By Oleander Plume
We can taste the guilt on each other’s lips, but we’re at the point of no return and the craving for each other drives away the sin. Our time together may never be permanent, but it matters. It matters. We share more than sex. There is an empathic nurturing between us—the kind that heals those places deep inside—the ones that ache with pain. Who could give that up? Who could let that go? I can’t.
He can’t either.
His lips carry a hint of the wine we shared earlier. I’m not kissing him, I’m drinking him and he flows through my veins like that lush, red vintage. Warm skin under my fingers, when I reach his cock, he shivers, just like always. I move my mouth from his and kiss my way down his body, aching for a taste. The touch of his fingers on my head is feather light.
“You don’t have to.”
I look up at him and smile. “Honey, I never do anything I don’t want to, not anymore.”
The expression on his handsome face turns serious. He twists a lock of my hair around his finger, studying the strands as if he’ll find the secrets of the universe hidden in my blonde streaks.
“I’m supposed to be cheering you up. You shouldn’t feel like you have to do this for me.” His brown eyes bore into mine, deeper than usual. “I should, you know, do that for you.”
For a forty-year-old man, he’s shyer than a preteen. He never wants to give or receive oral sex, the fact that he’s even offering surprises me.
“What do you think you should do for me?”
He smiles that sweet smile that makes him look twenty. The blush streaked across his cheekbones adds to his innocent schoolboy charm. I want to corrupt him, but in a positive way. I want to untie the knots his strict Catholic upbringing has tied in his libido. I want to erase his shame.
“Can you say it? Can you say you want to lick my pussy?”
“Baby.” He groans the word while a smile plays about his lips.
“I’ll say it to you then. I want to suck your cock.”
His arms reach out. “Come here, sit on me.”
Those are his code words. He wants to fuck and so do I—I love fucking him. He’s loving and languid, thrusting with care while he whispers poetic phrases in my ear. Sometimes I think he’s too good, more than I deserve, and I almost cry while he’s inside me. This man is a beautiful gift that belongs to another. He can only be mine for a few hours at a time, but, damn, those minutes are precious things.
“You want to fuck me?” I like to push his boundaries. “Tell me how much.”
“So much. I could live inside you.”
I lick the pad of my thumb before rubbing it over the head of his cock. “Feels good?”
“My tongue would feel better.”
I kiss his stomach, then lower, and for the first time he doesn’t stop me. The taste of him—fuck—he tastes like warm spring days and laughter, like the ocean and the sun. His breathy moan send shivers down my spine. Soft fingers in my hair, he lies perfectly still, allowing me to do what I’ve wanted. I lick and suck, taking him as deep into my mouth as I can. His legs are splayed open. I reach between and graze the silky skin of his taint with one fingertip.
He’s read my stories, he’s afraid I’ll go further, but I won’t. I kiss my way back up to his neck. He smells like Calvin Klein and hotel sheets. I mount his cock and let him fill me. We move in synchronicity, a passionate dance on a rented bed. Stolen minutes. I sit up and grind against his body, taking him deeper while wishing for things that cannot be.
He touches my face. I take his hand and kiss his palm, then each fingertip, stopping at the one that holds his ring. Someday, I’ll suck that gold band right off his finger. Maybe if I swallow it, the cold bitch will disappear and I’ll scoop him up and never let go. Until then, I take him to places she never will.
“Come for me.” I smile when he says the words, the only dirty ones he’s comfortable saying. “You’re so beautiful when you come.”
He’s the only one that has ever brought me to orgasm just from fucking. The thickness of him rubs a place I didn’t know I had. Maybe that place has been there all along, waiting for him to wake it from its slumber. I tumble over the edge, staring into his eyes while his thumb traces my open lips. He pulls me in for a kiss before he comes inside me. His hands float against my hips, hands that never hurt, fingers that never leave bruises.
He cups my face in his hands. “What are you doing to me?”
“I wish you could. I’m stuck, I’m so fucking stuck.” His lashes are wet.
“Hey, we’re both stuck, but it doesn’t mean we can’t be free. One iron bar at a time, remember?”
“I remember.” He holds me close. I can tell he’s checking his watch.
“How much longer?” I ask, dreading the answer.
“Not long enough.”
“I know.” I kiss his collarbone and inhale his skin, trying to memorize his scent. “But, we have this, at least, and that’s something.”
He whispers, “It’s everything.”
I hold him tighter and rejoice in every stolen minute.