Unpacking having been completed first—and taking all of five minutes—I don’t rush in the shower. I sing, enjoy the hot water, and keep an eye on the door in case Nils decides to slip in with me. He doesn’t, but I can feel the moment he comes back in the bedroom while I’m toweling off. There’s a slight change in air pressure, like a storm altering the electrical currents.
Still running the towel over my hair, I open the bathroom door and step out. Nils, feet bare and hand on the waist of his jeans like he’s getting undressed, looks over. The shirt he lent me is a bit oversized, the bottom edge skimming the tops of my thighs and barely covering my butt. Arms lifted as they are, though, the hem pulls up high enough to catch on the black lace I put on below. Nils’ eyes, which had moved to me and stuck the moment I walked into the room, come to a rest somewhere near my navel.
“Thank you for letting me borrow the shirt,” I say softly, watching Nils’ eyes—almost mimicking the same dark, inky color as the panties—flick over me. My hand is still moving, using the towel to dry hair that really doesn’t need any more drying. Mostly, I just want to keep my arms raised as long as possible, keep that hungry longing on Nils’ face a little longer. “And for the space. I unpacked.”
Nils makes a low noise in his throat—little more than an acknowledgment that he heard me. Energy zips across my skin like it’s his fingertips on my hip, not his eyes, a burn of wanting sparking awake. I consider my options, watching Nils watch me, thinking about what we’ve done and have yet to do.Thinking about all the things he’s never done with anyone. Thinking of how nice it would have been, during my first time, to have someone lead me along by the hand instead of shoving me into the deep end of desire without sticking around to make sure I could swim. I would have appreciated a bit of gentle encouragement and instruction. Perhaps Nils would, too.
“You could take off those clothes,” I suggest, a jolt of recognition buzzing through me as Nils’ fingers immediately start moving, the zipper on his jeans obscenely loud in the quiet of the bedroom. I wait until the meat of his thighs, peppered with dark hair, comes into view before adding, “Briefs, too.”
Again, there’s no pause or flicker of discomfort in his eyes as he obeys. Blood begins pooling in my core, warmth lapping at my insides as I watch him. I enjoyed the shower we took together, enjoyed the erotic, half-dressed and slightly mussed version of the steadfast man in front of me. I want what I didn’t get to have last time—to touch. Jeans and underwear kicked off to the side, he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pauses. Dark eyes meet mine, the question there making me dizzy with arousal and power.
“Take it off,” I instruct softly and watch as he does. As I drop the towel onto the floor, the hem of my borrowed shirt tickles my thighs and covers what the lace has no hope of hiding. “Come here.”
When he’s close enough to touch, I do, putting a hand on his chest and spreading my fingers. His own rise to my hips automatically, settling above the shirt. I let that be for a second, watching my fingers as I trail them along his collarbone, acrossthe meat of his shoulder, and down the line of his arm, tracing a bicep. When I abandon the arm and move to his stomach, I stop watching my hand and start watching his face. Nils won’t talk during sex—this I already know. His limits will not be expressed in yeses or no’s, but in the flutter of eyelashes, parted lips, and soft gasps. Circling a thumb around his navel, I feel the hitch of his breathing and see his throat bob as he swallows. Sliding my hand down his thigh, fingers teasing, I lean in and kiss him. It’s a soft, chaste sort of kiss that’s meant less as a precursor and more as an excuse to put my face closer to his.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask him, the words soft enough that not even embarrassment can touch them. If there were a way to go about this without acknowledging his inexperience, I would utilize it. Nils, perhaps recognizing this, clenches his fingers and relaxes them, a tiny bit of fight bleeding away.
“T-e-e-e-ell me,” he requests. Another squeeze of those hands, warm on my waist.Tell me what to do.
It feels as though the air between us is taut—a rubber band of expectation and possibility and desire. I could tell him to kiss me or tell him to bend over the edge of the bed. I could tell him to worship me. Instead, I move his hand, carefully sliding it down my side until fabric gives way to skin. Nils understands this for the nonverbal request that it is, spreading his fingers and inhaling deeply when they encounter the lace.
His hands are rough—rougher than mine, even though we work in the same profession. The panties feel like an extension of my skin when his calluses catch on the fabric, my pulsejumping each time he grazes somewhere new. I want to take this shirt off, but being half-dressed with him naked—hands hidden from view as they touch me—is really doing it for me. As is the intense way he’s examining me, brown eyes fathomless as they watch. I’ve never been with someone who was so present in the moment the way he obviously is.
“Take it off,” I tell him when the fabric of the shirt feels like too much on my oversensitive skin, every inch of me covered in gooseflesh. We’re barely doing anything—hands slow and kisses slower—yet my heart is pounding, and my dick aches to be free.
