Her tongue chased his, probing his mouth, reaching out to run over his lips. Minutes passed as he tasted her mouth and she tasted his, over and over again. Each kiss he swore would be the last. And each kiss demanded another one. That sweetness. Those lips. That exploring tongue.
They were no longer holding hands. She continued to rub his head with one hand but her movements had become rougher, more frenzied. Her other hand was groping his buttock, pulling his pelvis into hers. He had a hand on her bottom and a hand on her breast, and he didn’t know when that had happened.
And now he was on top of her and, oh, oh, oh, both of her hands were on his head again, and he was grinding his cock into her and she was mewling into his mouth and pushing her hips up against him.
She took both of his ears in her hands and pulled his head away from her own.
“George,” she said.
Her pink lips were no longer pink. They were red and swollen and even more perfect than before. Which was contrary, of course, to the whole notion of perfection since perfect was, by definition, an absolute and could not have a comparative or superlative form.
“George. Let’s take our clothes off.”
Three
George did not trust himself to speak. He first got off of Phoebe and then off of the bed, swallowing his groan. His cock and bollocks were aching.
She sat up, her hair falling down from her hairpins.
His shoes had come away from his feet sometime during their prolonged kissing session on the bed. He took off his tailcoat and waistcoat and untied his cravat and unbuttoned two buttons at the top of his shirt. Then he gripped the shirt and took it up and over his head.
He heard a noise like a long exhale and realized Phoebe had not yet moved from the bed. She was not taking off her own clothes. She was sitting and watching him, her mouth open.
“Goodness.” Her tongue darted out and ran over her lips. “George, you’re beautiful.”
He grunted. Some very male noise of denial, he hoped. His face felt warm. “Men aren’t beautiful.”
“Oh, no, you’re wrong.” She hopped off the bed and took a few steps toward him. “You’re wrong, dear teacher, dear friend.” And then her fingers were running over his abdomen, his chest, his shoulders, his arms. “Look, you have hair here. And you’re so hard. All these muscles. Did you get all these just from riding? You’re like some delicious village blacksmith.”
“Like some delicious blacksmith? Who have you been talking to?”
She looked up at him, her hands squeezing his biceps. “To whom, George. To whom have I been talking. You’re the one that taught me that. And I’ve been talking to your sister, for one.” She slid her hands back up to his shoulders.
He tried to keep his voice gruff. “My sister knows nothing about village blacksmiths, Phoebe. I would advise you to ignore her. And you better hurry up. I think you’re wearing more clothes than I am.”
“I want to see your cock first.”
Again, that word in her mouth. He did not think he could get any harder, but he did.
He unbuttoned the fall on his trousers. As he did so, she backed up and sat on the edge of the bed again, her eyes fixed on his hands at his fall.
There, his shaft was out, straining upwards, begging for release. And his trousers were at his ankles and he was stepping out of them. He looked at her face.
She was looking at his cock with her head tilted. There was a little vertical crease above her nose, between her brows. That was the crease that showed up whenever he checked her during a game.
He waited.
“Can I?” The crease got deeper but her eyes did not waver from his member and she reached out. He stepped forward and she wrapped her hand around his shaft and his breath caught in his chest.Oh, yes.
“It’s very hard,” she said. “But the skin is very smooth and satiny.”
“Yes.”
“May I give it some friction now?”
“I think you had better not.”
“All right.” She released him and looked up at his face. “Do you want to undress me?”
