The Sun and the Moon (Giving You ... #1) (19 page)

Guess he was done with me being in charge.

He tore off my panties, and fell over my body, propping himself up on his elbows, eyes on mine.

"Your turn.”

He kissed my lips hard, so hard, then went down my body with his mouth, taking one nipple in his mouth and tweaking it hard, so hard that I gasped, but the bite felt so good.  And then he took the other one in his mouth, and tweaked it so that the hard suck felt oh so good and then he bit his way down my side, little nibbles that tickled, until he reached my hips. While leaning on one side of me, he took his other hand and ran it up my inner thigh to the, uh, promised land, where he found me soaking wet.

Yeah.

This whole foreplay thing seemed to work.

He figured this out, too, saying, "Fuck me, you're so wet." I wasn't going to fault him for being obvious while we were in this position, and he started to stroke me with his big hands. He had his thumb pressing on my clit, his middle finger fucking me, reaching up, curving inside of me, so that I almost exploded from the pleasure. His fourth finger reached behind and up towards super naughty land.

This was what I needed.

He finger fucked me, not stopping, not taking a break, until I came. Hard.

The waves crashed outside, too.

He kept going, kept moving through my orgasm, extending it, letting me shudder and shake and convulse, until I quieted down.

But this was temporary.

"Got any more in you?" he asked, and I had no idea how to respond.

"Let's see," he said, and he kept at it, massaging my clit, massaging my g-spot, massaging that no-man's land (or no-woman's land) between my pussy and my no-go area and, confident bastard, I came again.

The waves crashed outside, too.

No, I was not complaining about two orgasms, in a row, in the morning, from my brand-new boyfriend.

My brain flooded with pleasure, but in this light room, with the sunlight streaming in, I went dark, a good kind of dark, focusing only on the sensation of release from so much build-up.

Ryan maneuvered over me to the bedside table and opened a drawer, pulling out a condom. He ripped it open, threw the wrapper on the floor, sheathed himself, and paused at the entrance of my pussy.

"I love the noise that you make when you slide into me," I whispered. "It's utter contentment. Pleasure. Heart stopping satisfaction. Like there is no place you'd rather be."

"That's because there isn't," he whispered back, and slid his cock into me.

No matter that we had done this before, it still felt exciting and special. He just filled me up, there is no other way of explaining it. It was such a rush of pleasure to have him fully seated in me, my slick pussy cradling his hard cock, his hard muscles pressed against my soft breasts.  He looked down at me, shook his head with a smile, and buried his face in my neck.  And then he started to move.  He thrust into me, building me up, pleasure after pleasure, but then he stopped, and rolled over.

"You, on top," he ordered.

Now, this wasn't on any list of mine, as far as to do or not to do, but it still made me pause for some reason.  Still neurotic, people.  I was trying, okay?  What to do?

"What's wrong?"

"I don't want to be an idiot, but I'm not totally sure what to do up here."

He smiled. "Okay, I'll guide you. First, pull your body up my cock, fuck yeah, like that, okay, now down, fuck."

I moved my body up and down on his, my knees to the side, my boobs jiggling.

"I feel like I'm all jiggly up here."

"That's the point.  You're so fucking sexy riding me, titties bouncing, just let go. Let go," he commanded.

Okay. If he wanted to see titties bouncing, I think I could give that to him.  I started to really move, to follow his order to let myself go, breasts bouncing, riding his cock, his arms snaking out and holding my soft, full breasts. It was starting to feel safe for me to be uninhibited with him. Sex was starting to feel safe.  I looked down at him, and he was totally enjoying the ride.

This was fun. It was exciting to turn him on. It fucking turned me on. It was sexy. I started experimenting with different angles, different speeds, changing directions often, and staying in a particular place whenever I heard his breath speed up.

Then, suddenly, he flipped us over again, him on top, me on the bottom. He pulled back, grabbed my hips, pressing me to turn onto my stomach, and said in my ear, "Now is the time for true doggy style, babe, think you can handle it?"

"Yeah," I breathed, not able to do, say, or think anything else.

"Brace your hands against the headboard." He pulled my hips back, as I went on my knees and stretched out to the bed frame, and, frankly, for the first time in my life, I got into it. I gave him my ass, arching my back, and he thrust into me from behind.

Oh my fucking word.

This was awesome.

He thrust into me, first leaning back, and then he moved and bent over my back, his hand finding my clit, and informed me, "You're going to come again."

The thrusting, the stimulation, the angle, his orders. He kept at me, a pounding rhythm, until my vaginal muscles clenched and I let go, screaming like I had never screamed before. He massaged my clit through the orgasm, thrusting, prolonging it, then, when I was done, he thrust once, twice, three times, then bit my shoulder and collapsed into me, pressing both of us into the bed, breathing hard.

The Beach House

"FEEL IT, OH, YEAH,
baby, right there. Wait for it. It's coming. Now. Go."

I gripped the front of the boogie board with all my strength, white-knuckling it, as Ryan pushed me into the wave. The ocean propelled me forward, like I was caught on a conveyor belt, and the current pushed me to the shore.  I caught my first wave.

That was so much fun!

This morning, after we, um, got to know each other a little bit better, Ryan made me breakfast, and I learned why he was so good at cooking. Since he was awarded custody of his little sister, Jennifer, when she was eight, and he was an adult, for the past ten years he fed her, took her to school, got her home, and made her do her homework, along with all of the other parental tasks. All of this when he was barely an adult.  He was used to it. No wonder he was so at-home in the kitchen. And no wonder he seemed more mature than me most of the time. That’s a lot of responsibility for a teenager.  He had been through so much, and processed it, through surfing or whatever magic Ryan mojo he had going on, and now he was guiding me through it.  Sun God therapy.  His sister was away at college right now, but he said she was going to come home for Thanksgiving.

