His hands went to the back of his pants and it was Jason that slid the silk and the jeans down his hips. Him that revealed himself to me while I knelt in front of him.
He was smooth, the head wide and rounded, graceful, straight and fine, running slightly to the side, so that he nestled in the hollow of his own hip.
I took him in my hand, and his breath quickened. I lifted him away from his body just enough so that I could spill my mouth over the head of him, rolling my tongue along that graceful curve.
He shuddered under my touch.
I drew more of him into my mouth, sliding my hand down to cup lower things. He was smooth to the touch, everywhere I could touch with hand or mouth, there was nothing but the smooth perfection of him. He was shaved smooth.
I'd been with men who trimmed, and shaved some, but never one that was perfectly smooth. I liked it. It made so many things easier to take into my mouth, to roll and explore.
Every touch, every caress, every lick, seemed to bring some new noise from him—whimpers, soft cries, breathless words. It became a game to see how many sounds I could draw from him.
I drew his pants down farther, so that I could spread his legs, lick between them, along that thin line of skin between testicles and anus.
He cried out, and I moved up his body, one lick, one nibble at a time. I took him into my mouth again, as much as I could from this angle, wrapping my fingers in a ring around the rest of him, my other hand cupping his testicles, playing along that line that ran between his legs. His breath was coming quick and quicker. His body quivered against me.
He grabbed a handful of my hair, drew me back from him. He looked down at me like a drowning man. "Up," he said.
I frowned at him. "What?"
He bent down, grabbed my upper arms, drew me to my feet. He kissed me, and it was like he was trying to crawl inside me through my mouth, lips, tongue, teeth—something between a kiss and eating me.
His hands slid down my back, following the curve of my spine, then lower over the swell of my hips, until his fingers found my thighs. He lifted me, with just his hands on my thighs, our mouths still locked together. The movement of his hands spread my legs, pressed me against him. The feel of him so hard, so ready pressed against my body, drew small sounds from me, and he ate those sounds straight from my mouth, as if he were tasting my screams.
He used his hands to draw my lower body away from his, my arms still locked around his shoulders, one hand sliding through the baby silkiness of his hair. He moved one hand to my butt, supporting all my weight on one hand, while he moved the other hand between us. I had a second to realize what he was going to do. I fought the ardeur, I fought the feel of his mouth on mine, the feel of him in my arms, to rear back enough to try and say, something, I managed to say, "Jason," and he drove his hips forward, upward. But the feel of him inside me was exactly what the ardeur wanted. Exactly what I wanted.
He entered me, and it wasn't hesitant, or gentle. He fought against the wet tightness of my body, both hands on the backs of my thighs, pulling me to him, as he pushed himself inside me. It drew small screams out of my throat, one after the other.
He walked us backward until he collapsed me on the edge of the bed, most of my lower body still held in his hands, trapped against him. He stayed standing, his body pinning me to the edge of the bed, his hands holding me as if I weighed nothing.
He stared down at me with eyes that were no longer human, but wolf. He drew himself out of my body, slowly, an inch at a time until I was almost free, then he shoved himself back, and made me scream again. It wasn't a scream of pain.
He found a rhythm that was fast, and deep, and hard, as if he were trying to shove himself out the other side of me. He beat his body into mine with a thick, meaty sound.
The orgasm caught me unprepared. One moment I was caught in the rhythm of his body in mine, and the next I was screaming, writhing underneath him. I raked nails down his body, anywhere I could touch him, and when that wasn't enough I clawed my own body.
Jason's screams echoed mine, and his body tightened against me, spine bowing, head thrown back, and a howl spilled from his lips. The ardeur drank him down, his skin, his sweat, his seed.
He collapsed on top of me. His breath came in a painful struggle, and his heart pounded like a trapped thing against my skin. He scooted us more solidly onto the bed, his body still deep within mine. When we were both lying on the bed, breathing hard, pulses quieting, he looked down at me, and there was something in his eyes, something serious, and very un-Jason.
His voice was still breathless, hoarse, when he said, "I know that this may be the only time I get to do this. When I move, let me hold you for just a little while."
My own voice wasn't much better than his, "Since I can't move from the waist down yet, sure."
He laughed then, and because he was still inside me and partially erect, the movement caused me to writhe underneath him, tightening, setting nails into his back.
He screamed, and his hips ground himself against me again. When he could breath again, he whispered, "Oh, god, don't do that again."
"Then get off me," I said, voice almost as breathless as his.
He raised up on his arms, almost like doing a push-up, and drew himself out of me. Feeling him pulling out made me writhe again. He collapsed beside me, half-laughing.
When I could talk again, I said, "What's funny?"
"God, you're amazing."
"Not bad yourself," I said.
"Not bad?" he said, and gave me wide eyes.
I had to smile. "Fine, you're amazing, too."
"Don't say it if you don't mean it," he said.
I finally managed to turn onto my side so I could see his face better. "I do mean it. You were amazing."
He turned on his side so we lay there facing each other, but not touching. "If I never get to do this again, I wanted it to be good."
I had to close my eyes, to fight off another urge to writhe on the bed. I let out a long, steadying breath, then opened my eyes again. "Oh, it was that. I had a really good time, but are you always this vigorous? Not every girl likes to be pounded into the mattress."
"I've seen the men you've been sleeping with, Anita, I knew I could be as hard and fast as I wanted to be, and not hurt you."
I frowned at him. "Are you implying that you're small?"
"No, I'm saying that I'm not huge. I'm good sized, but some of the men in your bed are more than good-sized."
I blushed. I hadn't blushed the entire time we'd been making love, and now I blushed. "I don't know what to say, Jason, I feel like I should defend your ego, but…"
"But inch for inch I know where I stand, Anita." He laughed, and slid an arm under my shoulders. I let him bring me into the curve of his shoulder. I slid my hand across his stomach, my other arm underneath the small of his back, my leg sliding over his thigh. We cuddled, almost as close now as we had been earlier.
"You were wonderful," I said.
"I noticed how wonderful you thought I was." He raised his free arm up so I could see the fresh bloody scratches I'd put down his arms.
I widened eyes at him. "Does your other arm look that bad?"
"Yes."
I frowned, and he touched my forehead. "Don't frown, Anita, I'm going to enjoy every mark. I'll miss them when they heal."
"But…"
He touched fingertip to my lips, to keep me from finishing. "No buts, just amazing sex, and I for one want to feel the aches and pains of it as long as I can." He touched my arm where it lay across his stomach, raised it so I could look at it. There were nail marks, some of them seeping blood, some just red and raised. "These aren't my marks."