Nils shudders at the command, and again when I give his cock a soft stroke, groaning and leaning forward to kiss my neck. I lose contact with him as my arms are raised, the shirt tugged upward and tossed away. Sliding one hand behind his head, I reach once more for his dick, touching gently as I kiss him. He pushes his hips into me, mindlessly trying to thrust. I keep my grip loose and pace sedate. I want to play and enjoy. I want to have enough time to learn the tiniest of his tells and know exactly how to produce each one.
It’s Nils who eventually slides his thumbs under the waist of the black lace, my dick twitching when he grazes it. I tip my chin up to give him better access when his mouth skates down my neck. He’d asked me to tell him what to do, but so far, he’s doing a marvelously fine job of figuring it out for himself.
Hands staying where they are, he leaves my neck and starts kissing downward. It’s a deliberate, careful sort of attention. The devotion of someone trying hard to learn and do the right thing. There’s tension in his shoulders and under my palm where it’s resting on his neck. Even without any of the thoughts beingvoiced, I can feel his mind whirring.
“Come here.” Cupping a hand under his chin, I gently direct him to straighten. He complies immediately, lips wet and plump, eyes so dark I can’t see where his pupil ends and the brown begins. There is a nearly imperceptible change in his breathing, only elevated enough for me to see the difference in the rise and fall of his chest. He’s working very, very hard to control himself.
Sliding my thumb across his mouth, I lean forward to kiss him, sweeping my tongue in and catching his bottom lip between my teeth, making it filthy enough that he groans, hands clenching hard where they remain on my waist. Stepping away, I lean over the bed to snag one of his pillows, dropping it at his feet with a soft thump.
“Get on your knees,” I tell him, blood pounding in my groin when the order is followed immediately.
I touch the top of his head, sliding my fingers along his scalp, considering. I’ve never seen his hair down. The black strands are always tied back in a bun, the occasional piece escaping but never falling free around his shoulders. I want to see it. I want to glide my fingers through and hold his head still while I use his mouth. But I also want this—a clear view of his face and eyes, all the sharp angles and the swoop of dark eyelashes. I want to see the slide of muscle in his shoulders and the spread of his legs, the smooth skin of his chest and the curve of his hard dick.
“Go on,” I say, stepping close enough that Nils has to tip his head back to keep his eyes on mine. Instead of picking up right where he left off, he starts at my calves, fingers coasting gently over the muscles.
It’s hard to watch his face and stand still—hard to see theparted lips and feel the soft exhalations against my thighs and not take more than he’s ready to give. My stomach is clenched tight by the time his fingers tease the crease of my groin, cock throbbing underneath the lace that has long since stopped being soft and now feels like a cage. When Nils leans up on his knees and presses forward, kissing me through the fabric, my hips jolt backward. He looks up at me.
“Sorry,” I murmur, stroking his cheek. “Keep going. You’re doing good.”
Anyone else might have missed it, but the flutter of eyelashes and the soft inhalation of breath might as well be a neon sign. He liked that, I realize, swaying slowly forward as he mouths my dick through the panties. I groan, unsure of how much of this I’m realistically going to be able to take. If I’ve ever been with a man so intent upon slow foreplay, I cannot remember. He nips lightly at my stomach, making me jump. This time, the puff of air against my groin is laughter, and the eyes that look up at me are playful.
“Take them off.” I repeat my earlier missive, watching as the mirth melts once more into heat.
He does, carefully sliding the panties down my legs and letting my dick bob free. I’m a little bit bigger than him and a lot more meticulously groomed, something he takes notice of right away, fingers teasing the smooth skin at my base. I wait, wanting to give him the space to decide for himself, but he looks back up at me, thumb gently circling the head of my cock and pressing into the slit. Head tilted just barely to the left, his eyebrows rise in a silent request.What next?
“If I tell you to do something that you don’t want to, stop.” He watches me, free hand cupped around the back of my kneeand somehow just as distracting as the one on my dick. “If at any point you are finished or want to try something else, stop.”
I really don’t think I need to tell him this, confirmed by his answering nod, but I further relax into the moment now that I have. I can talk him through every second of this if he’d like me to—order him around, provide instruction and praise—but I need to trust that he’ll enforce any boundaries we come across.
“Harder than that,” I instruct, a pulse of pleasure snaking through me when he tightens his fingers. I wait, letting the pressure build through a handful of strokes. “Open your mouth.”
I sway forward as he does, body automatically reaching for the warm, wet hole in front of me. Nils doesn’t wait for the next set of instructions but uses his hand to bring my cock to his mouth, tip just barely inside. Swallowing roughly, I cup one hand underneath his chin and rock forward just a bit, breath catching when he sucks gently.
