35. James #3
The memories of our cold garage, ridden with our past in tightly sealed plastic bins, flood my mind.
We still have so much shit to work through, and I’m willing to work through all of it.
Until we’ve reattached every broken brick and slab of cement.
But I also don’t want to take one step forward, only to take two steps back.
Whatever pace she wants to set is what I’m going for, even if it rivals the urgency of a sloth.
“I’m sorry.” She apologizes again, but she has to know, somewhere in her guilt-ridden thoughts, that these kinds of apologies are never needed.
She should never apologize for how she feels.
For the things that make her uncomfortable.
Regardless, she looks embarrassed. A new shade of shame she’s grown familiar with and completely unnecessary.
“I told you, you don’t need to be sorry for anything,” I assure. “I just want to make sure you’re…okay. I don’t ever want to push you to do anything you don’t want to. But you have to promise me you’ll tell me.”
She nods.
“So, if you want to stop, we can,” I say with serious eyes and a level breath. Because I mean it with my entire soul. We can stop. Sit here and talk this out as a way to feel closer to each other. I don’t care what she wants to do, as long as we get to be together.
But I don’t see a slow, tentative nod like I expect to see. Instead, she smiles with a dazed look in her eyes.
“No, I don’t want to stop,” she whispers softly. “Please. Don’t stop.”
Relief floods me, making the ache in my bones fizzle into hope.
Maybe we can figure this out, somehow come out the other side one whole piece instead of the broken ones we’ve swept along until now.
Maybe if we cling to this hope, brushing away all the regrets and fears, there may be something left of us to fix.
I kiss her again, this time with this torrent of want I can’t seem to hold back. She starts with the buttons on my shirt, working with trembling fingers. Her eyes flare when she gets to the last one, running her nails over my chest. She leans closer into me, and I feel her shiver.
“Are you cold?” I ask, reaching for her jacket to wrap it over her shoulders.
“No,” she protests. “I’m fine.” She takes my hand, placing it over her chest, and tells me, “Touch me.”
I do, slowly. With a patience that can out-wait a snail.
I start to relearn her. What makes her tremble and shake.
What gives her the need to collect herself, to relish the moment instead of feeling overwhelmed.
I reach her stomach, and she watches me as I tickle my fingers over her ribcage.
My thumb runs over her covered nipple, and she moans.
“Keep doing that,” she instructs as I roll her nipple between my thumb and index finger.
“I want you to play with them.” I slip my cool fingers under her bra, wanting more.
I’m relieved to find no restricting wire but a loose elastic.
It hits me like a gentle reminder. I’ve known her for so long, I’ve learned the makings of her underwear.
This, unlike the fancy push-ups she wears when support is a necessity, is thin and barely has any function.
And it’s my new favorite kind of undergarment.
This is a new side of her, the assertive side confident enough to tell me what makes her feel good. I move to her pussy, wanting to feel her there. How wet she is, how needy she is.
“Does that feel good?” I ask when her head lolls back, pushing past her clothes and sliding a finger through her wet slit.
She nods. “Yes.”
I want her to feel good, better than this. I want to watch her tip over the edge, me falling right behind her. I drop to my knees, dragging her leggings past her knees, and I dip my chin down with a long, deliberate lick.
“Fuck,” she hisses.
This feels different. She wants more than just my cock to get her excited, and I’m more than willing to discover all the ways to get her there.
It hasn’t been like this for us in so long.
Maybe all this time changed something between us, an added layer of heat that crawls just below the surface, ready to ignite with a single touch.
I swipe another lick, running my tongue up and down.
“Use your fingers too,” she demands. She works to remove her shoes and leggings, and she’s there, with her shirt hitched up to expose her stomach.
I want to cover her up, feeling the occasional gust of wind through the drafty shed.
But I also want to lay her out, trail every dip and curve while devouring her like my own carefully curated spread. I settle for tasting more of her.
She lifts her shirt even higher, pushing her breasts together and pinching her nipples. I do as I’m told, working her with both my tongue and my fingers, until she’s a writhing, squirming mess.
“I want you to fuck me,” she gasps. Her sure, confident words buzz inside my head as she tugs my chin to her, forcing me back on my feet.
“We don’t have to—”
“No,” she protests, her grave words thin on control. “I want to.”
I blink, and she’s holding me in her hand, drawing long, seductive strokes. Her leggings are tossed on the table, my pants dropped to my calves, and I can’t believe this is happening.
She grips me in her closed fist, dragging the tip of my cock along her clit. Her head tips back with a moan, and I will my muscles to hold me still instead of falling into a heap like I want to. She does the torturous thing of letting the sensation linger, drawing out each glide, each stroke.
“That feels so good.” She’s doing things she didn’t do before, throwing into the mix the tried and true approaches to our routine. New things to help get her off alongside the old things that keep her on edge, just like they always have.
I’m focusing on the slick feel of her when she scoots her hips forward and impales herself on me. It catches me completely off guard.
“Fuck,” I gasp. I instinctively rock deeper, and her legs wrap around me.
“Can you touch me please?” she pleads, her hands back on her tits, squeezing and kneading. When I do, it’s like a bomb. I can feel her, her body tensing around me like she’s about to detonate. I keep moving, thrusting in and out, in a rhythm I’m hoping can get her there.
“Fuck, you feel so fucking good.” I dip my head.
“Shit,” she hisses. “You’re going to make me come.”
“Yeah?” I move more, in and out of her at an even, steady pace. I know I can come like this, but I need her to get there first.
I start to recite the alphabet backward, the first hundred decimals of pi, something I memorized on a dare in grad school. But all of that gets thrown out the window when Kendall’s demands grow needy and grave.
“Keep touching me,” she orders. I circle her clit with more pressure, and she inhales a sharp gasp. “Yeah. Like that.”
I expose her breasts, sucking her bare nipple between my lips, and that’s all it takes. I feel it, her orgasm gripping me in a vise. And she takes me with her. With my face buried in the crook of her neck, I let my own orgasm take over.
She looks surprised like she didn’t expect it, and she lets out a happy, sated sigh as the last of my orgasm comes to a dwindling end. Our breathing evens out. She kisses my temple, cradling my head between her hands.
“I love you,” I whisper into her still moist skin.
“I love you, too.”