Page 86 of Holding On

“I’ll let you do that in a minute. No rushing.”

He tries to rise once more, and again I push him back down. With a thumb at the base of his neck, I straddle him.

I lean over and cover his mouth with mine. I’m careful to keep my legs wide apart so I don’t knock into his side. My tongue probes and turns, and when he moans, I feel smug for stealing breath from him. Lifting my hips and leaning forward on my hands, I dip my head again and drink him in. My clit swells and starts to throb. I’m so wet. I’ve been wet.

Really wet. How can this happen so fast?

He takes one hand from behind his head and reaches for my breasts. His touch is so light, like feathers. Goose pimples rise. My thighs shake.

I make a confession.

“I’ve been wet for an hour fantasizing about you.” It doesn’t help that my voice shakes.

Reaching down, I pull his jeans down and he lifts his hips and they slide off. I hold him again, and his penis beats in my hand. Precum, thick and heavy, lets me rub the tip in circles with the soft, fleshy part of my palm with no friction. It’s like velvet.

Releasing his penis, I sit up, straightening my shoulders. I settle my hips and my wet, warm sex over his, holding his wrists against the soft cotton blanket.

“You want to fuck this time?” I whisper.

“I’d love to fuck you,” he says, suddenly pulling my arms wide so I fall toward him. He lifts his head, his lips smashing into mine, and his tongue is nothing more than an extension of his fever for me—probing, diving. A hand strokes my nipple and then fingers squeeze.

I’m hot and juicy. And so wet. He takes a finger and feels me inside. I moan and shudder and try to twist one direction, but he holds my hips still.

In one smooth movement, he slides an arm around my waist and I’m on my back so fast the stars above his head blur. He whispers something guttural in my ear. He pulls me underneath him quickly so my arms stretch above my head. The sudden, heavy weight of him is such a fucking turn-on.

I tell him this.

I don’t have to say it twice. With one arm supporting him, he grips my ass and pulls me to him, high and fast, and within a second, he’s filling me up, stretching me wide, my sex like a tight glove swallowing him.

He grunts, thrusts, and I spread my legs wider.

I claw his back. I try to lift my hips to help us, but he presses me down.

This time, I fling him to the side. I roll on top of him.

He takes my hips, lifts me, shoves me back down onto his shaft. I grab his knees, lean backward. One hand is behind me, the other on my chest. He bucks, hard. I’m so slippery, and he feels so good inside me.

I’m a little dizzy at this point. I lean forward, gasping. “I have to lie down,” I say.

Suddenly gentle, concerned he’s been too rough, he grabs my hips, lifts me to his tip, and then we shift a second time. When he lays himself on top of me, he keeps going, driving his shaft deep into my core.

Deep.

I’m suddenly spent, unable to do much. He grabs both my wrists and holds them above my head with one hand while his lips suck and fondle my breasts. He lifts himself up and down, over and over, the moonlight on his back making him almost glow. He pulls himself out, nearly to the end of his tip, and thrusts himself back inside me. He’s so big, and he drags himself across my clit. I don’t need any other stimulation.

I’m out of my mind as my body spasms. A strangled scream starts in the back of my throat, and he covers it with a kiss. I gasp when he pulls back, and then, just as he drags himself out of me to that velvety end, he slows down.

“Don’t stop. Jesus, Travis, don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He’s just slowing down to torture me. Exquisite, in total control, he starts to twist his hips in a circle. The tip drags close to my clit.

With every nerve focused on receiving what his body is doing to mine, I have to close my eyes to block everything else out—no stars, no moon. Only touch, sound, and my heart.

I nearly scream again, and when he releases my wrists, I arch up. Wrapping both arms around me, he pulls me close into a sitting position.

My face against his neck, he plunges even deeper. I shudder, with barely the strength to hold on. The strangled scream lets loose, muffled against his skin. He slows for me, and my sex grips him hard in waves I don’t control, each one leaving me quivering more than the last one.

A small cry bubbles from my throat, and he gently lifts my chin for a sweet kiss. His lips are so full and warm.

It’s when I slip my tongue between those lips and grip him hard with my sex, using my knees to yank myself up, then sink down, that he comes. Bucking hard, uncontrolled, stomach clenching—I worry for a moment that his ribs may be hurting.

But then he arches back. One arm props him up, though I’m also holding on to him, both arms around his chest and back.

He shudders several more times in my arms, and I hold him tighter, gripping him however I can. He gasps. There’s another tremor—his muscles moving under my hands—and then stillness. He’s panting, looking around, then he stares and smiles.

His next touch is tender as he tries sitting up, unsupported. It takes some shifting for both of us, but then we sit, with him still inside me, arms wrapped around each other.

Slowly, I start to absorb other input. I grow aware of the sound of waves, of the wet sand sifting. The fire is low and casts an orange patina on the white sand. The cry of a single osprey catches in my ear.

There’s one more shooting star—off to the side, just as he said.

I think of crushed pearls.

I want to cry. I love him so much.