Lauren Blakely - Every Second With You

“I can tell,” he says playfully, and brings his other hand to my thigh, stroking the outside of my leg. I arch my hips, wanting more.

“Spread your legs,” he tells me, his green eyes dark and intense as he looks at me, only at me, and I let my knees fall open. He’s still holding one hand tight, while he maps my skin, moving slowly, at a tantalizing pace, from my thigh to inside, then there, right there, where I am slick and wet for him. He rubs one finger against me, and I moan loudly. “I love how turned on you get,” he tells me.

“I love how you touch me.”

“God, I fucking love touching you, Harley. I love everything about you and your body, and how hot you are. I love how you want me,” he says, his finger gliding across me, making me hotter and hungrier for him. I raise my hips for him, inviting him to thrust a finger inside me. But he shakes his head, and captures my lips with his, consuming me in a devastating kiss, plundering my mouth with his tongue, rubbing his finger between my legs, depleting my brain of everything and anything but this moment in time, our bodies reconnecting, as he shows me he’s mine and I’m his, and we’re ours.

He pulls apart, and his eyes are glassy. He’s just as drunk on me as I am on him. “Wow,” he says. “How is it that kissing you only gets better?”

I shrug. “Because you like me?”

“Wrong answer. I fucking love you like crazy,” he says. “And I want to be inside you so badly.”

He removes his hand from between my legs and slides his erection against me, and I scoot up on the bed because I love the missionary position and I don’t care if that makes me boring. I love when he’s on top, and I can feel the weight of him on me, his hard body against mine, filling me, his arms pinning me.

“No.” He shakes his head, grips my hipbone between his thumb and fingertip that’s still slick with me. “I told you I had something just for you. Something I’ve never done before.”

I raise an eyebrow as he shifts me to my side, so I’m lying on the bed facing him. He says, “We’ll do it like this, okay?”

Heat flares through me like a comet, its tail burning bright and hot through all my organs. “Yes, it’s more than okay.”

He hitches up my thigh, rests it on his hip, then moves closer to me, rubs his hard cock against my center. I shift so my knee is draped further over his leg, and I’m even more open for him. Then he slides into me, slowly at first, inch by inch until he’s all the way in. He groans loudly, and I draw a deep breath, savoring the intensity of him filling me.

He grips my hip tightly, and starts to move inside me. It’s a strange position, side by side, face to face. There’s not a lot of room to spread out, or move around. But that’s the point, I’m learning. You need to stay close to stay connected. It’s terribly intimate, and he’s so deep inside, but he’s taking his time, each stroke, each move he treats like it’s a luxury, like he wants to feel the very atoms of every single second, and make them last.

Time ceases to exist, and all there is is us. Coming together. His body in mine, his heart on his sleeve. His emotions written on his face. Every time with him is better than the last, but this is so much more. It’s more than sex, it’s more than love, it’s a way back to each other, as we promise that sex between the two of us is only between the two of us.

The moonlight slants across my room, casting his face in shadow, and the faint sounds of music form the backdrop, as More Than This plays.

More than this….there is nothing.

And it’s perfect, so perfect, because this feels like everything in the world right now.

“I like this position, Trey,” I tell him.

“I fucking love it,” he says, his voice all ragged and husky, as he thrusts inside me. “I love it so much.”

Soon, we start moving our hips together, and he’s rocking into me, and I’m arching into him, and all the while he’s looking at me, then kissing me, my neck, my hair, my face, my lips.

“Have I told you how much I love being inside you without a condom?”

“No. How much?”

“You feel so fucking amazing, Harley. You are so wet, and tight, and I love all that heat of yours around my dick. God, it’s so good. It’s so good with you,” he says, breathing hard, and soon his moans intensify, and he can’t keep his eyes open anymore. “I want you to come so badly,” he says, but I’m not there yet, I’m not close enough; I’m still just in the moment, thrilling from the sensations.

He slows down, forcing himself to stall, squeezing his eyes shut, as if he can hold back for me.

“It’s okay. You can come,” I tell him.

“Fuck. No. I want you to.” He opens his eyes, breathes in deeply, and smiles a big, broad and clearly false smile. “See? I’m totally fine. I sucked it back in.”

