56. Brody
Brody
Ari Haywood, the most amazing woman in the entire world, is lying on my bed – my bed – wearing nothing more than a few scraps of black lace and a secret smile just for me. I think I must have died and gone to heaven.
Very gently, I flip her over onto her stomach, pausing to admire the way her bum looks in the thong.
Then I start just above the back of her knees, kissing every inch of her smooth pale skin as I make my way upwards.
Every so often she writhes under me as I find a particularly sensitive spot and I make a mental note of the area, cataloguing the parts she likes to be touched and those where the reaction indicates discomfort over pleasure.
Just under her second rib on the left is a place where her reaction becomes a deep, almost guttural groan.
Interesting. I kiss the area again and again and again and she buries her face in the pillow.
When I reach the top of her back, I turn her over and look deep into her eyes for a few moments before I kiss her mouth.
My hand slips round the back of her neck and I draw her in.
Her hand reaches for the fly of my jeans and I feel the sweet release as she undoes them and pushes them down.
She reaches for me, her touch deliciously cool.
As she finds a rhythm, I slip my hand inside her underwear and her eyes fly open, her gaze piercing mine as we pleasure each other. It is the hottest moment of my life so far, watching every micro expression as my fingers explore her clit, pressing and teasing.
But then she pulls her hand away and reaches for me to stop.
“Is everything OK?” I ask.
She bites her bottom lip and then grins as she lifts her hips and slides her underwear off. She pulls me onto her, between her legs, her meaning clear.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” I ask.
She looks puzzled. “Are you asking if you can have sex with me?”
“Yes.”
“Umm… I don’t think anyone has ever asked me that before.”
“Well, I’m asking you now.”
She pauses for a moment as if she’s thinking. “Yes. Yes, I want this.” She’s emphatic. “Yes. I want you.” She giggles and my heart swells.
I reach into the bedside table and pull out a condom. “Double sure?”
“A million times sure,” she replies as she plucks it from my hand, opens it, and then gently rolls it onto me.
The sound she makes as I enter her is unholy in the very best possible way.
Later that night, we cuddle under the duvet. I want to ask her why it took her two weeks to come back to me. But I know I shouldn’t. And I know that deep down it doesn’t matter. She’s here now, nestled in the crook of my arm with her head on my shoulder. That’s all I care about.