Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Eli
The rest of the evening seems to have gone OK.
She took a shower while I was finishing off dinner, and I nearly sliced my fingers off twice thinking about that.
About the droplets of water running down her body, following trails my fingertips ache to trace.
I nearly let the jambalaya catch by thinking about how joining her in the shower and catching each drop with my tongue would be a fantastic way to spend the evening…
Christ, I’m on fire for her pretty much all day every day now. It’s a taste that won’t leave my mouth, a favorite song stuck in my head. I’ve never known this with any other woman before.
Anyway, she loved the jambalaya, and had an extra helping when she was done. That was flattering, I have to admit. There was a primal kind of pride in feeding my woman so well. Chest beating caveman bullshit, but fun. I’m over the top for Emily, that’s for damn sure.
And I am so scared.
I didn’t say so when I was talking her round from her panic attack, but my own heart was racing the entire time.
I know we can count the days we’ve been a couple on the fingers of one hand, but she’s got me.
I am wrapped around Em’s little finger, and I want to stay there.
I don’t want her to leave me. Not now, not ever.
I’ve been comforting myself with the knowledge that she truly has calmed down, and that our dinner conversation flowed really well.
No awkward silences, and most importantly, no more signs of nervousness or panic from her.
It was just a momentary blip. And she did promise to talk to me if it happened again, and that she wouldn’t just leave. I believe her.
I think back to what Dean said, about how she’s going to need a lot of reassurance and patience going forward.
Something settles in my chest. If that’s what she needs, I’ll be more than happy to give that to her.
And I’ll just keep hoping that, eventually, these moments will become fewer and further between, until they’re a distant memory because she feels so safe and happy and secure that there’s no room in her poor torn heart for anything else.
I can’t imagine what it must be like to be afraid of relaxing and being happy. Fearing that it's all going to come crashing down and turn into more hatred, more abuse. She fights battles I will never truly know. But I’ll hold her hand while she does, always.
We’re both lying stretched out on the sofa - well, actually, she’s stretched out on top of me, all of her body touching all of mine, which feels awesome - and we’re watching a couple of episodes of Star Trek: Discovery, literal Netflix and chill time with my lady.
She’s never seen it, and it’s been as much fun watching her enjoy it as it has been watching the actual show (which, I gotta say, I’m enjoying, too).
She’s got all the excitement of a long time fan given brand new material, and it’s delightful.
She’s peppered me with little explanations about context, and why a certain aspect of the show has made her Trekkie heart happy.
There are few things I’m as enthused about, and I love that about her, that a sci-fi TV show can get her so fired up.
Her head rests just above my heart as she faces the TV.
The rest of her body is tucked so neatly against mine it’s as though it’s always belonged there, in this exact position.
I can smell her hair, sweet, like flowers and ripe fruit.
I find myself running my fingertips through it, spreading my fingers outwards, and back, outwards, and back to the center, enjoying the silky feel of it.
My fingers move down her neck, and she makes a little purring rumble in her throat. My already hard cock jumps in my jeans. Against her. Shit. There’s no way she didn’t feel that.
I don’t want to stop.
I will if she’s not ready, but if she is…
If she is, I’ll make damn sure she doesn't regret it.
I carry on the trail down her spine, slow and gentle.
She makes a soft noise and squirms, moving her body against mine in very interesting ways.
I sigh quietly. This is the life I want.
It’s what I’ve always wanted: a quiet evening at home with the right woman, feeding her good food, telling her I love her with my touch…
...and feeling her affectionate embrace in return.
Jesus. She’s started to trace patterns on my chest with a single fingertip. If I concentrate, I think she’s spelling something… E - N...no, M… E, M, I… Her name.
And then a heart.
And then my name.
That does it. I gently lift her head and capture her lips with my own, cupping her jaw with my hands.
I move back to look at her, check that she’s alright with this, but she pulls on the collar of my shirt and brings my mouth insistently back to hers.
I grin, my heart roaring with joy, and don’t keep my woman waiting.
I kiss her again, harder, deeper than last time, feeling the first shocks of the pleasure still to come as her tongue peeps out to meet mine.
Very well, chere. It’s on.
