Chapter 40 #2
Hazel’s bed was close to the door, because God was merciful. A few steps brought Maxwell to its edge, and he started to lay Hazel down, but she shook her head. “Sit.”
“If you’d like,” he said, and perched on the side of the bed. That let Hazel settle nicely into his lap, one knee on each side of his legs, her hands on his shoulders for balance. Smiling, she leaned back just enough to look into his eyes.
“Comfortable?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Maxwell replied. He shifted his hips to emphasize the point, his stiff prick sliding against her silky curls, and then had to bite his lip to keep control. “But I have no complaints.”
Hazel gave him a bright, hot smile, her lips slightly swollen from either their kisses or her attention to him earlier. She rocked forward minutely to tease them both—and then stopped, dark brows drawing together.
Maxwell froze. “Too much?”
“No…” she said in a tone of evaluation that he found torturously arousing in itself. “But it could be before too long, or if I go too fast. Damn muscles.”
“We can stop,” he offered, sincere and desperately trying to keep reluctance out of his voice. Frustration was better—far better—than hurting her, but his body didn’t share his morals. He ached, and she was so close, so hot and wet against him, just a few short motions away—
No.
He stayed still, waiting. Hazel shook her head almost immediately, though it felt like a year or so had gone by, and brushed her lips across his.
“Give me a second,” she said, and swung herself off him.
While her absence let Maxwell get a better grip on himself, figuratively speaking, he couldn’t restrain a low groan as she moved away.
There were compensatory joys, though, like watching the motion of her breasts as she walked and seeing her bend to open her nightstand drawer.
“You’re not insecure about…assistance, are you?” she asked.
“No.” The response was automatic—he almost didn’t remember what insecure meant in the heat of the moment—and curiosity took a second to follow. “Whose?”
She chuckled, turning around with a slim chrome wand in one hand. “Ben Franklin’s, I guess. Or Edison’s.”
The device looked very different from the large corded contraptions he’d seen in grainy films as a young man, or in advertisements mysteriously promising to “furnish every woman with the essence of perpetual youth,” but Maxwell could guess its purpose.
“Neither gentleman was to my tastes in life,” he said, stretching out a hand toward Hazel, “but they’re very welcome in spirit. ”
Laughing, Hazel let him draw her back to his lap. She moved slowly as she straddled him again, settling herself with great care, as Maxwell almost held his breath in an attempt to stay calm. Soap from the shower blended with the intoxicating scent of her arousal.
“What can I do to help?” He wasn’t used to looking up at her, but their position settled his gaze generally at her neck, making Maxwell tip his head back to see Hazel’s face. It was just as lovely from that angle. “I take direction decently well, I believe.”
“I’ll test you on that. For now, just—hold still, I guess.
” Another slight shift of her weight and she rose, grasping Maxwell’s cock and guiding the tip into her slick heat.
She slowed down again to take him, though Maxwell thought that might have been less from injury and more from the desire to tease them both.
Certainly, it did the job. He felt each centimeter of Hazel’s descent, battled the urge to thrust up into her, and contented himself with grasping her hips once he was buried to the hilt. “Bloody hell.”
“Thank you,” she said, breathless. A rippling sensation betrayed her internal response as well. The lady liked hearing him desperate, it seemed. “I’m—”
“Close,” said Maxwell, circling his thumbs lightly so that she tensed and caught her breath again. “I know, darling. I can feel.”
Hazel made an incoherent noise, letting her head fall back and her eyes flutter closed. She brought the wand around to rest just above where they were joined, then paused, holding on to Maxwell’s shoulder with her free hand as she tried to balance her weight on his legs.
He leaned forward to nip her shoulder. “Easy. I’ll keep us from falling over.”
That reassurance was all she needed, it seemed. Hazel relaxed against him, the strain going out of her thighs and back, just before she switched on her little toy. It buzzed almost quietly, unobtrusively, but its vibration traveled up Maxwell’s body in a surge of feeling he hadn’t expected.
His groan blended with the low noise Hazel made in the back of her throat. Her hand clenched his shoulder, just as her muscles tightened around his cock, and she thrust her hips forward in greedy little motions, seeking contact with both him and the device.
“Oh God.” Her voice was ragged.
“Yes,” he said, not meaning to claim divinity but feeling the need to celebrate her pleasure, to encourage the peak that he could sense building fast. “Lovely girl. Let go for me, let me feel you—”
She didn’t need much persuasion, either verbal or physical.
Maxwell hadn’t even finished speaking before she was going over, short nails digging into his shoulder, thighs rigid against his hips.
The sound she made was as glorious as he could possibly have imagined—and as lost as he knew himself to be.
* * *
Later, she’d hurt. Hazel knew it even as her brain shorted out in an orgasm that left her dazed, feeling nothing but waves of ecstasy that subsided into a floating contentment.
In an hour or so, her thighs would be screaming bloody murder, God only knew what her back would contribute, and none of it mattered.
Right there and then, she knew herself, Maxwell, and pleasure.
She switched off the vibrator and let it fall to the floor—cleanup would wait until later too—so that she could hold on to Maxwell with both hands.
“So,” she said, enjoying the chance to stare down into his eyes nearly as much as the granite heat of his cock inside her.
“That’s one of the highlights of modern life.
I suspect your preference is for more…classical… activity right now?”
“Timeless, one might say.” He panted the words, hips stuttering against hers. Hazel suspected it wasn’t quite voluntary, that he was trying to hold back even then. “But not at your expense.”
“No. I want it too,” she said, which she meant. She’d hurt later, but she’d hurt later regardless. That was why God made Tylenol. The future was a long way away, anyhow.
The present was catching Maxwell’s rhythm and settling into it, the tingling friction of their bodies sliding against each other, the fullness intensifying the remnants of her climax.
It was his low, helpless moans as Hazel bit his neck and the way his hands clenched when he thrust upward and flooded her with warmth.
Just then, only the present was worth any of her attention at all.