Chapter 13
Over the years I’ve had a lot of first kisses, but none as perfect as the one I share with Jesse, with his hand in my hair and the tip of my toes on top of his feet. I think he must agree, because once we start, we’re not able to stop.
We make out like teenagers. Not that I ever experienced anything like this when I was a teenager, but the description fits.
We lie on Jesse’s bed, stretched out over the comforter, and for hours not a single stitch of clothing comes off.
We kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and every time Jesse’s hands come anywhere close to slipping underneath my shirt, or into the waist of my pants, he seems to change his mind and slowly retreats, as though he’s not ready to move on to the next stage—as though this first one is too good to be left behind so soon.
It’s okay. Because I’m not bored. In fact, my mind is being blown right out of my skull.
I desperately, helplessly fall in love with the way he groans when his tongue first meets mine, and the bruising grip of his hands on my hips while I lick a soft, salty spot on his throat; that sharp intake of our breaths once he finally gives in and rubs his palm against my breast, my nipples hard and pointy through the thin cloth of my shirt.
And then there’s the trembling in his fingers as he runs them through my hair, how he arches off the bed after I bite his earlobe, but most of all it’s the things he tells me.
And the things he clearly wants to say but doesn’t quite manage to let out.
“You’re so—” as I straddle his waist and lean over him, my hair a thick curtain insulating us from the rest of the world.
“I used to dream of you doing this,” when I let my fingers slide up and down the fine hair underneath his belly button.
And: “Viola. If we don’t slow down a little, this is going to get very embarrassing very soon—shit,” just a few seconds after I start rocking on top of him.
The friction of his cock against me is the closest I’ve ever come to a true out-of-body experience.
My clit pulses. I hear the raspy pleading in his tone, and let out a breathless laugh.
This is nothing. We have done next to nothing, and it’s already the best sex of my entire life, equally frustrating and delicious in a way that has me soaking through the cotton of my underwear and trying to get closer, closer, get Jesse to live under my skin to fill this new hollow inside me.
“Is this okay?” he asks me whenever he pushes things forward, even just an inch.
“Is this okay?” I ask him a few times, pressing kisses on his full mouth and trying to lean back to look into his eyes. He just forcefully pulls me back to him, and my head is warm and buoyant, filled with sharp pleasure and heat.
We keep going until the night dies out and the dawn breaks.
Then Jesse hears the loud rumbling in my stomach, and the touch of his hands abruptly stops.
He is bent over me but lifts his head to look at me.
His lips are so bee-stung that I cannot help but chase them and swipe across them with my tongue.
He smiles. Nips a little bite on the corner of my jaw. “I’ll go downstairs. Bring back some breakfast.” His voice is low and husky, and it’ll stick with me forever. I know I’ll hear it on my deathbed.
“No,” I protest. “Stay.”
“I’ll be just a second.”
I sigh and close my eyes, already resigned. “I’ll come with you, then.”
“Stay, please.” His mouth, pressed against my neck. “I like knowing that you’re waiting for me in my bed.”
He clears his throat and pulls back with some difficulty, sitting on the edge of the bed and facing away from me.
I stare at his back from the pillow, marveling at how well-built he is.
After experiencing firsthand how much I had to spread my legs to sit astride him, I probably shouldn’t be this surprised.
But Jesse remains still for a long moment, and as I study him I realize that his muscles are stiff and rigid with a tension I’m not sure I understand.
I sit up right behind him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I—” His deltoid is rock hard under my hand. “I need a second. Probably better if you don’t touch me for a little while.” He says it calmly, but there is some grit in his voice, and that’s when I look down at his lap and realize exactly what’s going on.
“Oh. Are you…” I’m not sure what to ask. “Can I do anything?”
He shakes his head, clearly amused. “I just need a minute.”
I make to pull back to give him space to get himself under control, but it doesn’t sit right with me. Leaving him alone, like this. When all I want is to…
I hug him from behind and lay my chin on his shoulder. “Maybe a minute is not what you need,” I whisper in his ear. My breasts press against his back, and I can feel all his muscles tighten at once.
“Viola.”
“Maybe…” I kiss him behind the ear, wondering if he can feel my heartbeat. “Maybe, what you really need is to get off.”
He exhales a sharp, breathy laugh, like the prospect of coming—of me making him come—just punched the air out of his lungs. This could be the most erotic moment of my entire life. A good contender for the top three, for sure.
And that’s before I ask against his temple, “Would you like that, Jesse?” and he makes that sound—that shapeless, involuntary grunt that makes me clench around nothing.
He is shivering. Or maybe he wasn’t, but he definitely starts when my palm traces the tent in his pants, which juts out at an impressive angle.
It’s already wet with precome, and I can’t help but run my teeth up and down the column of his throat as I slide my hand inside the opening of his pajama bottoms.
He is, of course, not wearing anything underneath. How interesting. How convenient. How perfect.
“May I?” I ask with a kiss on his cheek, and Jesse doesn’t answer or nod, but arches against my hand just enough that the Please, please continue doesn’t need to be spoken out loud.
His eyes track my fist around his cock. His fingers almost rip the sheet from the mattress, and I feel like a sex goddess.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, and I wonder how to interpret that. Then realize that I could just ask.
“Does it feel good, Jesse?” I begin to pump, up and down in slow, steady pulls. His cock feels as glorious as it did when pressed against me. I wonder if I should switch to using two hands. I wonder if Jesse is aware of how much I like his body. “Is this how you like it?”
He groans, “Viola.” His head falls back, and I let my lips graze the cut of his jaw.
“You can tell me.” My hand continues to move, down to his tight balls and then up the shaft again, and it feels as if pleasure is spilling out of all of him—his cock, his vocal cords, his spine. “When you’re alone, when you do it to yourself, is this what you do?”
“Fuck, I’m going to—” His hips jerk upward, straining to meet my palm.
“You can tell me,” I repeat, twisting my wrist. He grunts and goes rigid, arching even more into me. “How you prefer it. And I’ll do it. I just want to make you…”
When he comes, he’s completely silent. In fact, he stops breathing for a moment, right before pushing through and going off all over my hand and his stomach, and I…
I try to recall if I’ve ever enjoyed doing this as much as I am now.
I love watching him gasp for air, his hand that suddenly reaches for my leg, as if to anchor himself, his mouth shaping my name, awed and soundless.
I could have my own orgasm just by staring at his. Absorb all the pleasure leaking from him into myself.
“Good?” I ask with a soft smile after a while, when the beat of his heart seems to have steadied under my lips.
Jesse’s throat bobs in a small, jerky movement. I make to wipe my palm over my pants, but he surprises me by grabbing my wrist and knitting our fingers together, then bending his head as if to stare at a masterpiece he’s woven. It’s the sweetest, filthiest of handholds.
My other arm comes up to wrap around his shoulders, and we stay like that for a long time, watching the snow that has once more begun to fall outside.
“Yeah,” he says eventually. “Good.”