Page 66 of Unwanted Vows

“I doubt that other people are as lucky as we are,” I whisper between gasps. “No one warned me that sex would be like this.”

“Did you need a warning?” he asks with a laugh before going back to work.

I giggle. “Yes! I feel like I’m going to die every time, but in the most amazing way. If you had really died, how would I have ever found anyone else who would fuck me like this?”

He chuckles, the sound deep and satisfied, proud of his excellent work. Andrew doesn’t do anything by half measures, and he treats fucking with the same care that he lavishes on his profession. He spreads me wide, and teases me by licking everywhere except the part of me that wants his attention the most. This teasing and tempting is his specialty, and I love him taking control of me in this way.

“Andrew!” I beg, fisting my hands in his hair. He lets me guide him to my swelling clit. He nibbles it tenderly, laves it with his tongue, then sucks more aggressively.

“Oh, God,” I gasp, my body on fire with his attentions.

“Yes?” he teases.

“Oh, you,” I try to scoff, then gasp as he slides his tongue in and out of my opening. I am so hollow, I need for him to fill me. He teases me with his tongue, driving me higher and higher. I bite my lower lip to keep from crying out. I belatedly remember that we were supposed to be as quiet as we could be.

Everything in all the world disappears. I am that one central point, I am spiraling upward, my body responding to his attentions. I shatter in an explosion of light, shattered right to my core with indescribable joy.

Sensation eases back with my climax, and I look down at him, poised between my legs, looking as if he might dive in for another round. “M’lord Andrew,” I say, “You are overdressed for the occasion.”

He grins that enticing Lane grin at me, and says, “Do you think so?”

He slowly undoes the buttons of his shirt, revealing a lean, muscular chest and abdomen. He’s still lean and fit like a runner or a swimmer.

He makes a game of removing the shirt, placing his finger just under the collar, and twirling it around, before throwing it over a chair. He then shimmies out of his jeans, and makes a production of slowly removing his boxers. He adds jeans and boxers to his shirt, and stands before me, his manhood erect and displayed for my admiration.

I reach toward him, beckoning.

First with one knee, then the other, he climbs onto the bed. He moves like a great cat, all supple grace and feral intent.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“Yes!” I say, packing a world of meaning into the word.

We’ve never struggled with the newness of intimacy like some couples do. Even in our haste, wild with need, the steps of this age-old dance are familiar, well-choreographed, and utterly, soul-drenchingly gratifying. He slides slowly, oh, so slowly, into me. I hear his breath between his teeth as he reacts to me.

Then we move together. Slowly at first, then faster and harder. I grab his buttocks, trying to pull him deeper into me. “More,” I beg. “More please.”

“Shh,” he whispers in my ear as he obliges me, driving into me faster and harder. He places his finger over my lips, his sensitive surgeon’s fingers keeping me quiet as shocks of wrenching pleasure ripple outward from the center of me. Only half aware of what I am doing, I lick his finger, and he gives it to me to suck, while he nibbles his way over to my ear.

“Harder,” I try to say to him through the finger filling my mouth. Despite the fact that I can barely speak, he growls in my ear, a breathy rumble that sends shivers down my spine.

I wrap both arms around him, as if I can pull myself inside him, even as he is filling me.

“Come for me,” he croons throatily as he thrusts. As if the words were key, I am engulfed in a tsunami of pleasure. I hear his indrawn breath that turns into a groan as he follows me over the edge. I feel every muscle as he tenses, feel the joyous pulsing of him inside of me. Then we coast on the waves of after-bliss.

“You are so beautiful,” he says. “My dreams didn’t even come close.”

I try to come up with something witty to say, but what comes out is, “I love you, Andrew.” The words are a little muffled because my face is pressed into his shoulder.

“Oh, Maddy,” he says, “I love you, too.”

Then comes the sad moment when his erection finally shrinks away, and we come uncoupled. But he pulls me close, and continues to hold me.

I drowse in his arms, unwilling to lose the warmth and closeness. Delicious though it is, a hormonal high only lasts a short while. Everyday reality intrudes, I become aware of a need for the bathroom, of perspiration drying on my skin, and a sensation of stickiness.

Then I realize something. “Andrew?” I say.

“What?” he asks, as if he is reluctantly coming back to the real world.

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