The Honey - Don't List

“Talk to me,” he says, pushing my skirt and underwear down my hips. “Is this okay?”

I pull him back down. “It’s fine, it just …” I struggle to find the right words. “It feels like a fever.”

I can tell, from the way he groans and runs a greedy hand up over my chest, that he knows exactly what I mean.

This James is eager but gentle as he unfastens my bra; his mouth is a hot trail from my chin to my neck and down as he kneels. I wonder if I’ll ever get this picture out of my head: his eyes are closed, tongue flicking against my nipple and then, a few breaths later, between my legs.

I am nothing but ache and impatience as he stands and walks me backward toward the bed.

But he stops me just before I sit at the edge. “Wait. No.”

I experience a brief, sharp stab of disappointment, and suddenly the daylight filtering in makes me feel totally exposed. I cross my arms over my chest. “What?”

James shifts me to the side. “We are not doing this on a nasty hotel comforter.”

And I melt. With a sharp tug, he strips the duvet from the bed and then returns to me, kissing my shoulder, my neck, my mouth. James guides me down, pressing my back against the cool relief of the sheets. Our kisses become longer and unfocused. And then he’s there, hovering over me, with a condom in his hand. His hair falls forward as he sucks on my shoulder and with a gentle hand on my hip and one on my side, he’s rolling me over, onto my stomach, the heat of his front all along my back.

“Is this right?” He carefully pulls me to the foot of the bed.

He listened.

“Yes.”

I can hear us both breathing sharply, knowing we’re here. The fronts of his legs are warm against the backs of mine, his hand presses gently to my lower back, and then he’s closer, he’s there, pushing against me, with his capable hands moving to my hips and a kiss placed to the skin between my shoulder blades.

“Yeah?” he whispers again.

I nod, and the starting gun is his deep, relieved groan; he does what he’s promised. He’s moving confidently, hard and fast while he whispers something. Something about being what I want today. Something about how this feels, how he’ll need it again now that he’s had it. I think the same will be true for me—that I’ll need this again tonight, and again tomorrow morning when we have to be quiet and, someday, after work at his place, where there’s no need to be quiet at all.

His hand snakes around my body, sliding between my legs.

“Tell me if you need something else,” he says between sharp inhales, “to come.”

I would, but I don’t, and even if I did, my brain isn’t forming coherent words, only sounds that seem to be growing louder and sharper. He presses his fingers against me and it’s happened so fast—we were frantic after our half-shy disrobing—but the feeling he draws from me is like being poured out of a pitcher, warm and freeing. With a cry muffled by the sheets, I fall to pieces, brilliant color flashing behind my eyes. And with a quiet groan, he shakes and then goes still behind me, breathing heat against the back of my neck.

For a few seconds, we don’t speak or move. It takes several breaths for the room to stop spinning. And then James presses a lingering, gasping kiss to my shoulder before shifting back and disappearing into the bathroom. I take the opportunity to clamber up the bed and between the sheets, pulling them up to my chin. I want to scream in giddiness and excitement … and a resurgence of nerves. There’s no dark room to hide in, no nighttime to fall into.

James steps out of the bathroom, naked. He doesn’t seem to mind the walk to the bed, the daylight, or my laserlike focus on his body.

“Cold?” he asks, climbing in beside me.

“Shy.”

He scoffs, kissing my forehead. “Please. You are many things. But you are not shy.”

“Not all of us can saunter naked across a room, Jimbalaya.”

He laughs, squinting over at the clock, and I follow. It’s almost five. “What are we going to do for dinner?” he asks, but in his voice I hear the same hesitation I feel. Beneath the sheets with him it’s so warm and yummy. The last thing I want to do is go anywhere.

“Room service?” I suggest. “We can do rock-paper-scissors for who has to put on a robe and answer the door.”

I think he likes that idea. He pushes up onto an elbow, hovering over me. Brown eyes study my face, and when he translates whatever he sees there his smile straightens. “I’m glad it’s still light out. I like being able to see you.”