Sitting back on his knees, he gently spreads my legs wider. I let him do it, even as I feel suddenly shy. Especially with the way he’s examining my pussy with a look of intense concentration.
“Does it look different?” I tease, to cover up my self-consciousness at his perusal.
“Your pussy’s perfect. As always. But I might love it best like this, with my cum dripping out of you.” He gives me a wicked smile. “You look real pretty like this. Well-fucked. All pink and mussed up.”
“You don’t look so bad yourself.” An understatement. He’s got a thin sheen on sweat on him, making his tanned, muscular form stand out in even more relief. There’s a gleam in his eyes I’ve never seen before, one of pure satisfaction.
The man is actually grinning.
He looks the happiest I’ve ever seen him.
Pressing a kiss to my hip, he says, “Stay here, darlin'.”
He gets up and heads to the bathroom. I hear the water running. I lie there, nestled in his soft sheets, in the warm lamplight, and stare at the wood beam ceiling.
My body feels different. Like it knows something now that it didn’t before. Not just the physical pleasure, but a whole new way of being.
I didn’t know there was anything on earth that felt that way. That intense. Like space and time fall away, and the overthinking stops, and all there is is that moment.
I didn’t know you could share that same exact experience with another person, at the exact same time.
Walker comes back with a glass of water in one hand and a damp washcloth in the other. First, he puts the glass of water on the nightstand next to me.
“Make sure you drink, baby,” he tells me.
Then, kneeling between my legs again, he gently cleans me up. The washcloth is warm and feels good on my tender skin.
I don’t remember the last time someone took care of me. Ever thought to bring me a glass of water. Bothered to tend to some part of me that was hurting.
I’ve been taking care myself as long as I can remember.
When he changes his grip, I notice there’s a little bit of blood streaked on the white fabric of the towel.
My virgin blood.
His eyes meet mine. A hint of worry creeping in. “Are you sore?”
“A little,” I confess. “But the good kind. Like after a hard workout.”
“Well.” His eyes move over me slowly. “I did work you.”
“You did.” I smile at him, letting him know there’s nothing to worry about.
His lips curve, reassured, and he goes back to his slow caress with the towel. “Didn’t they use to parade this kind of thing around when a woman lost her virginity, in the old days?”
I laugh. The man’s particular brand of crazy still surprises me sometimes. “I think that was just for royalty. And only on the wedding night. Why do you even know that?”
“I read books, same as you. I’m a man of culture.” He gives me a sly look. “Maybe I’ll hang this out the window. Proclaim to the mountains and the deer and the meadowlarks that I’ve made you my queen.”
I just shake my head, laughing. Ignoring the runaway gallop of my heartbeat.
“You’re crazy, you know that?”
He watches me laugh with an expression that’s tender and open and completely unguarded, and I think: I want to make him look like that again. As many times as I possibly can, for all the time we have left together.
The thought arrives with a small ache underneath it.
I push it away.
