Down the length of my body, my eyes meet his. A lazy, half-curled smile on his lips as he contemplates his next move. A hand slithers beneath me, and tugs me down further towards him, swivelling me until our bodies cross, and gently lifting me by the neck to him.
Way to make me anticipate a kiss, cheri.
He plants feathery kisses all over my body, in a way which reminds me of schoolboy crushes, from before I moved beyond the realms of virginity, from before I knew what else was out there… from when this was the ultimate in what turned my knees to jelly. Surprisingly, with him at least, it still does.
I return the favour by nibbling on his shoulder, and am rewarded with an affectionate growl of arousal. He kisses my mouth again, buries his head in the space between my chin and my breasts, and sighs loud and long.
It’s the most vocal communication we have for a while, save my own sighs, and his cries and grunts, and is the prelude to some of the most incredible and passionate physical intimacy I’ve ever experienced. We’re entwined in various permutations for literally hours, and I peak over and over and over again*, each time wondering whether I have it in me to achieve yet another orgasm. (I do.)
When he — finally — allows himself to climax, I am sat astride him; my skin glows in the dimmed light, my breath shallow and gasping, his no less so. He mutters something inaudible in French, but I catch the words “J’aime” and “ta chatte” and have a good idea of what it was that he said. Gently, I extricate myself and softly tumble down next to him, as he gathers me close. He strokes my skin, and I his.
We exhale… and smile.
* I lost count at eleven. Swear to dog.