Sex with Tom could go on and on...
It didn’t follow Freytag’s Pyramid of rising action/climax/denouement. Maybe it had, in the beginning, when he was still figuring it out... (When they were figuring it out, together.)
But it had evolved into something less predictable over the years. He might fuck Cherry for a while and watch her come, then turn her over and fuck her some more, then take a break to touch her, to lick her, to let her come again. She couldn’t predict how he’d finish. Tom seemed to like her every which way. Sometimes hewouldn’tfinish—he’d sort of fuck her past his ability to come, like he didn’t want to stop as long as she was hungry for more. And then he’d fall asleep half hard. He might wake her up again in the middle of the night, asking with his hips and hands to be let back in. (You could see why she didn’t beg for more conversation.) (With a man who never made her beg.)
But tonight Tom was already gritting his teeth, like he was on the edge. Cherry nodded up at him.
He pushed his hand between their bellies—it was always awkward like this—reaching for her clit, giving her two knuckles to rub into. Cherry would take it. She didn’t need much. She’d already started to clench inside.
She came in a thundering way. Seizing up from her toes and fingertips. Tom wedged his hips deeper, to take it. He closed his eyes and shook his head. He said her name. He twisted his hand to rub her more directly.
The second orgasm came up from Cherry’s stomach. Through her chest. Hung out in her throat and hitched. Cherry sobbed.
“Cherry?” Tom asked. Square-faced. Angel-haired. Sweating.
“Don’t stop,” she said through tears.
“Baby...”
“Please don’t stop.” She was coming again. Or still. “Tom, Tom...”
Tom pulled his hand free when she went limp. He lifted himself up again and held her by the hip and the back of her thigh. He was half on his knees.
Cherry was still crying. “Don’t stop,” she chanted. “I love you, don’t stop.”
Tom came with a long groan. With his eyes closed and his mouth open.
After a few panting breaths, he slumped forward, with his head on Cherry’s chest. She brought a hand up to his hair.
He kissed the top of her breast. “My baby.”
Chapter 53
He’d never named the character “Baby.”
That’s just what The Guy called her, in the comic strip.
Chapter 54
Tom didn’t try to leave, thank god.
He went to the bathroom and came back wearing his briefs and holding a hot washcloth. Cherry had gotten under the blankets. Tom crawled in next to her and pressed the cloth between her legs. He knew she liked it.
She was still crying, a little. She wasn’t sure how she was ever expected to stop. Tom kissed her forehead. He looked rattled, too.
He held the cloth between her legs until it started to cool, then gently wiped the inside of her thighs. He dropped the cloth onto the floor and settled on his back, so that Cherry could rest her head on his chest. (He knew she wanted to.)
She closed her eyes and laid her hand on his stomach.
After a few minutes, Tom unclasped her bra—it took two hands—and then gently scratched under the strap, where it always itched.
“You still want me to stay?” he whispered.
She wrapped her arm around his middle and nodded her head.
She felt him relax.
His hand drifted down her back. Less scratching. More rubbing. Cherry whimpered.
