The moistness of your lips became mine. Enhancing your own delight, your eyes shuttered. The cool of the night air was broken. On your pillow, your black hair was spread like a paint brush awaiting emersion in color.
You removed my shirt as I peeled off what was left of your pajamas, as your hips preceded your legs and ankles in assisting with your full undressing. My heart, not alone, palpitated. Before me, you were naked. Except for your dark eyes, which were sealed. Except when peaking to confirm the shapes of me that you quietly explored.
I admired the curves of your hips, the strength of your thighs, and the soft triangle where they met. I smiled at the fullness of your breasts, irresistibly drawing me to your nipples, stiffened, as I sensed with my lips, lightly tugging with soft, slow kisses. My hand rested just beneath your navel, my fingers pointing down, sensing warmth and the softness of your trim mound, black threads of silk.
I was as inebriated as I was aroused. You did not resist my fingers. They deliberately walked the curves of your body, the most deft taking the lead like two legs wandering a new landscape. They gently found their way around. They found their way inside, too, oscillating, maybe too aggressively, perhaps too quickly, feeling a moistness dawn.
A fog of sorts clouded the windows, shuttering us behind curtains of vapor. The air was thick, as in a greenhouse, like the flower conservatory we visited hours earlier together as strangers. If my hand had been free, I could have drawn on the window panes, just out of reach. Below, strangers walked up and down the sidewalk, their echoing voices unaware of the copulation unfolding behind your drafty, Victorian windows. Had they listened, they would have heard wordless sounds giving away our conjunction.
Your back lifted and arched. As you did, the palm of my hand came to rest under you, as your hand encircled me in gripping strokes. My fingers remained steady in motion, stirring you, as if trying to stoke you. Until you would allow it no more, either because it was vexing, ineffective, or overpowering. I know the answer now.
As I knelt beside you, you pulled me nearer to you before you inched downward. Your hands controlled me. Your lips obliged, consuming me. All I could see was the crown of your head and occasionally the compression of your face, the gaping of your mouth, the curled grip of your two palms and fingers holding tightly. You were doing magic—making me appear and disappear right before my eyes. With your prowess, you were trying to impress me. It worked.
Sensing a surge in me and masterful with pacing, you disengaged. Simultaneously, your impatience and eagerness manifested—a rush of hot and cold. You returned your lips to mine. We kissed again. Slowly now, an interlude. The sweetness of the champagne that was on both our tongues yielded to a hint of saltiness and musky fleshiness that I discerned to be my own on your tongue.
In invitation, your hips lifted. I climbed on top of you. We kissed again. I was still only partially undressed, left in my blue boxers. It resulted from a haste that echoed an evaporating modesty. We kissed as my hands fumbled. I was not sure how to proceed, whether to go any further than this. Sensing the uncertainty, you proceeded. Uninhibited and seeming to want to move the night along to its inevitable conclusion, your hands connected us, drawing me inside.
I had not expected that sensation. It was overpowering. I experienced a burst of heat as I penetrated, sliding easily into you, without any inching inside. I felt like I was being pulled quickly into you, wondering how far I would go. It felt more like gravity than propulsion as our flesh joined. I was lost in a moment of pure curiosity and ecstasy as I felt the walls of your vagina constrict around me, pulsing. Your tongue flicked against my tongue at the same time, playing with me, feeling my desire expand from within.
