“Mmm,” she whimpered against him.
They held their lips together perhaps a little longer than propriety dictated and then slowly broke the kiss, pulling their faces a little bit apart—but only a little bit. His arm remained around her, her body against his. Her hand remained on his face, gently caressing him.
“That was nice,” Celia said softly.
“It was,” he agreed. “The nicest one we’ve had, I think.”
“Absolutely,” she said. She sighed a little. “Why didn’t we realize our feelings for each other sooner? Before I met Greg? Before you met Helen? Why does life work that way?”
“Because it’s life,” Jake said.
“Yeah,” she said sourly. Then she smiled again. “Okay, my turn now.”
“Your turn?”
“You kissed me,” she said. “Don’t I get to kiss you?”
He swallowed, knowing this situation was deteriorating quickly, knowing that the two of them were entering very dangerous waters, but unable to help himself. She just felt so damn good in his arms, had tasted so damn good when they’d kissed.
“I suppose that is only fair,” he said. “But then we have to stop, C. We have to.”
She nodded slowly, the smile still on her face. “I guess we’d better make it a good one then, right?”
Before he could answer, her lips were once more against his. This time the contact was a little more substantial, the lips a little wider, the pressure a little firmer. It was a very good kiss, the kind of kiss one could get lost in. Things might have ended right there—possibly—but just as the kiss was starting to break, just as the pressure of their mouths in contact with each other started to ease by some unspoken, mutual agreement, Jake slid the tip of his tongue out just the tiniest bit. It was almost an instinctive move, certainly nothing that he had planned in advance or even thought about on a conscious level, but it happened. The tip of his tongue touched the underside of her upper lip, feeling for just a second the smooth wetness of the flesh there. And then Celia’s tongue reached out as well—again, probably entirely instinctively—and the two organs came together.
It was as if rational thought—already hanging by the thinnest of damaged threads—came crashing to the ground. A moment later, their tongues were intertwining deeply into each other’s mouths as the kiss turned passionate. Their arms were holding each other tightly, pulling their bodies even closer together. They swirled their tongues on a film of saliva, tasting each other, probing in and out between swelling lips as their breathing picked up in pace and intensity.
Soon, Jake was sucking Celia’s lower lip into his mouth between probes of his tongue and she was running her fingers through his hair between tugs to pull him closer to her, applying pressure to keep his face against hers. Jake’s hands slid up and down her back, over the silky material of her top as she turned her body to face his.
How long did they kiss? Neither knew. Was it a minute? An hour? An eternity? But finally, their mouths came apart (Jake giving one last nibble on her lower lip as the contact broke). They did not release their embrace of each other. Her hands were now caressing the backs of his shoulders. His hands were on her waist, dangerously near the hem of her pajama top. They stared into each other’s eyes, each seeing dilated pupils and raw sexual wanting in the other.
“We’d better stop this,” Jake breathed.
“We should,” Celia panted back, “but I really don’t want to.”
“Celia,” he said, giving one last-ditch effort. “This is wrong.”
She nodded. “It is,” she agreed. “But there is no reason why anyone needs to know what happens here tonight, is there?”
“I would know,” Jake told her.
“And so would I,” she said. “But nobody else would as long as we keep our mouths shut about it. That’s a good thing, Jake, not a bad thing. We would not have to spend the rest of our lives wondering how it could have been. We’ll know how it is and that memory will be able to sustain us, will keep us from temptation in the future.”
“You’re rationalizing,” he accused.
She pulled back from him a bit, not entirely breaking his embrace of her, but opening up some separation, so he could see her entire body once again. He saw that her nipples were pushing insistently against her top, creating two mouthwatering points that stuck out. Jake’s manhood, which was already stiffening up quite nicely, took a sudden lurch in his pants. With that lurch, a little more of his better judgment fled into the proverbial basement.
“Yes,” Celia whispered. “I am rationalizing. You should do it as well.”
He swallowed audibly, unable to take his eyes off those two points of hard nipple, off the jiggling of those glorious breasts beneath the silky maroon pajama top. “Celia...” he croaked. “I really think we ... we ... what are you doing?”
She did not answer him, as it was quite obvious what she was doing. She was unbuttoning her pajama top, releasing the fastenings from top to bottom, one by one. The seam of the top fell slightly open as she moved down, bringing the inner edges of her breasts into view, allowing him to almost (but not quite!) see the areolas and the nipples.
“Celia...” he stammered, still thinking it was possible to put a stop to this before it went too far.
But then the final button was released and she pulled the top completely open, baring those magnificent breasts to his complete and unobstructed view. And what glorious, utterly beautiful breasts they were! Rounded, the size of grapefruits, the flesh of them slightly paler than the surrounding flesh, with clear lines of demarcation where her bikini top had routinely rested during her outdoor bikini sessions last summer. They were not perfectly shaped, nor were they without a hint of sag, but this only added to the attractiveness of them, as it validated their beauty as being natural, not the result of a surgeon’s skillful construction. The nipples were indeed hard, the diameter of a dime, standing up proudly a half an inch above perfectly circular coffee-colored areolas the diameter of fifty-cent pieces. Jake had seen, with his own eyes, some amazing breasts in his time—Helen’s, Mindy Snow’s, and that backstabbing bitch Michelle Borrows’ (now Rourke, assuming she was still married to him) came immediately to mind—but none of those held a candle to Celia’s mammaries. They were, quite simply, works of art that should be displayed in the Louvre.
“There is a God,” Jake said in awe as he drank in the sight of them.
Celia chuckled with a naughty lilt to her voice. “Now that’s a good compliment,” she said. “Would you like to touch them?”
“I shouldn’t,” he said, unaware that he was licking his lips.
“No,” Celia agreed, “you shouldn’t. We shouldn’t be doing any of this, really. But you didn’t answer my question. Would you like to touch them?”
He nodded his head and she smiled. She reached forward and took his hands in hers and pulled them to her, placing them palm down on her breasts.
“Oh my God,” Jake cried as he felt the soft femininity of them against his hands, as he ran those hands in small circles to increase the sensation, as he gave gentle squeezes to the flesh he had dreamed about for years and was now touching. “It’s like ... like shaking hands with Mother Mary,” he intoned.
Celia’s hands were now covering his, encouraging his explorations. She giggled at his words. “I certainly seem to bring out the religious analogies in you, don’t I?”
“Yeah,” he whispered, feeling the throbbing of his erection in his pants as his hands continued to stroke and caress.
She removed her hands from his and then shrugged off the pajama top completely, letting it flutter to the floor next to the couch. She then stood up and shifted herself, until she was standing directly in front of him, his hands still on her breasts. She swung her left leg over his right thigh and then stepped forward, so she was straddling his thighs. She then sat down on his lap, facing him, her breasts now directly in front of his face.