He turns back, mouth against my core, and licks and sucks. My chest rises and falls and my mouth is open. I curl my legs around his shoulders, breath quickening even more. I’m so close.
Ben knows it, too, that fucker. He slows down, pulling back and only giving me soft, gentle kisses, making me arch my back so that my center stays in contact with his sweet, wonderful mouth and that oh-so talented tongue.
After a minute of torture, he goes back in full force, sliding a finger inside me. I moan out load, pleasure erupting. My abs tighten and I don’t breath as the orgasm rolls through me, ending with a shudder that leaves me quivering and pulsing against his mouth.
I’m panting, vision blacked out. He keeps his mouth on me, drawing it out, waiting until I stop floating in bliss to let me go. He wipes his mouth and moves back up. It takes all I have in me to reach down and grab his cock and guide him inside me. My fingertips feel all tingly from that strong orgasm.
Fuck, yes.
I wrap my fingers around his thick shaft, pulling his wetness down and using it as I pump my hand. He moans and kisses my neck. I keep working my hand until I can bend my legs again. Then I flip him over, yanks his pants off, and start returning the favor.
Ben tangles his fingers in my hair, breathing heavily as I flick my tongue over the tip of his dick. He reaches for me, fingers stroking my clit, bringing me close to coming. Again.
When he’s close, he pulls me onto him, cock rubbing against me, then begrudgingly sits up to get a condom from the wallet in the pocket of his pants. I clench my jaw, impatiently watching him put it on. I wipe my face and quickly run my hands through my hair, hoping I still look as hot as I feel.
Ben drops the condom wrapper on the bed and is on top of me in an instant. I open my legs and bend my knees, urging him to me. He cradles my head in his hands, lowers his lips to mine, and kisses me as he slides inside.
His dick is large; I know that since I was just all up in its business, but I underestimated how big now that it’s inside me, thrusting, pulsing, pushing in and out. Ben’s holding himself up above me, muscles tight and bulging. I feel his biceps, imagining the tattoos beneath my fingers. I slit my eyes open just enough to get a look at his handsome face.
Arching my back allows his thick, wonderful, magic fuck-stick to hit my g-spot. I let out another moan as I come, holding him tighter. He moves his head down, nuzzling my breasts. I pick my head up and flick my tongue along his ear. Ben softly groans, and his movements quicken.
I nip at his earlobe with my teeth and he pushes into me as deep as he can, moaning as he finishes. He lowers himself, cock still pulsating inside me, and rests his head against mine. A few beats pass before he slowly slides out and rolls onto his side. His arms slip around my waist and he kisses the side of my neck.
I let out a satisfied breath and relax against Ben. I want to enjoy this moment, relish in the fact that I’m all tingly and warm and can still Ben’s big dick between my legs. I’m sure I’ll feel it in the morning too.
But of course, with me being me, I start thinking that something has to be said before this gets awkward. We’ll have to face the music sometime soon, and I have to pee so it’s not like I can pretend to be fall asleep.
Ben trails his fingers up my stomach and gently fondles my sensitive breasts. I shiver and tip my head toward him. He leans over and kisses me.
Could this be any more perfect? I’m convinced he’s the perfect lover.
“That was really nice,” I blurt. “I enjoyed it.” I’m not rating a video game. I squeeze my eyes closed. Fuck, what is wrong with me?
“I’m glad you did,” he says. “I did too.”
I just nod and try to relax. I’m tensing at my own lack of social skills. Is after-sex talk even considered a social skill? I clamp my jaw shut, resisting the urge to ask him “now what?”
He runs his finger over the curve in my hip and presses his lips to my neck. He’s not acting like he wants to jump up and run home. That’s good, right? Another few minutes pass before he gets up and goes into the bathroom, grabbing just his boxers.
I’m overanalyzing everything and it hits me that I really want things to work with Ben. I want a second date. Then a third. And a fourth. I want to see where this can go. I like him, and I think soon I can really like him, given a few more dates and another (okay, more than one please) fucking awesome cooter clash like he’d just given me.
It also hits me that I’m not really sure what to do now. I’m far from being a virgin, but I haven’t had that many relationships. I lost my virginity the beginning of senior year in high school, dated that loser for a while then hit a dry spell until college, where I met, dated, and bedded an even bigger loser—but that’s another story. I swore off men for a while after that, not getting back into the game until after I turned twenty-one. Things were casual, and I had one good fuck buddy until he decided to grow a vagina and develop feelings for me.
Then I dated Mr. Foot Fucker. Yeah … no need to bring that up. But we had actually dated for a while before we hooked up, which, thinking back on it, was probably done on purpose. He made me have feelings for him, made me care before he asked to suck my toes while he beat himself off.
Because I would have grabbed the polka-dot stilettos he always wanted me to wear and booked it the fuck out of there if I didn’t care deeply for him.
And that brings me back to Ben.
Ben.
The cool, confident, sophisticated, sexy artist. I’m not romanticizing him, not at all. I didn’t know him very well yet, we’d only been on—hold the phone.
One date.
We’d gone on only one date. Not two. One. And we slept together. Did that make me a slut? Do I care if it does? (No, I don’t.) But what I do care about is what Ben thinks of me. I’m not easy. I don’t give it up to anyone who wines and dines me. There’s something about him, something that makes me unable to hold back any and all passion, something that makes me so comfortable to be around him even when I’m nervous.
And none of that makes sense.
What is he doing to me?
The toilet flushes and I hear water running. Ben’s coming out any second now. I run my hands through my hair, pushing it out of my face, and throw back the comforter, pulling down the sheets. I slip underneath, moving it up to cover my breasts. Not because I don’t want Ben to see, but because that’s what they do in movies.
It’s sexy, right?
Or maybe it’s just a sexy way to censor nipples?
(Fuck censorship, by the way.)
The bathroom door opens, and I know I have to be realistic. Ben can very well tell me he has to go, has work in the morning, blah, blah, blah, and I can’t blame him. I can’t get mad at him.
His eyes meet mine and his lips pull up in a small smile. He picks up the rest of his clothes and my heart sinks a bit. Yep, he’s leaving.
“Well,” I start. Should I thank him? No, that doesn’t feel like the right thing to say. Hope to do this again another time? Yeah, that might work. It’s the honest truth, anyway. He lazily folds his clothes together and tosses them on the chair next to my dresser. Then he’s climbing back into bed.
I’m in that bed.
I blink, heart skipping a beat as it rises back into place. He doesn’t get under the covers, but he lays down and drapes his arm around me, resting his head against my stomach, which in turn presses on my bladder and reminds me I have to pee. Stupid bodily functions ruining the moment. I run my fingers through his hair.
“My turn,” I say softly and try to be as graceful as possible when I get out of bed and walk into the bathroom. I’m still naked, completely naked, and I know he’s watching.
I pee, wash my hands, and debate on taking my makeup off now or later. I decide on later mostly because I’m lazy. I’ll actually end up falling asleep with it on, like usual. There is a short nightgown hanging on the back of the bathroom door. It barely covers my ass, and is outlined in lace.