Page 98 of Over the Edge

“Show me how you make yourself feel good, show me exactly how you do it,” I say. “I want to be able to picture you, every face you make when you’re alone.”

She pulls back so I can see the flush dominating her cheeks. The pink of her tongue slips out to wet her parted lips. “I’ve never had someone watch me like that before.”

“Don't if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“I want to,” she says without hesitation. “But I might have to get used to it. I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“You couldn’t if you tried,” I promise.

She steps back from me and slips off her pants at a painfully slow pace that makes me groan. She could ask me to do anything right now and I would. Her chest flutters with a breath before she lowers to her knees in front of me. Lazily, she drags a hand along her body and aching progression from her breast to the valley between her thighs.

Her lips form a silent “O” as she presses against her clit. It’s impossible to take my eyes off her. I like knowing she feels good, seeing the pleasure painted on her face. As she continues, I watch her muscles tense and shift. I memorize the erratic rhythm of her breath. She sinks a finger into her entrance then another.

She bites into her bottom lip, stifling a cry. I catalog every movement, everything that she likes to do to herself so I can replicate it later. I’ve never thought of sex as beautiful. But that was before her.

In truth, when I was younger, I struggled to view sex as a positive experience. There was more anxiety when I had sex with women than with men. The potential for an accidental pregnancy haunted me until I got a vasectomy. The thought that I could bring life to this world unintentionally without being able to say for sure that I could love them? It sickened me.

It took years for me to shed the fear. From that point on I viewed sex as a destructive, yet pleasurable act. The moment I slept with someone it was one step closer to a guaranteed ending. Pleasure that would be used up.

But this view. This perfect view, I could never get tired of it. I want to undo her and make her whole at once. Over and over again.

Sex with Evelyn makes me realize why people make art dedicated to the act. If I were to ever carve a statue it would be to immortalize the bliss that consumes her face as she climbs to the point of orgasm.

“Am I doing a good job?” she pleads.

“You’re fucking yourself with your fingers so well. Add another and tell me how it feels.” My voice is low and hungry. I want to consume her as much as I want her to consume me.

She does and gasps. “It feels full. Good. But full.”

“Fuck, you don’t know how much your pleasure turns me on,” I tell her, fucking transfixed by the woman I have the privilege of being with.

“Let me touch you, please. Let me help you feel good too.” She gazes at me through dark lashes and I nod.

She crawls across the plush carpet, hands and knees sinking into the fibers. Her full hips sway as she takes her time closing the distance. Those green eyes of hers never leave me.

By the time she reaches me, I’ve tossed away my pants. Evelyn stops to kneel at my feet as I stand in front of the piano. Her hand skates up my thigh, slow. So fucking slow. The groan rips out of me just as her fingers are inches from my cock.

But I stop her, my hand landing over hers, so I can make one thing perfectly clear.

I tuck my forefinger under her chin and guide her to meet my eyes. “You are not allowed to stop touching yourself. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she says on an exhale.

She presses her pillowy lips against the tip, sending a jolt of pleasure through me as she takes me into the wet heat of her mouth. Her head bobs an easy rhythm as her tongue expertly swirls.

I lightly thrust, slowly picking up speed. Looking down I see that two of her fingers are dipping in and out of her pussy at a similar pace. Her mouth vibrates around my cock as she moans. It’s fucking glorious and I nearly come. My arm reaches back to crash into the keys of the piano, sending a discordant scattering sound through the room.

“Stop,” I demand.

“Why?”

“You’re going to play me a song.”

Her lips pop open and her eyes are glazed with lust. I watch as she muddles through the moment of confusion. “What?”

Reaching down, I weave my fingers in her hair. “I’m going to fuck you while you play our song. And you’re going to keep playing until you come.”

And if I have it my way, even after I leave on Monday. Anytime she plays this song. Anytime she even hears it all I want her to think about is me buried in her.Us.

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