Intrusion (13 page)

More than that: it verges on
greedy
.

It might even be lustful, if I squint a little.

“Do you want me to talk while you do it?” I ask, but only because he's fucking reaching for me. He's reaching for me and not in the shaking-hands sort of way.

“That would be. . .preferable,” he says, only I don't think he really means that word. I think he means
fuck yes
,
now
,
right now
, and that idea gets a whole lot less dubious when he puts a hand on me. Mainly because he doesn't put it on my hip or my knee.

He puts it underneath my dress—just like in my dream. He puts it high up on my thigh, and then, just as I'm trying to choke that little move down, he moves that hand. He uses it to lift my dress.
And he kisses the place where he just touched
.

To say I don't know how to react would be an understatement. Total-body paralysis seems like a better way to describe it. For a second I think I forget how to breathe, and every muscle tenses to some impossible degree. I can't even put myself into a more attractive, normal sort of position. I just have to lie there in a kind of weird banana shape, which is a problem for more than one reason.

I mean, if I want him to do this, I'm going to have to open my legs.

But really, doing that is a different story altogether.

They feel glued together. I think I can see the muscles in them standing out, and no amount of mental effort on my part will make them relax. I can't even use my hands to forcibly wrench them open, because my hands have made nervous fists somewhere close to my face. God knows how many weeks of waiting for him to be okay with this, and I'm going to be foiled by my own contrary limbs.

And then he kisses me again.

He kisses me all hot and wet and right over the material that covers my swollen pussy, and suddenly my contrary limbs are no longer the problem. My rampaging excitement is the problem. It charges through me the moment this thing becomes real and it makes me do all kinds of things I didn't think possible a second ago.

I spread my legs without even thinking about it.

And I speak without thinking about that, too.

“Maybe. . .maybe I could do something for you, while you do that,” I say, fully expecting him to shoot me down. He doesn't, however.

He kisses me again, right on that good, good spot, then says:

“If something occurs to you, I doubt that I would mind. And especially if you keep talking the way you're talking and moaning the way you keep moaning.”

Funny, I didn't even realize I had moaned.

I certainly didn't get that I've been continuously moaning since he started doing this. He uses his tongue and I just can't seem to stop this long keening sound from coming out of me—though if I'm honest, stopping it isn't top of my priorities.

“Like this?” I ask, and then I just do it louder.

I do it longer. I add a guttural note on the end.

All of which creates the desired effect.

“Jesus. Yes,” he says, in a voice that is definitely not his own. It sounds like someone is strangling him as he speaks, and then just to cap it off, oh God, just to make it that little bit more blissful. . .he shifts in a way I could never in a million years mistake. He turns his body so I can reach him, and by reach him I don't mean a friendly pat on the back.

I mean his cock. I mean his cock is right fucking there, just as solid and curving as it was before, only with one tiny electrifying little difference.

That damp spot has spread. It's darker and bigger—most probably because he feels just as crazy as I do, which is very fucking crazy indeed. I keep thinking of the term
sixty-nine
and almost lose my mind, and of course all of that gets way more intense when he kisses again. When he does it with just the barest hint of tongue, dragging at that already wet material, pulling at my swollen clit beneath. . .

And when I think about what he might possibly want me to do.

Stroke him there, maybe through the material?

Or something more? Something more exposed? Something with bare flesh and my hot, wet mouth sinking down on his stiff cock?

All of those things seem like far too much—until I use words in among the moaning. He goes for me again, and it just blurts out of me. Probably because he definitely uses his tongue this time. He pulls aside the material a little, and the feel of that slippery, mobile slickness against my overheated flesh is just too much.

I have to speak. I have to tell him.

“Ahhh, Noah, that feels so good. Yes, yes, just like that yes just like that,” I say, and by God, I'm glad I do. Mainly because two things happen, once I have.

His hips jerk forward in a really unmistakable way.

And he says things back, oh, Lord, he says things back.

“Right here? Right here, huh?” he asks, only he does it like he's suddenly a whole other person. This guy has all of this gruffness at the back of his throat, and even though it seems like he's inquiring he isn't really at all. He knows already. He can tell how good this feels. But just in case he does what he can to make sure.

He exposes the whole of my spread pussy, and licks long and wet right the way through all those flushed and swollen folds. No hesitation, no holding back—just his hot tongue working its way up and up and up, and holy fuck when he gets to my clit. . .

I almost want him to stop there. Just give me a chance to catch my breath or at least take in all the other stuff first. My body is already jam-packed with tingles and shivers of intense pleasure. I don't really need any more.

It's just that he quite clearly wants to give me more. I gasp his name and he flicks at the underside of my stiff little bud in a way that makes me wish I could be silent. If I was silent, he wouldn't then move on to this slow, teasing circling kind of thing that just about finishes me off. I get that tightening sensation in my thighs and my clit jerks at the contact—all things that usually mean I'm probably going to come.

But that can't possibly be right, can it? Usually, it takes me hours. I have to be in the exact right mood and in the exact right position, with the same pressure applied for about seventeen days. And if the phone rings or the TV gets suddenly loud, forget it.

Yet somehow, here we are. Him barely licking me and me all tense and trembly. All it takes is the sight of him really going for it—spurred on, I think, by filthy things I never thought I could say like
fuck my cunt
and
do it hard
and
use your fingers
—and I'm suddenly shivering. I'm rocking against his face and moaning more filth.

“Ohhhh God, keep doing that keep doing it just like that I'm gonna do it all over your face don't stop don't stop please don't stop,” I tell him, as though some other person has briefly taken over my body, too. This girl is sexually adventurous and easy to please, and she has no problems voicing those concepts.

Probably because of how much he fucking
loves
it.

