“I could fill your lovely cunt so many times,” he says near my lips, his voice a quiet growl, “that your eyes would fog up like steam on a fuckin’ mirror.” He gives my lower lip a bite.
I can feel him hard against my hip, and I slide a hand from beneath his to touch him. “You want it too.”
He moves his head to my breast and licks my right nipple. “Mmm-hmm. Alas.”
“Sandyyyyyy,” I plead. “Look, I’ve got an idea…” I turn perpendicular to him on the bed and drape my legs over his hip as he’s on his side facing me, scooting closer until I can feel him against my soaked pussy. “This way? I promise, I’ll hardly move.”
“I’d say, ‘You win,’ but…” He aligns himself with me and stretches me nicely as he goes in deep with a satisfied groan like he’s waited for this his whole life. “Fuck—webothdo.”
My breath shudders out. I’m so happy and relieved, I don’t even care that our angle makes a weird squashing sound because I’m so wet. His hips start to roll, sweet and easy, and I focus on the feeling of him stroking me inside, watching the slow rapture of his expression. I’m both scared and excited that he’s studying my face just as attentively.
We’re too far away to kiss in this position, and to my surprise I find that I miss it. I sprawl an arm toward him, and he takes my hand and kisses the palm, his eyes closing briefly. Releasing me, he reaches for the vibrator and flicks it on.
“No no no,” I manage, a little breathless. “It’s too much right now.”
“I know—I want to try something…”
He sets the vibrating egg on my mons, just above my clit, and I spread my legs a bit, giving him access. Holding the toy between his two middle fingers, he settles the pad of his palm over me so I can feel the vibration through his hand.
“Close your eyes, beautiful,” he tells me. “Don’t think about anything but this. Relax completely. Let it take you.”
Usually during sex I’m moving in some way, even if I’m just getting oral. My muscles will be taut, I’ll thrust my hips, grab the sheets, play with my nipples…something. But this time, I try the same technique I use when I do my sleep exercises, thinking my way down my body, letting every muscle go slack, consciously releasing tension.
I’m blissfully aware of Alexander moving inside me, his nice long girth stroking me, the warmth and faint vibration of his hand cupping the front of me, the captivating sound of him that always gets me hot as hell.
As turned on as I am, it’s interesting to find that this process is taking me a while—lifted gradually to the peak, not chasing it—without the assist of my hands and movements. I’m a little self-conscious about looking so lifeless, eyes closed, every muscle lax, existing only in two places: my mind, and the golden glow of arousal below my waist.
“You’re radiant, like a breathtaking painting,” Alexander tells me, his tone hypnotic. “My cock was made for you. The way your sweet pink cunt takes me is fucking poetry.”
His thrusts are leisurely, and I stay cradled in my silence,observing with fascination as climax approaches. It’s as vast and as soundless as the bloom of a sunrise. I relax my hands, my shoulders, my thighs, just breathing andfeeling, single-mindedly fixed on the sensations.
As the orgasm cracks open in a flood of bliss, it’s like I’m reading the fine print on my own pleasure for the first time, able to read what it’s saying. I breathe through it, watching where it goes, fascinated to map its trajectory, the small hidden corners of me that it illuminates.
My involuntary moan floats out, and as the wave crests, I’m rattled by a shudder I don’t try to control. I’m liquid everywhere—not only have I flooded the bed, but my eyes run with tears that leave me surprised and slightly embarrassed. A small hiccupping sob betrays me.
Alexander’s voice is tight as he grasps my thigh with one hand and says, “Sage,fuck… I love you…” and pushes deep into me, staying there, grinding against me as he’s annihilated by his own climax. His crushing fingers divot the Monaco Grand Prix tattoo on my thigh and his face is like a saint in spiritual ecstasy and I suddenly know exactly what he meant about me looking like a painting.
When he opens his eyes and sees me watching him, he smiles, exhausted and beautiful. There’s a wrinkle of fear marring how happy I am, because I’d give anything to never stop feeling this way, and nothing should have that kind of power over me.
He pulls himself up on one elbow and moves to my side and gathers me close, tugging the duvet over us so we’re hidden, at least for now, from whatever’s going to fuck this up.
The next evening, I’m riding high in every way. Quali went great and I’m starting the race tomorrow in fourth. My back, oddly enough, hasn’t given me any trouble since thetranscendentsex last night. My mom sent me pics of the cute apartment she just got in the Pearl District, and she seems distinctlyunheartbroken by the upcoming divorce. Julian sent a snail-mail letter to Priya and me, and he told us he got his thirty-day clean-and-sober chip.
And finally?
Yeah,Alexander Demetrius Sebastian Konstantin Laskaris, he of the many middle names (lots of uncles, apparently), has laid siege to my stony little heart.
Because I’m not superstitious, I don’t worry that the abundance of joy is setting me up for a fall. No malicious Fates are rubbing their hands together with manic, fly-like glee as they engineer my comeuppance. But Iamaware of the unfortunate fact that the faster you’re driving when you overcook a turn, the harder the impact is.
Which is why my stomach flops when Priya calls me instead of texting—always a bad sign. I’m just exiting Phaedra’s office after talking with her and Basil when the phone rings.
“Hey, Pri. What’s up? I’m kinda in a hurry.”
There’s a pause before she replies. “Are you… Is everything okay?”
“What, my back? Yeah, it’s fine. I didn’t—”
“No, I mean, uh… Okay, you need to come to the motor home. Like, now.”