She lets out a little squeak of surprise, her lips still pressed to mine, as I gently roll her under me. Our arms are around each other, and it’s like a cocoon of us. There’s a sense of coming home at last. This is where we belong. I’ve never been more grateful for anything in my life.
Our kiss snowballs, picking up speed, becoming more and more passionate.
There’s a rush of hands, moans, sighs, dizziness as it becomes something we can’t fully control anymore.
My hands slide over her body of their own volition, sliding under her shirt.
Warm skin, soft as silk. A denim waistband. It’s in the way.
I could make her come.
The idea flits across my feverish mind, and I latch onto it, the weight of weeks of wanting this woman barreling down on me.
I want to focus on her, show her what I can do, what I’ve craved since she walked into the parlor with a bag of cookies and a shy smile on her first day.
And I won’t ask for anything in return, I insist to myself, tamping down the raging need to fuck and claim and come that’s coursing through my body and making me grit my teeth.
She needs to know...she needs to be given something without any expectations…
I tug on the button of her jeans in question. “OK?” I ask, my voice husky and deep and breathless from so much kissing.
Her eyes are fever bright. “Yes.” She does not hesitate.
I undo them and she shifts, holding her hips up so I can pull them and her panties both down in one fell swoop.
I hear her gasp, and her thighs widen a little, showing me the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.
I know I'm biased, but it just is, pink and soft and apparently freshly shaved. My lips twitch. She prepared? It’s glistening for me, a clear sign like nothing else that I’m not alone in my arousal. Thank god.
“Please,” she whispers.
I groan. Hearing her plead flips the sparkwheel on my inner lighter, unlit for so long, and I don’t keep her waiting. The need is too great for that.
I part her inner lips with my thumb, and she’s like hot liquid silk. Collecting some of her honey on my thumb, I press it against her clit, gently but firmly massaging it in a circle, figuring out how she likes it.
“Uhhhhh…” It’s the softest little grunt, and I want to hear it again.
And again. Her breath comes faster as my thumb quickens.
With my other hand, I dampen my forefinger in my mouth and slowly, slowly insert it into her, meeting no resistance because she’s so wet, Jesus she’s so wet.
She groans, and her thighs tremble. One fraction at a time. Just like if I was using my cock…
I grit my teeth even harder as my cock throbs in my pants at the thought. Shut the fuck up, I tell it. This is for her.
I gently feel inside her for her g-spot, grinning to myself when I find it, that small, cushiony, slightly rough place that can really kick things up a gear if touched just right.
I keep stroking her clit with my thumb as I crook my finger inside her, firm but not hard, until I find a rhythm she likes.
I know because her hips jump, and she lets out the most gorgeous moan that boils my blood and makes me want to stay here forever, doing exactly this for the rest of my life.
It’s amazing, and telling, how often my thoughts run along the lines of forever when it comes to Em.
My fingers get wetter and wetter, and her breath comes faster, and eventually I can’t resist the temptation any longer.
Parting her legs just a little more to make room for me, I dip my head closer, and run my tongue from her entrance to her clit, one long taste, and my god, she tastes good.
Sweet and light and smooth. Addictive. I let out a feral groan because I just can’t help it.
This is as arousing as fuck, and I want more.
I lick her again, and again, replacing my finger so I don’t neglect her g-spot; at this rate I will never be able to hold out before I shoot my load.
I’ve hardly even begun to stroke that sensitive place again when her cries take on a desperate quality, and she starts shaking in earnest. Her pussy squeezes my finger rhythmically, and her cries sound so pretty, worthy of a sex scene in any movie you’d care to name.
She’s good, I’ll give her that. I could almost have believed it.
I have two choices here.
I can play along, spare her the embarrassment, let her think she’s fooled me…
...or I can trust what we’re building here, and let her know she never has to do that again. Not with me.
So I lean back up to her and give her a light brush of a kiss on her lips. She smiles up at me, still feigning satisfaction, but I can see in her eyes the walls are up again.
Gotta get ’em down. Especially after earlier.
“Chere,” I say gently, “you know I can tell the difference between a real orgasm and kegel exercises, right?”
Emily
Oh.
Oh, god.