side, over my ribs, forward, his palm warm and his grip firm around my breast. His right hand stays at my hip, anchoring, setting the pace.
He builds it from the beginning. Slow first, thorough, his mouth working down the side of my neck.
Then harder. The headboard taps the wall, my knuckles go white against it.
Then harder than that, until I’ve lost any thought that isn’t the weight of him, the depth of him, his hand at my breast, and his cock hitting somewhere that makes every breath come out as a sound.
This orgasm takes longer. It builds, plateaus, and builds again, and I’m past embarrassment, past management, saying his name and please and more and yes.
He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t let me catch a breath, his mouth at my ear.
When it finally breaks it takes the whole bed with it.
My hands locked white on the headboard, my whole body shaking, his name coming out of me broken, and he follows me over, his face pressed into the back of my neck, his hips driving forward twice more, his whole body going rigid, his grip on my hip tight enough to leave marks, and then loose.
When I stop shaking he pulls out slow, and I feel the absence of him as a specific, distinct thing, my body protesting it, the sudden emptiness after all that fullness. He drops beside me, his weight settling into the mattress, and I stay where I land.
We lie in the wreckage of his expensive sheets with my cheek on his chest and his heartbeat going hard under my ear. His hand finds my hair and moves through it, slow, root to ends and back again.
I let him, laying there without speaking.
The silence between us is different from the ones we’ve had before.
Not the cold tone of two adults pretending to be normal over Luke’s breakfast. Not the charged silence of a hallway at three in the morning with six inches of air between us.
This one has weight, but it sits easy on both of us.
His breathing slows, but his hand keeps moving. I should close my eyes and let the night be what it was without making a big deal out of it, but then he speaks up.
“I don’t know what to do with you.”
It comes out like he didn’t mean to say it, like it got out the back while his attention was somewhere else.
I don’t move, and instead, keep my cheek where it is, my eyes closed, and my breathing as calm as I can. I don’t answer and don’t show that I heard it at all, because the second I do, we can’t turn back, and right now, I don’t know what to do with him and with this either.
So I say nothing and pretend to sleep. His hand moves through my hair, starting over at the top. I’m lying there, trying to figure out how to handle what just happened between us when the knock comes.
Small knuckles, barely audible.
“Dad?” A silence no longer than a breath. Then, quieter, with the accuracy of a six-year-old who has always known exactly where the adults in his life are at all times. “Imogen? Why are you both awake?”
We go completely still, his hand stopped in my hair, neither of us breathing.