Madeline keeps stripping, and it’s not exactly showy but she’s going slow. She skims her hands over her skin like it’s for my benefit, then finally places the bra and panties on the coffee table and walks back to me, tossing her hair and waiting.
“Thank you,” I say and run a hand up her outer thigh, stroking her from knee to hip and back again. “C’mere.”
She settles in my lap again, gloriously naked, all that bare skin against fabric. I let her lean in and kiss me, deep and hard. Madeline moans softly when her nipples touch my shirt, her hands on my chest for balance, her hips rocking against me. I’m hard, my skin practically buzzing with this buried need suddenly awake and desperate. She rolls her hips again, and this time I groan into her mouth. Instead of grinding up into her like I want to, I take her wrists in my hands.
Gently, slowly enough that she doesn’t lose her balance, I put them behind her back. At the same time I lean forward and plant a messy, open-mouthed kiss right between her breasts. Madeline’s breathing goes ragged, and I move my mouth, inch by inch, until I’m flicking soft little licks over the flat of her nipple, and she’s moaning.
It’s so easy to lose myself in seeing what she likes, what noises she can make. After a minute I let her hands go so I can grip her thighs and stroke that smooth, velvety skin on the inside, which gets me a shaky inhale and one hand anchored in my hair.
Gently, I put her hand behind her back again. Then it happens again, her hand in my hair, when I bite a nipple and she swears, so I take both her wrists in one hand and pull back.
“Will you do something for me?” I ask her, looking up into her face. Madeline nods, swallows, then manages to get out a yes. “Do you think you can stay like this?”
She’s breathing hard, the skin on her chest bright pink where my stubble’s scraped against it, a few darker red spots where I couldn’t help myself.
“For how long?” she asks.
I stroke my thumb along the inside of one wrist, taut tendons under soft skin. “You got somewhere else to be?”
That gets a laugh, huffed out between breaths. “Maybe,” she says, but she pulls her wrists out of my hands and then laces her fingers together behind her back.
I’m dizzy for a second, running my fingers over her joined hands, but then I grab her hips and lick a long stripe over one nipple. Madeline moans. She moans, but she doesn’t move her hands. They stay clasped behind her back for god knows how long while I get my mouth on every inch of her skin I can reach. Every so often I check again, running my hands over her fingers, but she never lets go. Not even when her nipples are bitten and sucked red and puffy and I’m stroking her entrance with my fingers, wet and slick and touching everything but her clit.
I want to memorize this. Take a picture—though I can’t, obviously—but the way she looks right now is worth the keepsake: chest heaving, hair messy, shoulders back and arms behind her, eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure. Thighs bared and spread over me, my erection clothed and obvious. I haven’t touched myself. I’m a little afraid that I’ll come as soon as I do.
“Look at you,” I murmur without really meaning to. “Do you like this? When I do what I want, and you stay still and take it?”
Madeline snorts, then tosses her hair out of her face and rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t move her hands. “Of course I do.” The tilt of her head is defiant and coquettish, and I have to dig my fingers into her hip so I can keep control. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
I run my fingernails up the inside of one thigh, and she inhales. “I’m just making sure.”
“I know how to saystop, and you know how to listen.”
I sit forward and put a hand in her hair again, bring her in, kiss her. She can’t move too much without going off-balance, so I push my tongue into her mouth greedily, taking what I want. She gives it.
“I want you to lie down on the couch for me,” I say.
“Can I move my arms?” she says, and I can hear the smirk so I bite her bottom lip.
“If you have to.”
A minute later she’s stretched out on the couch, a throw pillow under her head, one hand on her stomach and the other over her head. Her blue hair is fanned out around her, the tiger tattoo on her right thigh just as bright as it was two years ago. There’s a stylized starburst on her left shoulder that I think might be new.
I’m staring. I’m standing here, staring at her like an idiot, wearing old shorts and an undershirt because my plan for today was to hang out at my mom’s house and hammer out my schedule for next semester. And now I’m here with an absolutely ludicrous erection watching Madeline stretch out on her fancy couch because I told her to. She’s breathing hard and stroking the skin on her stomach with one hand, nipples pink and puffy. There’s stubble burn on her chest, and I did that.
She’s watching me like she’s waiting for further instruction, and it’s indescribably hot that I could just—saysomething and it would happen. It’s unnerving, too; this is uncharted territory, and I think I’m supposed to have a plan.
I don’t have a plan. I have a lizard brain that likes it when she squirms and swears but holds still anyway because I asked her to.
“This is really fucking hot,” I hear myself say. “Jesus Christ.You’rereally fucking hot. What the hell?”
That gets a surprised snort-laugh, and the hand on her stomach stops moving.
“What do you mean, what the hell?” she asks, still laughing. “Are you mad about it?”
“God, no.”
“Are you just going to watch, or…?”
