Artie complies, lips soft and sure. This time, his tongue dips against my lower lip, and I let mine wander towards his, sinking into his mouth, and moaning at the sensation.
Connection. Intimacy. Me inside of him, him inside of me, breathing in each other as I cling to him.
I don’t want to lose this.
Scenes from the book club book for next week wander into my brain as my stomach tightens. I just started reading it this afternoon when Artie helped me download it onto my phone.
It’s a steamy, romantic suspense book. Lots of mythological elements, secret clubs, intrigue, and danger.
I focused on the parts when the hero carried the leading lady to bed, reading it like a primer for what to do and expect, confused at how easy it all seemed to them to topple into bed. No vows. No fears. No worries or shyness.
Maybe those come later.
All I know is that my stomach is tight, my breasts feel achy and tingly, and my lady parts are making me all wet. I worry I sound naive, and that I don’t know how to be intimate with anyone. I’m not even sure I’m kissing right, but Artie isn’t complaining.
“I don’t know how to do more,” I blurt out between kisses.
Artie’s glasses are off, up in his hair, which is adorably askew. “Do more?”
“Don’t we do more?”
“We said slow. When you’re ready, we can do more. Weeks from now. Months. Years, I’ll wait,” he reassures, stroking my hair back. “I know a good thing when I see it, Immy.”
“I want more now. In case I wake up, and this vanishes. Can’t it be slow while we do new things together?” I plead, squirming and uncertain.
“I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to. You know, growing up without dating... I mean, I didn’t date, really. I went to a couple parties with this girl in my class, and we... I’ve been with someone twice. Then she moved on to someone less awkward and better at being a boyfriend, I guess,” he whispers, a deep line suddenly between his brows.
“You’re not a boyfriend. You’re a husband. Husbands are better. They last longer.”
Artie laughs. “Around you, I don’t know if I’d last long.”
I’m not entirely sure what that means, and my confusion must show, because Artie heaves a sigh.
“It means I would want to give you pleasure for hours and hours. And once we’re—” he interlocks his fingers with a meaningful look, “I’m afraid I’d last minutes. But I’d try. I think if we take it slow, and you don’t mind that I have to serve you in heats instead of one long marathon, it’ll be okay. I’m still going to make sure you feel good. You just have to teach me what you like.”
“I don’t know what I like.”
“Do you like it when I do this?” Artie rubs my back and kisses me again.
I sigh happily. “I love that.”
“Then let’s do that.”
“For a start. But I need a different outfit. Don’t I need to look sexy?” I trip over words that I never imagined would apply to me.
“Oh, Imogene... You already do. In everything. And you look so cute all the time, even in flannel and fuzzy socks.”
I hesitate, and then use one foot to work down the sock on the opposite foot.
Not hooves. Not human feet. Smooth pink flesh meets hard, flat brown.
Artie stares. Looks sick.
I move like lightning and tuck my legs up under me, stomach swirling. “Sorry, I didn’t... Sorry. I’ll keep my socks on.”
“They cut off your hooves. And your horns.” His fingers touch the tiny nubs with a tenderness that makes my eyes water.
“And my tail,” I whisper. “But I told you...”
