Читать книгу Nikki Gemmell’s Threesome: The Bride Stripped Bare, With the Body, I Take You - Nikki Gemmell - Страница 83

hints on shopping: always buy the best article of its kind

You want Gabriel’s finger in your ass as he’s fucking you, you tell him that, you’ve always wanted to try. There are so many things you’ve always wondered about and now there’s a willing partner who’ll never embarrass you, for he’ll never be entwined in your normal life. With his finger in your ass you have your first orgasm while a man is in you and you smile wide, you can’t stop: you could grow to love this too much.

And then the licking, whole golden afternoons of it. It’s never quite worked for you: Cole, particularly, always thinks he knows best. Now you tell Gabriel exactly where you want him, around the clit most of all and you splay your fingers on each side of it, you straighten them to draw back the flesh. It stands bold, a wild red. You lift your lower back and press his mouth on to you and you won’t let him come up as you twist your fist into the sheet. And then he breathes you in gently and his tongue dips into you, it sweeps deeper and deeper and you didn’t know you could ever get so wet. He stares at you as you come, stares at what he’s done and you turn your face and tell him not to look, go away; you don’t want him to see you so cracked apart. But he keeps looking, gleefully, his fingers held over a smile, as if in prayer.

But I love you like this, he says. I just love it.

Gabriel’s not afraid of your sexuality. Your pleasure is giving him pleasure, it arouses him and he asks nothing physically of you in return: no one has taught him to do that, to expect. He’s your first lover who’s utterly selfless, there’s no request to go down on him, it’s purely unselfish, feminine sex.

Your orgasms are becoming increasingly intense, they trip over each other until almost as soon as his tongue touches your skin you have to push him away and thrust your fingers between your legs, trying to stem the coming, to slow it down, and you slam your face into the pillow, muffling sounds you’ve never uttered before that break from the base of your spine.

You feel so alive. Shaken awake after years of apathy until you’re almost coming with just his kiss in greeting, or the sound of his voice on the phone.

You wonder sometimes if he enjoys the licking that much, for a colleague let slip once that the taste of a woman, when he went down on her, always made him gag, that there was no woman whose smell he’d ever liked even though every woman’s smell was different. But you’re addicted now and many afternoons he’ll be between your legs until your inner thighs are trembling and you’re begging him to stop for it’s too exquisite, it verges into pain now, you can hardly bear it. And yet he goes on, as if he’s trying to stamp out the memory of any other man’s fuck and you’re drowning in the pleasure of it, you’re glutted, keeling, lost.

You kiss, softly, the valley at the base of his neck, you kiss, softly, the pale clearing behind his ear, you breathe him in deep, kneel, swell him. Want to give so much back, to have him as stunned by sensation as you are.

Changed, utterly.

And each week hurtling home on the tube you wonder where it can all end, how much more can you ask of him. For everything else is obliterated by that explosive pleasure at the base of your spine, your whole other life is wiped away. Neither of you talks about husbands or families, or what on earth comes next, because you can’t bear to think about anything that might put a stop to all this.