“You do not need to thank—” But she is kissing me before I can finish, and I abandon all considerations that are not Lydia asthe sweet scent of her desire floods my senses. I move my mouth over hers, licking at her lips, and moaning as she opens to me, granting my tongue entry.
Then, she shifts her weight on my lap, and that small movement causes her stomach to rub against my cock through its covering.
“Fek.” I barely recognize my voice, filled with desperate need. Until Lydia moves to unclip her bra, and suddenly everything else is forgotten.
Her breasts are larger than those of a Ril’os female and considerably softer. As she tosses her clothing away, my upper hands take its place—holding her, massaging her, worshipping her.
She presses a finger to my shoulder, and I immediately lie down, using her damp clothing as a mattress of sorts. I can still feel the sharpness of the rock floor digging into my back, but my discomfort is easily ignored when Lydia is straddling my thighs. She runs a hand down my chest, watching her fingers as she does so, as if mesmerized by the sight of her skin against my scales.
Iam mesmerized.
“Are you sure?” I ask, hating the question but knowing I will hate it even more if, tomorrow, she regrets today.
“I’m sure that I’ve been wanting to touch you for weeks,” she says, running her gaze up and down my chest. “I’m sure that I’ve been having sex dreams about you. I can’t close my eyes without imagining what this would feel like.” She falters. “Are you sure?”
I am sure that I love you,I think.I am sure that you are my Mate.But that is not what she is asking. “You are not declaring yourself to me,” I say, instead. “We are enjoying each other’s company. That is all.” And I would never ask her for anything more while she is in mourning.
“Good.” She smiles, trailing her hand lower.
Automatically, I buck my hips, my cock demanding its release.
“Easy there,” she mutters, and I grit my teeth in an attempt to keep still. “How do I open it?” She traces my bulging slit with a single finger, her touch so light I might ordinarily not have felt it, except that my cock is hard enough to erupt at the briefest of provocations.
“Like this,” I say through clenched teeth, and I apply pressure to one edge of my slit. It pops open, and my cock everts, arching toward my stomach, flushed and leaking.
Lydia’s eyes widen, and she leans forward for a closer view.
The sight of her studying me is nearly enough to undo me, and I grab the base of my cock, squeezing to hold off my orgasm. She laughs, and then it’s her hand on me, swiping away the bead of pre-cum, tracing a vein down my length, wrapping her hand around me.
“Harder,” I grit out. Never have I experienced such sweet torture. My eyes threaten to roll back into my head, but I force myself to keep them open. I do not want to miss a second of Lydia touching me.
She firms her handhold, stroking up and down my length, experimentally slow at first, and then harder and with more confidence. I am bucking against her despite my best attempts to keep still, and when one of my thrusts is powerful enough to nearly unseat her from my thighs, I hurriedly pry her hand away from my cock, sucking in deep lungfuls of air.
“But I was enjoying myself,” she complains.
“Cannot wait—” I pant. “About to come.”
“That’s the whole point.”
“Want you”—pant—"first.” I wish I sounded more eloquent, but I suppose I should be pleased that her translator can understand me at all.
“In that case—” She lifts herself off my thighs long enough to slide her smallest breeches off.
“Hairs!” I exclaim, reaching for her.
“Oh.” Her face flushes. “You didn’t know? You don’t like them?”
“What is not to like?” I am confused by her sudden nervousness, as I card my fingers through her hairs. They are darker and coarser than her other hairs but just as intriguing. And when I slip my fingers lower, I find her hot center.
I cannot control my moan of longing. She is so wet that I can hear my fingers stroking her. Her nervousness disappears as fast as it arrived, and she leans back, arching her spine and grabbing onto my knees to steady herself.
“Higher,” Lydia demands, and now it is she who is panting.
I obey, exploring the shape of her, wanting to commit this moment to my memory. I will never again take myself in hand and not think of Lydia like this—wanton, decadent, glorying in her pleasure.
“Fuck!” She swears when my fingers find a bud between her folds, and I am immediately fascinated by such a small bump that can create such a large response. I refocus my efforts, Lydia the epicenter of my world. Here, nobody and nothing exists but my Lydia.
The timbre of her voice pitches high as she pants my name, and then her legs are squeezing my thighs as her orgasm devours her.
