Her breath was already sawing.
And she could hear his.
But she could hear her own blood ringing in her ears.
He executed the next few seconds like choreography and she now realized this was just one of Mac’s gifts: like Joe Montana had been able to see the pocket on a teeming field of giant humans, Mac saw the field of play and he had aplan. He used the hand on her butt to expertly pivot her toward him, scooped both hands beneath her, pulled her up hard against his body, and urged her forward as if they were tangoing. And just like that, with a softbam,they were up against the wall. And each other.
It was actually like being sandwiched between two walls: one only freshly painted, the other made of muscle that she wanted to maybe nibble a little. Her hands were already sliding under his shirt as if to test that his abs were indeed that hard, and made of satiny flesh over steel. The heat of his body was intoxicating and the press of his hardening cock against the join of her legs made her grind like a wanton, seeking out a jolt of pleasure.
Her reward was his sucked-in breath and his murmured, “God, yes. More of that.”
Her arms were going around his neck to pull him to her just as his face was lowering and their lips crashed. His mouth was better than molten chocolate and his clever tongue tangled with hers and it was deep, and carnal, and very nearly violent, and somehow she was falling into layer after new layer of pleasure.
His hands burrowed up under her T-shirt and savored a swift glide up her torso, and in a single deft swipe unclicked the center snap on her bra. He muttered a happy, filthy little oath when he filled his hands with her breasts, then dragged his thumbs across her nipples, already so hard they could have used them to trim the blinds.
“Oh, my God. Oh, God. Yes,” she breathed.
“Yeah? Like that?” He did it again and blissful lightning strikes fanned through her body and her head thrashed back and how was it that she was already so close tocoming?
She thought the top of her head might just pop right off from the pleasure of it.
She fumbled with lust-clumsy hands for the buttons on his jeans and thank God the worn buttonholes didn’t put up any kind of fight. No grizzly had ever lunged for a trout in a stream more eagerly than she dove into his Calvin Kleins. It was apt, because she felt purely blindly animalistic about getting her needs met. She closed her hand around his cock and stroked him, hard, once. Twice. Again.
“Oh my God, yes. Like that,” he all but hissed. He arched into her strokes and his eyes were bright slits staring right into hers and then he closed them and his head tipped back helplessly and he was all but writhing thanks to her stroking hands, and he was hot and thick and hard and she was lightheaded and desperate with lust.
Thank God for stretchy yoga pants. He peeled hers pretty easily, almost before she knew it, and the underwear went with them. He slid his fingers into the wet heat between her legs and did a few subtle but fancy things down there that shot current after current of almost intolerably delicious sensation through her.
She moaned and ordered, “More.”
He obliged, until she was begging, until pleasure had ramped to hardly bearable levels, until her every cell felt electrified, charged with pleasure.
There was minimal condom fumbling, thank God, he had that down, too: with a yank of the teeth at the package, a flick of plastic, and a deft rolling on. He looped a hand beneath her knee and pulled her up against him like they were about to tango.
He whispered against her mouth: “This is going to be so. Good.”
Then he thrust his tongue inside her mouth on a gasp. And then he moved.
Sensuously, at first. An attempt at pacing. A thrust, a leisurely withdrawal. Another thrust. Teasing her, teasing him. Their breath mingled in short hot bursts. He moved, and she moaned low, officially captive to pleasure. She would be begging in a moment.
And it was almost too intense. Some tacit agreement, almost a dare, kept their eyes locked, so they could watch the power they had over each other, to savor each other’s ramping helplessness to pleasure. She didn’t care if he saw the whole movie of her life in her eyes, every bit of it, the eleven-year-old Ava writing “Avalon Coltrane” in her diary over and over and over, sobbing until her ribs felt sprained that day he’d all but shattered her absurdly naive heart, that moment some years later when she was a little drunk, home from a lame blind date, and had thought about him and masturbated because she figured she might as well put his memory to some use. Right in that moment she’d surrender all of her secrets as long as the tsunami of an orgasm she felt building finally crashed over her.
“Oh God.Please, Mac... please...I... please...”
“I got you, sweetheart.”
It was the best word in the world the way he said it, it was rescue and surcease and utter confidence. She didn’t think much beyond that, because his hips were drumming hard now. And then she all but detonated from the banked pleasure. She heard her own tattered scream from somewhere on another planet, as her body dissolved into what felt like a whole galaxy of stars. She was all but whipped right out of her body. And somewhere from out in space she heard his hoarse cry of release.
She slid down the wall to the floor, liquified, sated, stunned, her body humming like the last note struck by a gong.
He slid down next to her with a soft bump.
She wasn’t going to say, or think, or do another thing until she’d savored every last sensation thrumming through her limbs and her nether parts and her kiss-stung lips.
She closed her eyes to be alone with it, her lungs still heaving like a bellows.
She heard Mac’s breathing, too. She knew a surge of very primal and feminine satisfaction. She’d worn him out.
When her thoughts reassembled, she spared one for the paint job on the wall. Because otherwise she’d have Pismo all over the back of her and they’d have to do it again.