He cooked me fluffy scrambled eggs with gooey cheddar cheese, crisp bacon, buttered toast, and fresh fruit salad.  We ate it leisurely, outside on his downstairs patio, watching the waves.

"Ryan, how did you get to be so, I don't know, accepting about your parents' deaths?"

"Truth?"

"Always."

"I wasn’t.  I acted out, at first.  Like I told you.”  He shook his head “I was fucking everyone and doing a lot of unhealthy shit.  I had to have therapy, too.  There's no shame in it.  A lot of people do it.  Cleaned up my act fast, for my sister."

After breakfast, I gathered the dishes and brought them inside and felt completely out of place in his kitchen. It had appliances in it that I couldn’t identify. His coffee maker could probably serve as central command for a NASA expedition to another planet. He refused to let me do the dishes and argued with me when I tried to help. In addition to being bossy, apparently he had no problem with being domestic at all times.

Once it was done, he came over to me.  "I want to show you something," he said.  He walked me to a library, and pulled out a yearbook.  Our yearbook, the one we were both in.  Sitting side by side on the floor, we paged through it, pointing, laughing, looking at the pictures and reading the inscriptions.

When we got to the page with my photo on it, it was circled.  Next to it, he had written, "Her."

"I told you," he said.  "It was always you.  You were the one."  And he leaned over and bopped me on the nose with the tip of his finger.

Later, he asked me if I wanted to learn how to surf. Since I didn’t have a wetsuit, he let me borrow one of his sister's, which was a surprisingly good fit.  Then we went out his back door to the beach.

The sand chilled our toes, but since it was October, the water was a little bit warmer than the usual year-round frigid Pacific Ocean temperatures, having been heated all summer long by currents from Mexico. Ryan informed me that since I was a "kook," meaning non-surfer, derogatory term, he was teasing me, he was going to teach me how to surf by first using boogie boards. He patiently helped me learn during the rest of the morning, and by the time we were done, I was regularly catching waves.

As we walked back to his home, hand in hand, boogie boards under our arms, we walked past the patio of his next door neighbor.  He sat outside drinking a soda, and watching the goings-on. An older Hispanic man, wiry, tan, and leathery, with tattoos and a grey ponytail, he introduced himself to me as Rigo Montes. This, apparently, was Yoda.

The seaside community at Faria Beach was a mishmash of architecture. There were large modern homes, like Ryan's, and teeny-tiny weather-beaten shacks, all in the same stretch of beach. Yoda lived in one of these small beach cottages. Even though it was immediately adjacent to Ryan's mansion, the houses seemed like they belonged together and were friends. Yoda's home was just the thing for an old beach bum. I figured that he had lived there his entire life. I also liked that Ryan had someone looking out for him, since he had suffered such a huge loss.

Yoda smiled a huge smile at me, flashing a gold tooth, and immediately informed me, "I've known this guy here all his life. We've been neighbors all our lives. And I've never heard him talk about a woman the way he talks about you. It's nice to finally meet you, Amelia."

So, Ryan talked about me to his neighbor-guru. That made me feel warm in a way that tingled my fingers and toes. Sun God warmth.  He steered me away before Yoda could say anything more.  I got the idea that Yoda told it like it was, and wasn't afraid of potentially embarrassing anyone.  We walked back into Ryan's home.

"Wanna get cleaned up?"

"I don't have any clean clothes here," I answered.

"You don't need clothes today."

I just looked at him.

He smiled, all faux-innocent, then relented. "I'll let you borrow something of mine. Okay? C'mon, let's go take a shower."  Oh boy. The two-person shower. I was looking forward to that.

The thing about a shower with Ryan, was that it involved a wet, naked Ryan, and well, some things are best kept to yourself.

Just kidding. I'll give a few hints.

I gave him shit about having a double-headed shower in California, with all of our emergency drought restrictions and long-standing history of water law issues, due to our desert and quasi-desert environment. I included a detailed discussion of the controversy surrounding engineer William Mulholland's role in the 1928 St. Francis dam disaster, the legal wars over the Owens Valley water project, and the ecological damage of the Colorado River Storage Project.

See, I read more than just Harry Potter.

I asked him if he was listening, and he said, "Not in the slightest, keep talking though," because as I gave him this information, I sucked on his neck and stroked his cock until he came, moaning loudly, all over the window, which had steamed up.

I ran my finger through his cum and made a very pretty pattern.

In turn, after his body relaxed, and his eyes focused, he turned his attention to me, and gave me a detailed explanation as to exactly why his home was ultra-eco-friendly, including a dissertation on the finer points of some fancy system for his shower that I didn't pay any attention to.  He told me this while lapping at my nipples, and fingering my pussy, so if there was going to be a test on it later, I didn’t think I’d pass.  I didn't care.

Wet, naked Ryan.

Sigh.

Afterward, in Ryan's colossal walk-in-closet, he handed me a wife-beater tank and a pair of boxers to wear.

No, it wasn't obvious that he wanted to see my breasts or anything. Perv.

I humored him and put them on without a bra. I only had my strapless one from the dinner anyway. Late October in California was plenty warm enough, and if I got cold, I'd borrow a sweatshirt.  He put on a pair of boxers himself, and then put on cut off sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt that was very tight, and potentially dangerous for my blood pressure.  While I dressed, I fingered the flap in the boxer shorts and commented, "I don't have, you know, boy parts to put here."

He laughed and came over behind me, stroking down my bare arms. "Do we need an intervention on what you call my dick?"

"Probably."

"Say it."

"Dick. You're a dick."

He chuckled. "No. What do you call male genitalia?"

"Um, cock?"

"What else?"

"Member. Shaft. Willy. Pecker. Peter. Johnson. Schlong."