CHAPTER 30 Nadia #3
He is not rushing. He is, my mind supplies the word before I can stop it, choreographing.
The way his tongue moves, finding what makes me gasp and then staying there, the pressure, the rhythm.
My hips move against his mouth and he lets them.
He adjusts, he follows, he does not try to control the movement, he meets me where I am.
My leg shifts. Instinct. The trained instinct, the body doing what the body knows, and my thigh comes up, my foot finding the barre next to my hip, opening myself further to him, and he makes a sound against me, a sound that says something about what this position does to him, and his hands grip my thighs harder.
"Yes," I say. "There. There."
He does not change what he is doing. He keeps doing it. The consistency of a man who knows exactly what he is doing to me and is choosing to do exactly that until I.
I come against his mouth.
Not the hurried version. Not the performed version.
The actual one. The one that builds from somewhere deep and takes my breath and my coherence and my knees and everything else, and I am gripping the barre with both hands to stay upright and his hands are holding my thighs apart and his mouth is still on me, working me through it.
"God," I say. Just that. Nothing else.
He lifts his head. His mouth is wet. His eyes are darker than before, the edge he was holding visible now.
I reach for him. I pull him up. I kiss him and taste myself on his mouth, the intimacy of that, the fact of what he just did.
"Trousers," I say against his mouth. "Off. Now."
He does not argue.
He steps back and he takes off the rest of his clothes, the belt, the trousers, the rest of it, and I watch him. I do not look away. I do not perform not looking away. I just look. At his body. At the fact of him hard and wanting. At the way he looks at me while I am looking at him.
"Come here."
He comes. I pull him to me by the hips, the urgency of my hands, and I feel him against my stomach. Hard. Hot. The weight and shape of him. I make a sound that is not a word and he makes a sound that is not a word and his forehead drops to mine.
"I don't want to rush," he says. "I have been wanting this."
"I know."
"But I."
"I know," I say. "I feel you. I feel how much you want this."
He breathes. The air moves between our mouths.
"You're sure," he says.
"Yes."
That is all he needs.
He lifts me.
The strength of him. The ease of it. The way he turns me so my back is to him, so I am facing the mirror. His hands on my waist. My hands finding the barre.
"Watch," he says. The echo of what I said to him.
I watch.
In the mirror, his hands on my hips, his body behind mine, the geometry of us. The way he bends me forward just slightly. The way I grip the barre. The way he positions himself.
"Tell me," he says. "If you need."
"I need you to fuck me," I say.
The word in my mouth. The word in his hearing. I see it in the mirror, the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands grip me.
He pushes inside.
The stretch of him. The fullness. The way my body takes a moment to adjust to the fact of him.
He stills.
Inside me. The fullness of him, not moving yet, just there, just the fact of our bodies joined in this room with the mirrors and the barre and the work lights making everything warm and lateral and true.
I can feel his breathing against my back. The effort of him holding still.
"Nadia," he says. Just my name.
"Move," I say. "I want."
"I know what you want." His mouth against the back of my neck. "I want to give you what you want."
"Then move."
He moves.
The first stroke. Slow, deliberate, the drag of him inside me, the way my body opens and accepts and wants more. I grip the barre and I watch us in the mirror.
"Again," I say.
He pulls back. The emptiness of him leaving. Then he pushes in again, deeper this time, a different angle, the head of his cock finding the place inside me that makes my breath catch and my hands tighten on the barre.
"There," I say. "Right. There."
He finds it again. Stays on it. Each stroke deliberate. Each stroke hitting the place that makes me make sounds I cannot control.
"Look at us," he says. His voice in my ear. His hands solid on my hips. "Look."
I look.
In the mirror. Me bent slightly forward, my hands on the barre, my breasts moving with each thrust, my face in a state I have never seen my face in before.
Not performing. Not controlling. Just feeling.
And behind me, him. His jaw tight. His eyes on me, on us, on the fact of his body moving into mine.
"You." He breathes. A stroke that goes deeper than the others. "You feel."
"I know," I say. "I feel you. I feel."
He shifts. Changes the angle, his hands pulling my hips back to meet him, the new depth this creates, the way it lets him fill me completely. The sound I make is not articulate. The sound he makes in answer is not articulate either.
"More," I say.
He gives me more. Still controlled, still intentional, but faster now, harder, the sound of our bodies meeting filling the studio. The wet of it. The slap of skin on skin. The small creaking of the barre under my grip.
My thigh comes up again. Onto the barre, opening me wider, and the shift in position lets him deeper and we both make sounds, his a groan, mine something higher, something that cracks at the edge.
"God, Nadia."
"Don't stop. Don't."
He does not.
He fucks me against the barre with the precision of a man who knows exactly what he is doing to me, and I take it and I want it and I watch us in the mirror.
"I'm going to," I say. The edge of it. The approaching edge.
"I know," he says. "I can feel you. I can feel you getting."
"Yes."
"Come," he says. "I want to feel you come on my cock."
The word in his mouth. The crude beauty of it. Liam, who speaks in measured operational sentences, saying cock in my ear while he is inside me.
I come.