Dirty. Megan Hart
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looked down at him, uncertain if I’d be able to form a coherent sentence. “Hush.”
He grinned up at me, his hand moving, moving, making me shake. “You do.”
Compliments embarrass me. I shook my head a little. My hair spread out around me on the bedspread.
He looked at me again with that same odd expression of query and acceptance; a man being handed a gift he’s not sure what he’s done to deserve but taking it without hesitation.
“Elle,” he said. “I’m going to watch your face this time, and I’m going to be inside you. Do you want that?”
I nodded. My fingers tangled in his hair. “Yes.”
He left me for a moment to reach inside his nightstand drawer, and I was grateful I didn’t need to insist, or get up to get my purse, too far away in the living room. I reached for the condom, but he shook his head.
“I need to do it.”
He must have seen a question in my eyes, because he smiled. “I don’t want to finish before we’ve started.”
His honesty made me want to be honest with him. To give him something real. But I had given him enough already with inconsequential revelations he didn’t realize he was so privileged to have.
I got up on one elbow to watch him, glad for the chance to see him. Like the rest of him, his cock was near perfect. Pretty, even, of average length and girth and color but somehow lovely. He slipped the condom on, stroking the latex down to the base. Thus shielded, he leaned in to look into my eyes.
He positioned himself on top of me, using his arms to keep from crushing me. His cock nudged me, and I parted for him and tilted my hips to allow him entrance. He rubbed the tip along my folds, pushing in a little before reaching between us to guide himself all the way inside.
I moaned when he did, and he did, too. He stopped when his cock hit my cervix. I had a hand on his biceps and felt him trembling. He put his forehead against mine, his eyes closed for a moment before he opened them. Then, without taking his gaze from mine, he began to move.
He’d said he wanted to fuck me, but that one word can mean so many different things. Dan moved inside me with slow deliberation, every stroke smooth. I put my arms around his neck to bring his mouth back to my neck. He obliged me by kissing me there. I tilted my head to offer him more, and he took it. He pressed his teeth to the spot he’d bitten but didn’t bite this time. His tongue smoothed the spot.
He slid his hands beneath my rear to tilt me against him and change the angle. His pelvis bumped my clit with every thrust. The intermittent pressure pushed me higher. Made me wetter. Delicious friction, no need for lubrication, our bodies worked exactly the way they were meant to.
Skin on skin. Cock in cunt, a perfect fit. He moved. I moved. He gave, I took. I hooked my legs around his thighs, urging him against me.
He murmured my name. I answered with his. Connecting. We were connecting, and even in the oblivion of pleasure I could not forget who I was with. I didn’t want to. It mattered to me what mouth kissed me, whose hands stroked me, whose penis filled me.
It mattered, suddenly, that it was this man, and the mattering made my body stutter. I froze. My heart, already pounding, skipped a beat.
A woman’s orgasm is such a fragile thing, dependant as much upon her mind as on her clitoris, and though my climax had been swelling inside me, ready to spill over, I lost it. My body shifted, my thoughts atangle with self-discovery. I had let him in.
He couldn’t know, of course, that because I had told him my true name and the way I drink my tea, sex would suddenly become so complicated. I had let him fuck me in a bathroom stall, after all. He couldn’t know that sex was something I did and intimacy something I did not. Dan could not have known those things, but he looked into my eyes at that moment anyway as if he did.
“It’s all right,” he told me, as confident in that as when he’d ordered lunch for me. “Elle. It’s all right.”
He rolled me so carefully we didn’t part and then was beneath me. He adjusted my legs and put my hands on his chest. My fingers curved around his ribs. He put one hand on my hip. The other slid between us, his thumb pressing my clit.
“Move,” he whispered. “Move the way you want to.”
And though I’d stuttered, though the moment I’d almost lost had less to do with sex and more to do with fear, I did as he said. I moved. I rocked against him, finding a pace that satisfied me and brought me back to where we’d been.
He helped me, shifting when I shifted and easing his thrusts when I changed the angle. He moved his hips at my guidance, and even when his breath became ragged he kept his thrusts smooth.
I let my head fall back to feel my hair tumble down and stroke the top of my ass. I wanted to lose myself again, to give up to the same sweet nothingness, but though my body filled with pleasure, I couldn’t find it.
“Come for me,” he whispered. His thumb stroked me as he helped me rock against him. “I want to watch you.”
I shuddered. I opened my eyes. My body knew better than my brain. He looked at me, and I at him, and I gave him what he wanted.
Everything drew tighter, knotting, until I unraveled. I cried out. My fingers dug into his skin. His thumb ceased moving and stayed still, the pressure enough to keep me surging. He thrust harder, faster, both hands moving to pin my hips. He grunted when he came, so close behind me it was almost simultaneous.
We lay together in silence, after, not touching. Sweat cooled on my body, but it felt good. I felt good.
At least for a little while, before I began to calculate how long I’d have to wait before I could get up to leave. I listened to his breathing deepen. Maybe he’d fall asleep, and I could sneak out.
He let out one small, entirely adorable snore. I got up and padded to the bathroom connected to his bedroom, where I used the toilet and the sink. His washcloths were thick, plush and blue, to match the paint and shower curtain. I used his mouthwash, sniffed his cologne, admired the surprising cleanliness of his floor and counter. He had a rubber duck in his bathtub, and I marveled over it for a minute. The hint of whimsy.
Still naked, I came out of the bathroom to find his eyes open.
“You’re the first woman I’ve ever been with who practically counted the seconds until she could leave.”
“Really?” I asked from the doorway. “I’ve been with plenty of men who’ve done it.”
I went to the living room to pick up my discarded clothes and put them on. I’d slipped on my panties and was hooking my bra when he came after me.
“Why don’t you date?” He asked from the doorway. He’d slipped on boxers printed with a pattern of marching jellybeans, and I was vividly reminded of meeting him at Sweet Heaven.
“Dating complicates things.” I slid my arms into my sleeves and did up the buttons. I put on my skirt, zipped and buttoned it, tucked in my shirt. I smoothed the wrinkles.
“How do you figure that?”
“Dating,” I said, “implies a level of emotional connection for both parties to either create or work toward creating.”
Dan crossed his arms over his chest. “And?”
I sighed. “I don’t have time for that.”
He made a low noise of disbelief. “You mean you don’t want to have time for it.”
“Semantics.”
He watched me look around for my purse but made no move to help me find it. “You said you did go on dates, sometimes.”
I shot him a smile. “Sometimes. Not for a long time. And a date is not dating. Dating implies more than once.”
“Ah.” He looked