I’m glad she’s leading the way with kisses and no conversation. I can’t put into words what I’m feeling anyway, how incredible she is, how incredible all of this is, and how this feels like it for me. Like after Imogene, before Imogene, there was never and will never be anyone else.
My hands skim up her shirt, and I realize she’s not wearing a bra. I don’t know if she ever does. Her skin is a little thicker and more supple than mine, and her breasts—her perfect, gorgeous breasts, just stand up like soft hills on a muscular background. Oh, she doesn’t look like a bodybuilder. Just like one of those pilates instructors you see on the fitness commercials. Toned, not through exercise, but through survival, and now through being a hardworking “wife and mom.”
Her shirt slips off over her head, and my mouth connects with the dark cherry nipples that make her moan, and my hand strokes down between her thighs. I work each nipple with kisses and sucks, until the sucking motion becomes Immy’s favorite, well, that in tandem with my hand pressing between her thighs.My fingers turn and rub, determined to make her come like this, with her breasts in my mouth and my hand on her clit.
WHATEVER ARTIE IS DOINGisn’t fair. Well, not if he wants me to stay coherent. I’m just a babbling, sighing mess on his lap, not making any words, just happy sounds. His hands and mouth are in perfect harmony, pulling a symphony of pleasure out of me—and this isn’t even sex. This is foreplay. If sex is supposed to be better than the foreplay part...
I don’t want to be selfish, though. My hands connect with the hem of his shirt, then pull it up, over his head, fingers trailing back down to admire the lean torso and ridges of muscle. Artie doesn’t look like some big, buff guy, the shirtless ones on the covers of romance novels. He looks strong, like the kind of person who only has muscle, no fat, not from dieting and exercise, but just from life, from doing everything for himself, and then for his daughter, without help.
But I’m here now. We take care of things together. We take care of each other. My hand works into his jeans, unzipping him and letting his erection spring free. It fills my hand in length, and I wrap my fingers around it easily, grabbing onto what’s mine.
“Can we take these off?” Artie asks, pulling on my flowy cotton lounge pants.
I nod, fighting down a little wave of nerves. Artie loves me. He won’t care if I look different. He won’t point and look sickened at what used to be a tail.
I stand up, and the pants slip to the floor easily.
Artie follows their path. His kisses move from my breasts across my belly, and his hands massage my cheeks. He moans, which surprises me.
“You have the best butt in the universe. And this... Oh, this is going to be one of my favorite spots to hang out,” he murmurs, kissing his way down to my soft, smooth patch of hair, pale pink and short. His lips press below my navel, and I grip his shoulders with a gasp. “Not good?” he asks.
“What... What are we doing?” I’ve read some new books this week, some steamier ones that Louisa at the library recommended, and I know what he’s doing. But I also don’t know how closely books mirror real life. My life and books never had any similarities, unless you count really depressing ones.
“I’m going to kiss every part of my beautiful bride-to-be. Oh. If that’s okay to call you. Wife works, too. Lover. Beautiful pink angel. Whatever makes you happy, baby,” he says, smiling up at me as he leaves a belt of kisses and licks from hipbone to hipbone, each one unhurried.
When his hands grip my bottom, he lifts me, and I cling onto him, falling forward so that I squeal, and then I’m spun in his arms to rest on his bed. He’s above me for a moment, bare chest to bare chest, lips on mine.
This is it. Now, he pushes himself inside of me.I lift my hips, aching inside, eager for this moment, but still a little nervous.
But that’s not what happens. He goes on his wandering trail of kisses again—and this time, he doesn’t just stop at my curls. He nuzzles and burrows my legs apart, kissing all over my folds, finding secret pieces that make me gasp with his roving tongue.
When his tongue touches the hard nub between my legs, I gasp and close my eyes. His fingers have felt so good there, but his tongue—for some reason it’s almost too much.
But I like it.
Artie pushes his glasses off and rests them on my stomach, which makes me laugh in the midst of his exploration. “Yummy,” he sighs, and I relax a little.
“You like?” I whisper.
“Absolutely. Do you?”
“Oh, God, yes. It’s.... It’s really good. Different than your hand, but not better. But it feels like—ohh!” I end abruptly when his tongue slides inside of me and his head begins to bounce lightly against me. Penetrating me with his tongue. Fucking me with it. It’s small and slippery, and feels like the most wicked pleasure. When his tongue moves back to my nub, I gasp again, feeling his finger push inside of me.
SHE’S SO TIGHT. HERmuscles grip my finger in a stranglehold, even though she’s leaking the sweetest, slightly salty nectar, turning me into a sloppy mess.
And I'm more turned on than I knew was possible. Seeing her all open and up close, pink on pink, spread and writhing on my finger, bucking against my tongue. “So gorgeous. I want to make you come, Imogene. I want to make this night so good for you.” I attack her clit again, sucking the prominent bulge, licking it hard and fast before taking a break to suck hard and deep. I read that it’s good if you give women variety, and that most of their erogenous zone nerve endings are actually external, or right inside the entrance, so that’s what I concentrate on.
Imogene whimpers in a good way when my finger presses in, nice and steady, finding its way home in her soaking heat. I’m glad I’m just an average guy at the moment, as I think that my size won’t hurt her or even make her feel uncomfortable. And hopefully, all I’m doing with my mouth and hands will make up for the fact that I’m just Mr. Average, not some huge minotaur or a vampire with no need to stop and take a breath.
“Still comfortable?” I whisper when my lips need a break.
“I want more of you.”
Break is over.
“No, no. Artie... I want to feel you inside of me, too. I’ve been dreaming about being with you like this, almost since I met you. I’ve been reading books... I’ve been watching the romcoms on our ‘date nights’ this week. It’s better than living alone in my head, building my imagination and having nothing to fill it with.” Imogene sits up, my finger still inside of her.
I sit up, too, moving so that my finger keeps rubbing the sweet spot on the inside while my thumb gently rubs over her clit. I love the way her eyes roll back, then close, and for a second she bites her lip and smiles.