He just doesn't need it to keep him in the moment. He isn't just interested in some clinical way, in that part of his brain that wants to assess my levels of relative arousal. He loves it. I can tell he does by the way he moves and breathes and most of all:

The way he looks. He pulls back briefly as I come down from the most intense and sudden orgasm of all time, and I get a long, cool drink of his glorious expression. His cheeks are actually pink. His mouth is as wet as fuck and so open I can only think about a hundred lewd things, like stuffing a cock in there. And his eyes. . .

No one has ever made eyes like that at me. He leans his head back against my thigh for a second, as though to catch his breath. But I don't think that's what he's really trying to do. I think he just wants a moment to devour my orgasm-flushed face and my still-shuddering body and that hand I seem to have placed very high up on his leg.

And though he says, “You know I'm going to have to make you talk like that some more, if you really want to do that,” I can see the truth so clearly. Yeah, he might be anxious about doing this. True, the whole thing makes him tense.

But underneath that is some almighty fucking reservoir of love, for everything and anything even remotely sexual. His body practically rolls the moment I even hint about touching him there. He gets close to biting my thigh, and I can see his fist clenching. I can see it, but I don't think it has anything to do with nerves.

I think he just doesn't want to put his hand where it really wants to go—in my hair, or over the nape of my neck. The very idea of encouraging me in some kind of forceful way is making him tense up, but that's okay.

I know how to help.

“Show me,” I tell him. “Show me how you like it.”

“I hardly remember,” he says, but I know that's a lie. The hand he puts on the side of my face tells me so, and so does the one he slides under his sweatpants. He eases them down just a little, just enough, and there it is. His thrillingly stiff and swollen cock, barely an inch from my lips. All I have to do to take it in is lean forward with my lips parted, and I almost do. I get very close.

And the only thing that stops me is his reaction.

“No, no don't—wait,” he blurts out, his body suddenly as tense as mine was before all of this started. That hand leaves the side of my face, and for a second I'm sure that's going to be it. His expression tells me it might be. He's frowning and near afraid, shuddering like a struck dog. I have to say something, I think, if I want to pull him back.

But he gets there before I do. He's the one who puts everything on track again. He lets himself wrestle with it, and then just as I think he's going to give in he puts a hand between my legs. He sinks two fingers into my cunt, all the way up to the knuckle—and when he lets out some breathless words it becomes obvious why.

“God, you're so wet,” he says—though maybe
says
is too small a word. He revels in it. He strokes and fondles and feels it. His head goes back just to know that he made me this way, and it lets him carry on. It stops him stopping me.

I get to lick his gorgeous cock—as thick as my wrist all the way around and so amazingly red at the tip—while he rolls around in the evidence of my arousal. And when that isn't quite enough, I'm there to help. I feel him tense, and all I have to do is moan, or stop sucking just long enough to tell him to do it harder.

“Fuck my pussy, oh yeah, you do that so good,” I say, and he likes it enough to buck into my working mouth. To arch his back and pant things in return.

God, the things he gasps in return. . .

“You're just creaming all over my hand,” he tells me, as though I can realistically take something like that. We've just spent the past two months barely holding hands, but sure, go ahead. Talk dirty to me. Fuck my pussy and say those things.

It only makes me suck him harder, mouth as wet and messy as I can make it. So eager to make him come before his mind catches up with whatever we might be doing that I kind of forget the paroxysms my own body is going through.

Though I remember once his thumb finds my oversensitized clit. Oh yeah, I remember then. I have to turn my head away and keen over it, body suddenly a trembling, shuddering mess, but the fact that I do doesn't seem to matter. He just bucks into my slippery grip. He fucks my hand, spurred on by my very vocal permission.

Because that's what this is about, isn't it? The very best sort of permission I can offer. The truth of my wanting, in my slick cunt clenching around his fingers and my cries of unadulterated pleasure. I make sure to never say no even though I kind of want to—sometimes the sensation is so tart and sweet it reaches unbearable levels.

And yet there's a kind of freedom in that. A freedom in not wanting to push him away or tell him that's too much. It shoves me onward to even greater heights and a more intense sort of pleasure, thick and pulsing and oh so good.

I can almost feel what he meant by
creaming
. I can tell how slick I've gotten, and how plump. I can hear it and smell it and feel it running down between the crack of my ass, and even if I couldn't, he's here to tell me. “Ahhh God, you feel good,” he says, and he doesn't mean the hand I have on his cock. Or even the tongue I work around the thick head, lapping and licking and generally making a greedy meal of the thing.

He means my cunt.

He tells me he means my cunt.

“There's nothing so sweet as your pussy,” he says, and I just have to give him something in return. Something as lovely as all the things he gives me.

“Except maybe your cock,” I tell him. “Your cock in my mouth, and the feel of your hips moving, and the knowledge that you want this, too.”

“It feels good, doesn't it?”

“It feels more than good.”

“I had forgotten. I'd forgotten what it's like. . .” he says, between long firm strokes that send me just as wild as his mouth did.

“To what?”

“To get lost in—oh Jesus,” he gasps, and I almost laugh. It sounds like he's gotten lost in our Lord and Savior. Only the sight of his head going back and the feel of his hips bucking keep me on the right track. The one where I work his cock harder and faster in my slippery grip, because I know he likes it.

“Yeah, that's it,” I tell him, and he likes that even more.

“Oh, fuck, fuck,” he spits out, that thick shaft swelling against my palm in a way I could never mistake. Not even when it's him. Not even when he fights it. “I can't. I can't. I can't,” he says, but I'm going to make sure he does.

“What if I tell you that I love you stroking me and fucking me and licking me?” I ask, partly because I want him to go over, but also because I do, oh, Lord, I do. His thumb is on my clit now, even though my clit is way too sensitive to take anything like that. And those fingers he has inside me—they're curled, as though he wants to beckon me closer.