And I crack up, a gut-busting laugh, all while he’s buried deep inside me. “Where does it go when you suck it back in?”

“You don’t want to know,” he says. “And now my mission is singular. I’m making you come, Harley, whether you like it or not. We are not having totally fucking hot and amazing makeup sex and me coming solo. We’re a team. Let’s get you over the finish line.”

I trace his lips with my finger, loving everything about him and us right now. Every. Single. Thing.

“Tell me what you want me to do to get you there,” he says.

“Touch me while you fuck me,” I tell him, wriggling even closer, though that will make the order tougher to execute. But he doesn’t care, and nor do I, because he’s up to the task, slipping his hand between our bodies, sliding his thumb across my clit, rubbing me as he thrusts inside me.

“Like that?” he asks.

I nod and gasp, and the sensations start to roll through me, little sparks of flame jumping from nerve ending to nerve ending, setting them off like sparklers burning brightly in the night. Each one flares, igniting the next, and the next, until everything is blazing brilliantly.

In seconds, I’m moaning and writhing, and he’s moving his thumb faster, all while pumping deeper into me. I rock into him, and close my eyes, and the build starts to overtake me, to burst through my entire body.

“Yes,” I say loudly, and for one of the first times I think I might actually be shouting, I might be that woman you can hear through the walls, the one who makes the neighbors want to know what he could be doing to her. Because he’s doing it to me. He’s making love to me, and he’s fucking me, and he’s driving me to the brink, taking me on this gorgeous ride with him, our bodies locked, our lives connected, everything about this time feeling like the first, and the best, and the most amazing, as we come back to each other.

Waves of pleasure drench my body, every inch of me, my skin tingling, my blood ignited, my breath and bones all bathed in this absolute bliss.

“Oh fuck, that’s fucking perfect, Harley. I’m going to come so fucking hard now,” he says, driving into me, his thrusts hitting me so deeply that I swear it feels like I can come again. And then I do, and it’s not as intense as the first one, but it doesn’t matter because I’m awash now in complete and utter ecstasy, and the man I love is mine, all mine, and I have him in a way that no one else has, and no one else will.

“Oh my fucking god,” he says as he slows, and buries his face in the crook of my neck. He starts kissing me, planting sweet, sloppy, sexy kisses across my collarbone. “That was amazing.”

He looks woozy, and it’s a look he wears well.

“Hi,” he says, after he pulls out.

“Hi.”

“Can I just say it?”

“Say what?”

“That was the best ever.”

I smile. “It was. But don’t get any big ideas and start fighting just so we can do it like that.”

He brushes his nose against mine like we’re Eskimos. “Hmmm . . . I think that’s the perfect send-off into sleep. Though I can’t promise I won’t want to do that again in the middle of the night,” he murmurs.

“I can’t say I’d object.” I switch sides, and scoot in close, tucking myself into him so we’re spoons, and we fall asleep like that, and we don’t wake up in the middle of the night, because sometimes your body has had all its needs met, and sleep is the perfect cherry on the ice cream.

Harley

When morning comes, he’s wide awake and showered, parked on the end of my bed, drawing.

I yawn. “What are you working on?”

“Cherry blossom tree. It’s gonna be hard as hell, but totally badass. By the way, do you like sandwiches?”

“I love sandwiches, and you know that.”

“Then get your fine ass in the shower, because I’m taking you to Ben’s Arcade and Sandwich Emporium.”

My eyes light up. “I’ve heard it’s amazing and that the Brutus is delish.”

“Made with Caesar dressing. Now go, because I have an appointment to see a tattoo artist down the block who’s going to give me some tips on this design so let’s get lunch first.”

An hour later, I’m dressed, blow-dried, and walking into the combo sandwich shop and retro arcade. The sound of PacMen or PacWomen gobbling ghosts bounces past my ears, then fake guns shooting down spaceships, a kaleidoscope of noise, of theme songs and sound effects, and quarters sloshing into machines landing on top of more silver coins. It’s Saturday afternoon and the place is packed. There’s a counter for popcorn, fries, burgers and Cokes with two gangly college-aged students running it, slapping up basket after basket of fries on the counter for gamers. The crowd is a hipster one. It’s as if everyone got the memo to wear faded black pencil jeans, high-tops and band tees.