“Wrong door!” I say when he tries to enter the bathroom, then the closet where I keep the vacuum cleaner I never use and the one pair of spare sheets I own, and by the time we’re on my bed we’re both laughing. Our teeth clack together when we try and fail to keep kissing as we undress each other, and I don’t think that anything has ever been like this before, intimate and sweet and so much fun at the same time.
“Just—let me—” I finish taking off his shirt and stare at his torso, mesmerized. It’s pale and broad, full of freckles and large muscles. I want to bite him and lick all over. “You’re so . . .”
He has undone my brace. He sets it aside, next to the pajama bottoms that I threw on the floor this morning, then helps me wiggle out of my jeans. “Red? And spotty?”
I laugh a little harder. “Yup.”
“That’s what I—”
I press him down till he’s lying on the bed. Then I straddle him and peel off my top, ignoring the slight sting in my ankle. This should be familiar ground for me: bodies against bodies, flesh against flesh. Just seeing what feels good and then doing more of it. It should be familiar, but I’m not sure it is. Being here with Ian is more like hearing a song I’ve listened to millions of times, this time with a new arrangement.
“God, you look so— What works best for you?” he asks between breaths. “For your ankle?”
“Don’t worry, it doesn’t really hu—” I stop myself as something occurs to me. “You’re right. I am injured.”
His eyes widen. “We don’t have to—”
“Which means that I should probably be in charge.”
He nods. “But we don’t have to—”
He shuts up the moment my hand reaches the zipper of his jeans. And he stays silent, breathing sharply, staring mesmerized at the way I undo it, slow, methodical, determined. His boxers are tented. He is hard, big. I remember touching him for the first time and thinking how good the sex was going to be.
I just didn’t think it would take us five years to get there.
“Hannah,” he says.
I reach inside the slit of his boxers to cup him. The second my fingers close around him, his nostrils flare. “Yes?”
“I don’t think you understand how— Fuck.”
He is hot and huge. Closing his eyes, arching his neck before looking at me again with a half-warning, half-pleading expression. He finds me sitting on his knees, his cock spasming in my grip as I lean over. “Hannah,” he says, even deeper than usual. “What are you . . .”
I start by licking the head, thoroughly, delicately. But he feels smooth and warm against my tongue, and I immediately get impatient. I flip my hair so it’s not in the way and seal my lips around him, suck gently once, twice, and then . . .
I hear a growl. Then the sound of something ripping. With the corner of my eye, I notice Ian’s large hand fisting the sheet. Did he just tear my—
“Stop,” he says, pleads, orders me.
My brow furrows. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s not—” I tighten my grip around his length, and I can almost hear his teeth grind. His cheeks are bright red. Mars Red. “We can’t. Not the first time. We need to do it in a way that won’t make me . . .”
I press a soft, lingering kiss at the base. He inhales once, audibly, from his nose. “So what you’re saying is . . . you don’t want to come?”
“It’s more—shit—about keeping my dignity,” he rushes out.
“Dignity is overrated,” I say before running my teeth up his length to take the head in my mouth again. This time, he seems to just give in. His hand slides through my hair, cups the back of my skull, and for a second he keeps me there. Pulls me closer. Presses me against him until I feel the tip of his cock hitting the back of my throat. I yield to Ian, enjoying the feeling of him losing control, the salty flavor, his trembling thighs, the helpless way he tugs at my hair to get me to take more, deeper, better—
Suddenly, it’s all upside down. I’m being dragged up his body, flipped on my back, pinned to the bed. One of his hands can hold both my wrists above my head, and when I look up I find him caging me. I first notice the panic in his eyes, then how close he was to coming, then the sheer relief that he managed to stave it off.
“Hannah,” he says. His tone is laced with command.
“What?”
His cock twitches against my abdomen. “I think I’ll be in charge now.”
I pout. “But I—”
“I’m sorry, but—it’s happening. I’m going to fuck you. I’m not going to come in your—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just leans forward to kiss me, and by the time he’s done, I’m nodding, breathless.
“Do you have condoms?”
“No. But I’m on the pill. We can do it without anything if you’re not giving me gross STDs. But I trust that you wouldn’t save me from the walruses just to have me die of chlamydia, so—”
I think he likes the idea of us doing it without anything. I think he loves the idea, because first he kisses me breathless, then he gets to work on taking everything—every last layer—off both of us.
The truth is, I can’t remember the last time I was fully naked with someone. When I’m having sex—the type of sex I usually go for—there always tends to be the odd irremovable layer. A bra, a tank top. Not-quite-all-the-way-off panties. My partners have been the same, with boxers twisted at their ankles, skirts pulled up, still-cuffed open shirts.
I’ve never dwelled too much on the thought, but the lack of intimacy behind the encounters is crystal clear now. Now that Ian is draped over me, sucking at my breasts as if they are ripe fruits, his tongue sweet and rough against the pliant underside, alternating between too much and not enough.
He spreads my legs open with his knee, positions himself right between them, and I expect him to slide in in one smooth move. I’m certainly wet enough, and the way he grips my waist betrays his eagerness. But for long moments he just seems satisfied to nibble on my tits. Even though I can feel his erection, hot and a little wet, rubbing against the inside of my thigh whenever he shifts. It leads to me gasping and him groaning, something deep and rich rising from the pit of his chest.
“I thought you said you wanted to fuck?” I breathe out.
“I do,” he rumbles. “But this . . . this is good, too.”
“You can’t”—a sharp intake of breath—“you can’t like my tits this much, Ian.”
A soft bite, right around the hard point of my nipple. My spine shoots up from the bed. “Why?”
“Because—they’re . . . No one ever has.” I don’t want to mention that my breasts are nothing to write home about—he probably already knows, since they have been in his mouth for the better part of the last ten minutes. He seems to get it, anyway.
“You have the most perfect little tits. I always thought so. Since the first time I met you. Especially the first time I met you.” He sucks on one while pinching the other. He is—precise. Good. Enthusiastic. Filthy. “They’re as pretty as the Columbia Hills.”