When we kiss, I try to wave away any sense of connection, but Dave makes it tough. He’s so gentle, and intimate, and tender. The way he holds me with care. The way he reeks of desire. There’s a layer of emotion that isn’t screaming that he just wants to screw me.
He backs me up against a wall, takes my wrists in his hands, and slowly raises my arms higher. It feels like ages, but he provocatively keeps our hold until he finally lands his lipsagainst my ear. “But you’re going to let me take my time when I get you on that bed?”
“Yes,” I say in a near whimper.
I’ve only had a few one-night stands, and they’ve always been stupid and unsatisfying and left me full of nothing but regret and shame. But this immediately feels different. Not as impersonal, not something driven solely by lust.
And, I tell myself as I fall into this,he’s pretty awesome.
Dave knows all aboutSVU. He knows about and loves weird and wild food stuff. He knows to tell me to shut down the parts of my shitty life that I hate, showering me with the best raw advice anyone has given me in ages.
His hands scoop my ass. “Diana…” He breathes out my name when we fall against the bed.
He’s going to make love to me. Which I have no doubt he’ll do beautifully.
For a second, I think my brain might explode over that weird thought.
Make love? What year is it? What an outdated and weird term. I don’t know what is wrong with me that I’d even think of that.
I mentally shake my head and fold into the bed and into Dave.
Maybe I’m hoping this night won’t have any meaning, but he throws that out the window from the get-go.
To start, his kiss is tentatively sweet. His hand roaming my body, then settling around my neck, a gentle grip lifting my mouth closer to his. I love how we’re both still mostly dressed as he sinks his mouth and body against me more, like we’re teenagers making out. His moves, however, are way better than an inexperienced teenager.
Kissing is so underrated, but Dave seems to crave and appreciate the intensity. He wants the connection. It’s honestly been ages since I’ve kissed someone like this, so I’m feelinginsecure and shaky, but the more he kisses me, the more I can feel him need to take breaks. To actually breathe. Because he’s also impeccably breathless.
As am I.
When I push him away, only out of desperation for more air, he rolls onto his side next to me. Within seconds, his hand has slipped under my back and unhooked my bra, and he leans over me, teasing his mouth over my stomach, my chest. For a moment, I flinch as he flings my bra to the side. Then I realize he’s already seen me in a bathing suit, so he knows I’m not exactly wildly filling out my bikini top. And he doesn’t seem to mind.
Dave makes me wait for all the things. It’s only when my own hands are knotting my hair in desperation, and I’m making begging whimpers does he smile against me. Only then does he glide his fingers between my legs slowly, and smoothly, and perfectly. His response to my every move is so natural as he pivots his touch and moves his hand depending on my sounds. And he doesn’t stop until I’ve gripped my nails into his back and breathlessly choked out his name twice.
Later, when his body is so heatedly entwined with mine, when he’s inside me, he moves and adjusts his position immediately to how I sound. Like, when he responds to my gasp and lifts up further on his arms. Or how he reaches under my ass to lift me up before he kneels, staying inside of me. He knows what I want before I do.
And while I love this, I’m also so taken aback. So crazed. This kind of connection is foreign, and scary, and not at all what I’ve ever had. Or looked for. Or could have hoped for.
Yet here it is.
And I don’t fight it.
David collapsing against me is damn swoon worthy.
After, when I’m in his arms that night, when the sheets are soaked with our sweat, and after the second time he drove me out of my mind, he says, “Diana. That’s a powerful name. Like Wonder Woman.” When I don’t say anything and probably tense a bit, he gently tightens his embrace. “Ah, I’m right? Diana Prince?”
How on earth he figured this out is beyond me. But he just knew.
But he’s right about the origin of my name.
“You’re right. I am named after Wonder Woman. She was my idol. And my mother’s idol,” I affirm. “But my name doesn’t suit me. I’d kill to have that kind of superhero confidence.” This confession makes me shy and embarrassed, as I’m not strong, or heroic, or beautiful.
“No.” Dave shakes his head as he cuddles into me and rolls me onto my side. “It suits you. You’re obviously named for a million good reasons.”
Before I know it, he’s inside me again and holding me tightly as he sculpts my body into his, over and over.
I about lose my breath. “Stay like this. With me. For as long as you can…”
And he does. He moves so gorgeously and rhythmically inside me until I can’t stand it much longer. Dave clearly has no problem with any kind of staying power, and I groan when he moves his hand down and rolls me over fully onto my stomach, then lifts me to my knees.
