We migrate without discussion, him walking me backward while kissing blind, hips steering around the couch corner and through the hallway’s narrow gauntlet adorned with skateboard decks framed as art.
My shoulder blades skim drywall in passing and leave faint sweat prints we’ll discover tomorrow like cave art.
Somehow, we make it to his bedroom. It smells darker now,resinous cedar from his cologne faded into the sheets. City lights twinkle beyond the glass balcony door.
Clarity snaps back when the mattress edge hits the back of my knees, the memory foam folding my calves upward. We tumble horizontally across the king-size expanse, atop the rumpled comforter.
He cages me from above, elbows locked. But his weight never fully settles on me, because his right hand immediately starts its journey south.
He traces my center line—sternum, solar plexus—and I tremor when he reaches my navel. He circles it once, before his thumb hooks inside the elastic waistband of my panties.
The band snaps audibly as he yanks it away from my hipbone, leading my panties and my shorts and tights south past my thighs, my ankles.
I kick them free somewhere near the footboard.
Shadows undulate as the ceiling fan spins lazily above us, slicing the moonlight into rhythmic fragments strobing across his torso.
His fingertips pause, his eyes locked on mine as he asks a silent question.
I answer by arching my hips upward, meaningyes, definitely more, yes now please.
The cold air from the fan sweeps across my already slick folds. Anticipation has been doing its work since the first barstool leg-press happened earlier in the evening.
He strokes me, teasing, and little zaps radiate from my clit throughout my body.
When he finally reaches the entrance to my pussy, he sinks one long digit inside me, breaching my opening, followed immediately by a second. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groans.
He curves his fingers then, a come-hither rasp across my front wall.
I moan, his calibration accurate.
His knuckles press my outer lips flush, pulling me apart. Hishand presses low, grounding me. He’s distributing pressure everywhere, everything connecting all at once.
I clench rhythmically around his fingers as I rock my hips.
His third finger enters me, stretching me. It burns, delicious, borderline too much yet also not enough.
My core clenches greedily around the width, wishing it was his cock but also happy to have any part of him inside me.
His eyes are locked on mine the entire time, his eyelids refusing to blink. The grey rings of his irises are silver, like they’re an eclipse with iris storms converging inside. “Look at you, so hungry for my fingers inside you.”
I nod. “Mmmhmm,” as my hips buck against his touch, angling myself so my clit grinds against the side of his hand.
I can’t look away, his eye contact somehow making the magic he’s working with his fingers even more intense. Inside, my tension winds like a metal coil, a spring tightening with each rub and stroke.
I struggle for breath as my hips buck against his hand, angling myself so it hits in just the right place.
“Stay with me,” he instructs.
My coil twists tighter and tighter, then something snaps inside me and my back arches off the bed. I slam down on his hand, and cry out, “Fuck,” as my orgasm takes over. It shreds me from the inside out, my hips bucking and bearing down on his fingers which he continues to ram into me with force.
I let out a shapeless, wordless syllable, as if my vocal cords have been scraped raw by his effort, stars bursting behind my squeezing lids. My thighs firmly clamp around his arm, trapping his wrist as my core pulses, electricity rippling outward.
My limbs tingle, extremities buzzing. My shoulder blades kiss the mattress again only when the orgasm begins to subside.
“You liked that, didn’t you?” he smiles, continuing to fuck me with his fingers. “I can feel your pussy clenching around me. Good girl.”
My stomach drops, then tightens.