Page 101 of Catch a Kiwi
I was still thinking “condom,” but he wasn’t, because he was sliding under me, face up, and when he pulled me down into his mouth? I let out some kind of sound. A moan, or a cry. I pressed my palms into the carpet, lifted my head, and stared at my reflection. Eyes wide open, and mouth open, too. Starting to pant, because the man had amouth.And, oh, God, a tongue. He also had his hands around my hips, pulling me down, his fingers digging in.
Pressure. Force. Sensation. Hands and mouth relentless, and no sound but my panting breath. I tried to move, to writhe, but he gripped me tighter, almost but not quite painfully, and increased the suction, and I had no choice. No choice. No …
Choice.
The orgasm came on me fast and suddenly, sharp and hot and hard. I was rocking now, because there were no hands in the world that could have held me down. Wailing, and watching myself do it. Helpless.
And then he did it again.
By the time he finished, my face was buried in my hands, and I was shaking all over. That’s when he finally pulled off all that lace and, yes, unfastened my shoes and pulled those off, too. I struggled to my knees, and was glad when he took my hand and helped me.
The woman in the mirror didn’t even look like me. My hair was tumbled around my face, my cheeks were pink and so was my upper chest, and I was still gasping a little. Also, my body was still shaking. I said, “I thought you said …” and then couldn’t even go on.
He put an arm around my waist, pulled me into him, and bent and kissed my cheek, then looked into my eyes in the mirror and said, “Decided I need to love you slow.”
“That was a … fail, then,” I managed to say. “Because I feel like I’ve been, uh … slammed up against the … wall.”
A smile on the tough face, though if all of that had been as exciting to him as it had been to me, he must be dying. “Yeh,” he said. “but I had to do it. And now I have to do this. Come on, Summer. Get on the bed for me.”
Roman
I’d had plans. Every one of them had vanished when I’d seen her in those lacy things. Sweet as honey. Hot as hell. All I’d thought was,Mine,and all I’d wanted to do was grab her, hold her, and make her come hard. Now, though? There was something washing over me, looking at her shaking like that, naked and vulnerable, eyes huge and unsure. It could be tenderness, and it was messing with those plans.
I needed to be inside her. But I also had to pet her and kiss her and love her until she trusted me to take her someplace new. Someplace a little scary, maybe, where she’d go because she trusted me. Until she was warm as honey and soft as wax.
So that was what I did. I put her on her back. I took off my clothes, and she put her arms up over her head. I pulled out the condom packet, and she sighed. I willed my hands not to shake, putting it on, and she bit her lip. Then I set out to lether know how beautiful she was. All over. Her front, and then her gorgeous back. Eyes and hands and mouth, telling her as best I could without saying a word.
Is there anything like telling a woman, “Turn over,” and having her do it? Yeh, there is. There’s kissing your way down the delicate bones of her spine, rubbing your hand over her arse, over those thighs, until your mouth settles in that spot just above her tailbone, and your fingers are feathery-light over the gorgeous paleness of her inner thighs. Until she’s squirming again.
By the time I told her to turn over again, she was doing some more of that panting. And when I slid inside her at last, then pushed her knees up and shoved my elbows over them, pinning her in place by those thighs, she called out. And when I finally turned her over one more time, tucked her body over her knees, and took her that way, so she was as tight as a woman could feel around you? I was the one panting then. My hand under her, helping her out, because I was what I’d said. Greedy for her, and selfish all the way. Wanting to feel how tight she’d be when she was coming around me, when I was over her and inside her and around her as much as a man could possibly be. Wanting to make her wail.
Tight and warm and silken as a glove. Curled up small under me, all of her taut and straining. Saying some things now, at last, because she couldn’t help it. Begging me.
God help me, I wanted to make her beg some more. So I did. I held off as long as I possibly could, and when I couldn’t wait anymore? When the darkness gripped me and pulled me under? When I was so big inside her, and she was so swollen, every movement was piercing her to her core? That was worth it, because that was power.
I may have shouted myself. I can’t remember.
Summer
I was still curled up tight, mostly because I didn’t have the strength to uncurl. That is, until Roman put his hand on my low back in the way he liked, kissed my shoulder, and said, “Oi. OK?” Then, I uncurled, because I had to touch him.
Or maybe, I thought dimly as his arms went around me and he pulled me in, I needed this. He said again, “OK? I may have got a bit …”
“I can’t even think how you’re going to finish that sentence,” I said.
A huff of quiet laughter, another kiss—on the top of my head this time, because somehow, my head was on his chest and my hand on his shoulder—and he said, “Yeh. Felt like I’d been waiting years for that.”
“I don’t think I was waiting at all,” I said. “Because that was, uh … not how sex normally works for me. You can’t anticipate what you don’t know about, I guess.”
“Yeh?” He rolled now so we were looking into each other’s eyes. His hand came out and traced my lips. “How d’you mean?”
“You said you were selfish,” I said. “You’re not selfish.”
“Mm.” His hand, so gentle now, stroking over my hair, a smile on his lips. “I’d say I am. Did exactly what I wanted, didn’t I.” Another soft kiss, on my lips this time. “Need some water? Champagne? Like that?”
“Water,” I said, and pulled myself to sitting against the padded headboard. It wasn’t easy. I was jelly. “I should find my phone. Call Delilah. What time is it?”
Roman looked at his wrist, but there was no watch on it. Somehow, he’d had the presence of mind to take it off. Not me. I was still wearing my earrings, in fact—the only ones I still had, the pair I’d been allowed to keep. Tiny white-goldhoops, so the holes wouldn’t close. Now, I tipped my head and pulled out one, then the other, and watched Roman, unselfconscious in his nudity, pad back across to me with two glasses of water. It was a pretty wonderful sight. Why had male thighs never featured on my list of favorite body parts? I’d been married to a footballer, but his thighs had never done for me what Roman’s were doing.
