Madly (New York 2)

“I’d like it if my record weren’t five years, nine hours, forty minutes, and fifty-five premature seconds.”

She nodded briskly like she were taking notes. “What do you propose?”

“I touch you. This seems the most sensible.”

“I think so.” She relaxed onto her back and wallowed into the duvet, making a little burrow for herself. “Have at it.”

She liked it best when he hardly touched her and only skimmed and traced. Her sides were sensitive, her inner thighs, the tender skin just under her nipples. He loved the creases the joints in her arms made and the deep pockets behind her knees.

When he palmed her lightly, barely, she bucked and drew him down with a hand on his face to kiss her.

“May I touch you?”

She nodded into his neck, and his pulse picked up, making him harder, yearning, urgent.

She was very wet. He deepened his kiss. Stroked gently, then more firmly when her hand came down and showed him how. Then she grabbed him, her grip loose until he nodded and she explored every inch of him and he every bit of her until their bodies were so tight against each other’s that there wasn’t any room left to touch the way they wanted, needed.

“I want to use my mouth,” he heard himself say.

She let go of him to cover her eyes with the back of her hand. “Really?”

Now that he’d said it, he could think of nothing but the hot mess of how she would taste, how vulgar and perfect. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t want to.”

“You can.”

He moved her hand, peering at her face. “But do you want me to?”

“Yes.” Her color was high, her mouth soft, relaxed. “Yes, please. Preferably right now, rather than, you know, next week.”

He kissed her deep with a sweep of his tongue. She clutched at his head, kissing him back, then pushing him down, panting,

laughing.

Winston followed his hand down the plane of her stomach with his mouth, kissing beneath her navel as he parted her thighs and stroked through her slickness. She was already familiar to the touch, but he hadn’t looked, hadn’t watched his hand moving through her, and he played with her for long minutes, fingers slipping inside and out, pressing where she wanted pressure, watching her hips rise to meet his touch. Then he slid down the bed, rearranging himself between her thighs, taking a moment to find the right position.

“You need a pillow or anything?” she asked.

“I think this will do.”

He licked the slickness off her inner thighs, then worked inward bit by bit, savoring her strange and peppery flavor and how soft, how incredibly and unforgivably soft, she felt against his tongue. And then a rougher texture near her clit that he rubbed his tongue over, slow drag after slow drag with two fingers inside her that made her fling her arms wide and clutch at handfuls of sheets and finally turn her face into the pillow and shove it up over her head, her eyes covered, her breath coming fast as she said, “I don’t think I can.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” The word came out like a sob, urgent and full of feeling.

“Okay. But I’m going to need more direction.”

“You’re doing perfect. You feel…there aren’t words, but it’s so good. I just don’t know how to make myself come like this. There’s nothing to focus on, or push against, and I’m on my back like a stupid turtle—”

He kissed her hip bone. Her stomach. Worked his way up to her neck, behind her ear, her cheek, which was when he noticed her eyes were full of unshed tears.

She was trembling.

“I can stop,” he said. “There’s nothing we need to get to. We could put on clothes and watch a film.”

This made her eyes overflow, and she swiped at them with the back of her hand. “I don’t want to watch a film, not right now, I just—I don’t know what I want. I want to know how to come.” She turned onto her side, facing him. He rested his hand at the dip of her waist.

“I suspect you do know how.”