Chapter 31
Xavier
Sweet, sweet Ivy, with the body of a siren and the soul of an angel, with a woman’s plush mouth and the guileless blue eyes of a girl. I shouldn’t be surprised that she doesn’t require me to articulate any of this. Whatever this is between us, it goes far beyond words.
I can’t offer her anything except this moment and, if we’re lucky, another few like it: lustrous pearls to be strung on the thread of life, to be treasured and, on occasion, taken out and revered like the priceless keepsakes they are.
She’s the wise one, as usual. Despite what I suspect is the lack of a decent formal education, Ivy has an old wisdom about her that makes me want to defer to her here.
So I take her reminder in the spirit in which she’s served it up to me: that this moment is indeed a pearl, and we are its creators. Its cultivators.
My fingers on her waist are the only counter to her buoyancy. I wrap my arm tightly around her and pull her down, anchoring her decisively against me. On top of me.
‘When you put it like that.’
She wriggles against my cock. ‘You know…’ She hesitates, which is unlike her.
‘What is it?’
‘I got tested after I left Alchemy. And I have a shot. So…’ She shrugs. ‘I’m safe. And clean.’
I suck in a harsh breath at the generosity of her offer as much as at the sheer eroticism of what she’s suggesting. ‘I’m clean, too. But I’ve never…’
A tight little nod of her head. ‘I haven’t either, believe me. But I don’t want you to think I’m some little gold-digger trying to trap you.’
I laugh at that. I probably should be thinking that, but: ‘Believe me, that’s not what I’m thinking.’
We stare at each other for a beat, me taking in her astonishing, wide-set blue eyes, before she settles the matter with the stunningly effective tactic of slipping a hand under the water and wedging it between us so she can wrap those slim little fingers around my cock.
Within the harness of my arm, she raises herself up and shunts further forward, notching me right at her entrance.
And still, we stare at each other.
The vortex of emotion in whose merciless grip I’m engulfed morphs into a vortex of sensation as she feeds herself my dick, inch by inch.
My little Fragonard temptress, whose tits have intoxicated me since that first entrancing sight of them, swallows me up.
She’s the most fantastical of creatures, and still, the realness of her grounds me: her small, earnest puffs of breath as she accommodates me; the impossible succulence of her damp skin; the enchanting way her loose tendrils of sunset-coloured hair frame her face.
‘That’s it. You’re doing so well, sweetheart. How does that feel?’
She’s so impossibly precious to me.
This moment is so impossibly precious to me.
‘So good.’ The words are a sigh. ‘So good, Xav.’
‘I know. Jesus. For me, too.’
Her mouth opens as I bottom out in her, and I lean forward to capture her top lip, snagging it lightly between my teeth so I can run my tongue over it.
She grabs at my hair, kissing me back, and for a moment we sit here in our watery cocoon, as close as we can be, hands sliding over wet flesh and mouths exploring.
‘Now,’ I say with difficulty, resisting the urge to thrust up and into her, ‘if you’re going to beat that sneeze from earlier, you need to do exactly as I say. Got it?’
She pulls back a fraction, eyes shining. ‘Got it.’
‘Good. First, I want you to hold those beautiful tits up for me so I can play with them. Cup them for me, sweetheart.’
I lean my head back against the lip of the tub and survey the sight in front of me: Ivy, soaked and soapy, impaled on my cock, cupping her magnificent breasts for my delectation as the water laps at their undersides.
It would be deplorably na?ve of me to take her sweet-seeming desire to please as a sign of her innocence, her need for guidance. I’m far more cognisant than I’d like to be of her past. But I know that she enjoys it when I take the lead.
That makes two of us.
I trail my fingertips down over her chest until they reach her nipples: hard, slippery little nubs. The sensitivity levels of her nipples—through the roof—is one of the hundreds of tiny details I have been privileged to learn on this new but beautiful voyage of discovering Ivy. Mapping her.
My ministrations have the desired effect. She stares at me, her eyes beseeching, her small, needy noises as moving as they are arousing.
‘I know,’ I say uselessly. ‘I know. It feels good, doesn’t it, being stuffed full of me as I play with you?’
Her response is to roll her hips, leaving neither of us in any doubt as to how stuffed full she is of me. Lord, is it tight down there, and it’s intense like this: face to face, water lapping softly around us as we hold our positions.
I ramp up my tweaks and pulls and pinches. ‘Tell me how it feels.’
‘It aches. Everywhere.’ She grinds down on me, and I understand that her clit must ache as surely as her nipples. Thank God for this woman and for her wonderful, responsive body.
‘And if I do this?’—this being releasing one breast and sliding my hand south until I can crook my fingers and tend to the spot where she needs them the most.
Her head drops back in pleasure, her exposed throat pale.
There’s that sense again, the sense that Ivy contains within her fathoms a deep vulnerability, a fragility.
I dip my head and kiss up the side of that milky column as deferentially as it’s possible to do so while my hands engage in their lovely, filthy acts.
We may be doomed in real life, but in the microcosm of this bathtub we are real, and we are synchronicity itself.
There’s a profound peace here, in this shrunken, fantastical world.
No matter how urgently our arousal levels are spiralling heavenward, I sense that we could both stay like this for all eternity, in a sanctuary fashioned from each other’s bodies.
Alas, it’s our sex organs that dictate the pace here and not our souls.
Ivy is rocking against me, possibly unconsciously, with tiny, despairing pitches of her hips, and I grow even thicker inside her velvety prison.
I let my head fall back against the tub’s lip in surrender.
‘Do it, sweetheart. Take what you need.’
With an anguished moan into my mouth, she rises up, a warrior queen intent on destroying me. I keep my fingers on her clit while, with my spare hand, I stroke down her stomach, marvelling that skin can be so soft, that a person can be created with such lush perfection.
Eyes locked, we find a rhythm. I bite down on my lip as she works me from above, and I know, I just know, that I’ll never forget how this moment looks and feels and tastes.
I’ll close my eyes on my deathbed and I’ll have no trouble conjuring this up; God knows, it’ll probably be burnt onto my retinas on my fucking wedding day.
The pleasure is like nothing else: so much more than two bodies fitting together well.
My entire being is alight; I glow with the sheer wonder of it as this exquisite human being, this heavenly creature, makes love to me and sates herself.
Her eyes are galaxies, and my soul is as much aflame as my body is.
She’s trembling. This isn’t sex—it’s some sort of communion that feels ancient and holy and exalted. My fingers play with her clit, my hand following her lead as she rises and falls above me. She dips her head and grinds her forehead against mine.
‘I’m so close,’ she gets out.
‘Me too. Me too.’
We lose ourselves in our rhythm, each chasing our own orgasms side by side, each spurring each other’s on, the lapping of the bathwater turning to sloshing, my halo of pleasure glowing more brightly with every drive inside her.
She finds my mouth as she begins to come, with those gorgeous, desperate, clumsy kisses that speak to her state.
I’m sweating with heat and exertion and the physical effort of holding myself off for her sake, but the noises she’s making into my mouth—oh my God, the noises.
Not to mention the unholy squeeze of her internal walls around my poor dick, over and over and over.
I’m kissing her when she breaks me with a final slam that sends water sloshing over the edges of the bathtub and has my entire body wracked with convulsions of pleasure so great that I squeeze my eyes shut in an effort to survive them.
Ivy, Ivy, Ivy.
What the fuck are you doing to me?