Madly (New York 2)

Only a foot separated his chest from hers. Allie held the list balled in her fist. Gravity had drawn her Grecian dress into a puddle on the bed, exposing the tops of her thighs. He studied her bare feet, her legs, the dress that might have struck him as a costume on a different woman. Her chest rose and fell, her breasts half exposed.

She was the most alive person he’d ever had the pleasure of spending a night with.

“I’d love to do ‘everything but’ with you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“It’s been a long time, Allie. I very much want to.”

Her fist rose off the bed. Her arm cocked, and she pitched the list away.

“We’re not finished with that.”

“I’m just storing it over there, for now.” She rolled away from him. “Unzip me?”

The dress parted and fell away, revealing the dip of her spine, freckled skin, gauzy white knickers to match her dress. He pushed the strap he could reach off her shoulder and kissed the mark it left behind.

He tried to think of how to say what he was thinking in a manner that didn’t seem bald or crass but he couldn’t. So he simply said it. “It’s all sex. The horrid and sad. The new and…adventurous kind. And this. What you want to do.”

She brushed the rest of her dress off of her shoulders and turned to look at him. “I know.”

“Do you want to have sex with me?” It wasn’t as hard as he thought, to say it.

“Yes, I do.” She was topless, a little freckled, slight, and her skin felt almost overly warm and feverish. “I know I only met you yesterday, but I want to. Could you kiss me, while you get the rest of my clothes off? To distract me from that weird first part of being naked.”

He laughed and kissed her, and even though he didn’t want to, he kept his eyes closed while she shifted and the feel of soft cotton over skin transformed into only the feel of her body, new and strange and alive and so fascinating he couldn’t imagine ever wanting to leave the bed again. It didn’t feel like he would have to, either. There was no…point to this. It was so terribly, terribly wonderful to have Allie in his bed with no point at all.

Everything but a point, an end, a conclusion that signals something is over and there’s nothing left to do but fall asleep and try to remember, next time, if there was a reason, a point, to start it all up again.

This was just Allie, inside Allie. This was just him, inside of himself. Whatever they made between them would be precisely what was intended, an experience that signified nothing but the experience itself.

Instead of a duty, an act, a task that meant, We’re okay. We can safely sleep. We don’t have to worry. We finished it.

He started to unbutton his shirt, his tie long gone, hours ago, and he opened his eyes because Allie pulled his hands away and started working her way down the placket. She was on her knees, her thighs spread apart. Her pubic hair directed his attention to exactly how naked she was, how naked her position was, how accessible every part of her body was to him to look at and to touch.

She had a crescent-shaped appendix scar. He had one, too. She had prominent nipples, and her skin glowed pink and red where her clothes and his hands had touched her. He was hard, felt big and harder than he had, in the shower, trying to fall asleep, for years. He couldn’t bear to let himself imagine what it would be like if she stroked him or…had her mouth on him. He closed his eyes again and took a long, steady breath.

She slid his shirt off and was kissing him again, this time with her skin against his. It felt wonderful, exciting, even better when she slid her tongue against his and opened his belt, hitched down his pants in degrees between more kisses.

“Am I too heavy on top like this?” She had a knee on either side of his hips, and her whole front against his, her hair falling around her face and his. He’d restricted his hands to her hips and arse and lower back, smooth expanses to soothe himself with when she pressed against him…there, wet and soft.

“No.” He pressed her in closer. She braced her hands on his shoulders and pushed back with her hips. They pressed together, both made a noise, it was so very almost.

She pushed again, more explicitly and with a maddening, slick jerk. They both groaned again, complaining—it felt like if he didn’t just thrust up, sink in, and end the terrible, awful, painful misery, he would die.

“Winston,” Allie whispered.

“Don’t move again,” he whispered back.

The stalemate was delicious, and they held it, panting, until Allie laughed, and he laughed, and then groaned and she slithered down beside him.

“We should slow it down a little.” She kissed behind his ear.

“Yes, of course. Excellent plan.”

She moved her hand over his chest, slow, but then her hand brushed over his belly, slower. He captured it, held it, squeezed it, and then hitched onto his side, on his elbow. He could not let her kill him so early. “This won’t do.”

She grinned. “No?”