Her fingertips traced circles on my chest, still half asleep, and I knew: this breakfast would never happen. The eggs in the fridge, the bread in the oven—they would all have to wait. Because her touch, barely conscious but full of familiarity, awakened my body before my mind even grasped it.
Now, minutes later, I lie on my back, she leans over me. Her hair falls like a golden curtain, her green eyes with golden flecks are very close. “I’m hungry,” she whispers, but her smile reveals her appetite isn’t for food. Her mouth is an inch from mine; I smell mint, mixed with lavender and a warm, unmistakable scent I can’t name.
The Scent of Awakening
I place my hand on her nape. Her skin is still warm from sleep, velvety under my fingers. She bends lower, kisses me exploratively, as if she wants to read the taste of morning from my lips. I open my mouth, her tongue finds mine—first hesitant, then more confident. She tastes of peppermint and of her, sweet and slightly salty. Her hand wanders from my chest over my belly, drawing lines, following the contours of my muscles. I tense under her touch.
“Breakfast can wait,” I say, as she pulls back briefly for air. She laughs softly, a chuckle that echoes in my chest. “I figured.” Her fingers continue their journey, lower, and I hold my breath.
The Play of Hands
I turn us over, now lying above her. Her body is soft and yielding, her warmth seeps through the thin cotton shirt she’s wearing—mine, far too big for her. The collar has slipped, revealing her shoulder. I bend down and kiss the spot where neck and shoulder meet. She closes her eyes, sighs, her breath quickens.
“You drive me crazy,” I murmur against her skin. I nibble gently on her collarbone, and she arches toward me. My hand slides under the shirt, finds her breast. Her nipple is hard, a small berry under my thumb. I stroke it, first lightly, then harder. She presses her lips together to stifle a sound.
“Don’t be quiet,” I say. “I want to hear you.” She opens her eyes, looks at me—a mix of surrender and challenge. She lifts her hips, rubs against me, an unmistakable demand.
My hand slides lower, over her belly, until it reaches the hem of the shirt. I push it up slowly, baring her thighs. Her skin glimmers in the morning light, soft and inviting. I bend down and kiss the inside of her thigh, feel her tremble under my lips. “Please,” she whispers, and her body quivers softly.
“Please what?” I ask, a smile in my voice. She doesn’t answer, but her hands grab my head, pull me closer. I follow the trail of her warmth, kiss her through the thin fabric of her panties. She moans softly, lifts her hips, seeking more pressure. I tease her, run my tongue over the fabric, until she writhes.
The Discovery of Skin
I unbutton her shirt, one button after another, and kiss every inch of exposed skin. Between her breasts, over her racing heart, down the gentle curve of her belly. When the last button comes undone, she lies naked before me, in the golden light of the morning sun that falls through the blinds and paints stripes on her skin. She is beautiful, almost unreal.
“You’re staring,” she says, amused.
“I can’t help it. You’re like a painting.”
She rolls her eyes, but a smile plays on her lips. Then she grabs my arm, pulls me down to her. “Enough talking,” she breathes, and her kiss is deeper, more demanding. Her hands roam over my back, claw into my shoulders as I lean over her. I feel her heat, the wetness between her thighs, as my leg slides between hers.
“Please,” she whispers, and the word explodes in my head.
I sit up, kneel between her legs. Her gaze is fixed on me, full of impatience and desire. I pull off my underwear, slowly, savoring the glint in her eyes. Then I bend over her again and guide myself into her—slowly, millimeter by millimeter. Her inner walls envelop me with a warmth that makes me shudder. She lets out a soft cry as I’m fully inside her, and her legs wrap around my hips.
The Union
I begin to move—gentle, deep thrusts that make both of us moan. Her hands flutter over my back, dig into my skin as she pushes against me. Each thrust brings us closer to the edge, but I want it to last. I want to freeze the moment: her scent, her sounds, the feel of her legs around me.
“Faster,” she pants. I shake my head. “Not yet.” I lean forward and kiss her while I slow the pace, rubbing her with a slow, circular motion that first confuses her, then sends her into ecstasy. Her fingers bury in my hair, she whispers my name, over and over, like a mantra.
I shift positions, roll onto my back so she sits on top of me. She smiles, takes the lead, moves with a confidence that leaves me breathless. Her hips circle, she leans forward, her breasts brush my chest. I grab them, massage them as she rides. Her pace quickens, her sounds grow louder. The room fills with the sound of wet skin and heavy breaths.
The Climax
When I feel she’s close, I speed up the rhythm, thrust up into her. Her pelvis meets mine, her sounds become uncontrolled, loud in the silence of the room. I feel her tighten around me, tighter and tighter, and then it breaks over her. Her body tenses—an arch of muscle and sinew—and a cry escapes her throat that shoots through me. I let myself go, follow her into the darkness, the world dissolves into pure sensation.
She sinks down onto me, trembling, her heart beats against mine. We lie like that, entwined, until the aftershocks fade. She lifts her head, looks at me, her eyes moist. “That was…,” she begins, but words fail. I kiss her forehead. “Yes.”
The Afterglow
We lie side by side, sweaty and out of breath. Her hand rests on my chest, heavy and warm, each finger a small fire. She turns her head to me, smiles slyly and contentedly.
“And now?” I ask.
“Now
Voices from the community
No voices yet — be the first to say what turned you on.
