“But you said you’ve stopped. Why?” Marty asks once we're under the sheets. This time I'm lying on my back and somehow that makes me even more aware of the length of his body lying on its side beside mine, and how his dick rests against the curve of my hip. It is only too tempting to reach my hand and play with him, take us away from this conversation.
“You don't want to know about that,” I say.
“I asked, didn't I?” His eyebrows lower.
“Okay.” I give him a smile that I hope apologises for doubting him. “Well, because it's sex and sex is, well, always interesting to a lot of people, I was often encouraged by editors to answer more sex-related questions than the general questions about relationships and intimacy and that's fine, because, yes, I'm an allosexual who loves sex so I was happy to do it most of the time, but then it became more of a struggle, and more than a little ironic because...” I squeeze my eyes shut to summon a bit more courage.
“Because?” he prompts, and now I'm also holding my breath because his hand is on my stomach, his fingers stroking and searching. I am a second away from tensing my muscles to pull it a little tauter, but I don't. I am who I am. He's seen me, and now he's feeling me, and by the feel of his hardening cock at my side, he’s enjoying it. I will not let misogynistic beauty standards even get close to ruining this for me.
The answer to his question comes quickly and easily.
Because I was hired to help people have better sex and improve their relationships and how could I do that when I was having the worst sex of my life - if any sex at all - and my marriage was dissolving in front of my eyes?
But I don’t say it out loud.
“Because I needed a change. I needed some time away from work to grieve after my divorce.” That much is true.
“Oh,” he says, and the way his features fall has me wondering if he can see through my lie, but then I realised what I just said.
“Shit, that was a really insensitive thing to say after what you shared about Arnie.”
Marty’s hand, which was cupping and gently squeezing my breast, stops moving. “Grief is grief,” he says with a half-shrug. I don’t feel relief, though, until his hand starts playing with me again.
I’m so convinced we’re warming up to round two that I start to move my hand to find his dick, but then he speaks again. “Why did you and your ex-husband get divorced?”
“There is no way I can go into it while you play with my nipple like that,” I say, closing my eyes as the warmth and humming in my body picks up again.
“I can stop,” he says but he doesn't. My answer to this is to wrap my hand around his cock, which is now hard and hot against my hip.
“Don't you dare stop,” I say as I move my fingers on him, applying pressure in a fluttering motion, one digit at a time. I keep doing this as I move my grip up and around his head, playing with the skin that glides around it so brilliantly. Robert was circumcised and while I had thought that was my preference, now I'm suddenly not so sure, which is now a strangely comfortable feeling - just not being sure.
“Same to you, cupcake.” He lifts his hips and bends a leg up, giving me a bit more room to play with him.
And then there are, blissfully, no more questions, and no more lies. There is no more talking at all, apart from single breath-filled words, at most a couple at a time, and moans. We moan for each other as pleas, as orders, as praise, as warnings and as rewards. When I come up on my knees and push him down on his back, his moan becomes a growl. When I bend my body so I can take him in my mouth, his growls are grunts. When I tell him his cock is beautiful, he hisses and brings his hands to hold my hair so he can see more of what I’m doing.
“Those lips of yours,” he mumbles. “You look so fucken pretty putting them to work on me.”
That spurs me on, and I lick him until he’s wet all over. I suck him into my mouth and take him as far down as I can. It’s nowhere near as far as I would like, my gag reflex kicking in and making me choke. But then I recall an old trick I readonce and I pull off to yawn, and this means I can go back and take more of him down my throat. It’s still not enough – for me and probably him too – but I bring my hand up to cover the rest of him as I suck and start moving up and down, twisting my head a little as my lips ride over the head. I keep doing this until my jaw aches and then I drop my head lower and play with his balls in my mouth, only to then return to kissing, licking, and sucking his penis. When I feel ready again, I take him back into my throat. I repeat this until I’m so lost in what I’m doing, his voice is almost a surprise.
“You need to stop if you don't want me to come in your mouth,” he says, and I look up at him, pulling off for a second, but keeping my hand going.
“Do it. Please, do it. I want to taste you too,” I say before plunging down onto him. The curiosity I have about what he tastes like when I drink him down has me pushing harder against my gag reflex, and squeezing my eyes shut when the tears come. I feel his hand stroke the side of my face, while his other fingers are still tangled in my hair, and I grip his hips harder as they start to tense and rock into me.
“Jesus, Jenna,” he says, and he jerks once, twice, three times, and his cum fills my mouth and throat.
I keep my eyes closed, tickle my tongue against the underside of him, and suck, swallow, suck, swallow, suck, swallow. Only when I look up and see his smile, do I pull off, leaving a peck of a kiss on the tip of him that is now red and glistening with my saliva.
Then I lay my body down between his legs and place my head on his stomach so he can't see the incredibly smug grin I have on my face.
“I kinda want you to sit on my face again,” he says, his fingers back in my hair, or maybe they never left.
“I am not sure I can,” I say. “I'm old and I need a lie down.”
He sighs. “I'm young and I need a lie down.”
I laugh into his stomach then, feeling his abs tense when he joins me. I reach down and find the discarded covers we kicked to the side, and I cover us. I can't stop my eyes closing as I nestle back down into his torso, feeling the hair andwarmth of his groin against my breasts. I am almost asleep when I hear him talk again.
“Jenna,” he says, and his voice sounds quiet, probably sleepy too. He probably has to go soon, and I brace myself for the stab of disappointment that will bring. I tell myself that it’s just my hormones. It’s only what the post-orgasm hit of oxytocin in my body wants me to do, to attach myself to this virile young man.
