Page 54 of A Very Friendly Valentine's Day
He scoffs. “No.” Like I’m an idiot.
I am an idiot for not kissing him, I know.
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do.
They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
I remember those lines fromRomeo and Juliet.Romeo, begging for a kiss.
Eddie’s whole body is silently begging me to kiss him.
So, I do. I plant kisses down to his pelvis, across that skin that’s stretched so tight, down along those common iliac arteries.
I pull his pants and underwear down, kiss the head of his cock very quickly, and then climb over to lie down on the other side of him so my right hand can do its best work. Resting my head against his chest, I stroke up the bottom of his shaft with my fingertips and then wrap my whole hand around it, squeezing before moving my hand up and down.
“Do you like that?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
He hisses, raising his hips up and down again. “Fuck, that feels so good.”
I’m taking it slow so this will last, but I don’t want to bore him. “Do you want me to go faster?”
“You’re doing everything right.”
“Okay… I just want you to know that you have a really wonderful penis.”
He blows out a laugh. “Thanks. You’re really great with it.”
“Thanks.”
I reach down a little farther, to see if he likes it when I touch him there, and he bucks once, groaning. He seems to like it a lot.
I feel his hand on my chin, the fingers of his other hand in my hair.
“Look at me, Birdie.”
“I can’t.”
“Then close your eyes and let me kiss you.” He has that authoritative tone in his voice, and I feel it in my abdomen.
I let him lift my chin up. I straddle him, and we both catch our breaths, becausefuck,his cock feels so good between my legs. My soaked lace panties are the only thing separating us now, and part of me is so grateful for the barrier but part of me hates them and just wants him to rip them off me.
I press down on his chest, lifting my chest up a little, hovering over him the way I did that night of my party. This is just the natural progression of that night, I suppose. I remember exactly how he looked at me then, and I’m sure he’s looking at me the same way now, but his eyes are probably cloudy with lust and even more hooded. I wouldn’t know, though, because my eyes are closed.
He flips me over onto my back, not very gently, and I like it. His chest is pressing down against my breasts. He pushes my hair out of the way, strokes the sides of my face, and when his lips touch mine, it’s the most tender form of electric shock. He kisses me twice like that, close-mouthed and gentle. And then his tongue slips between my lips, his hands are up in my hair, his hips rock against mine, and I have no idea where we are in Kansas right now, but this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. Under Eddie Cannavale. The weight of him on top of me, his beautiful mouth on mine. My hands are all over him, everywhere they can reach, stroking and squeezing and scratching.
I wonder if Lucretia Mott and Mary Cassatt really did get this up close and personal with their closest male friends too.
Maybe Layla was right. Maybe we do just need to have some vacation frorgasms and then get on with our lives.
I just want to devour this man.
I lick his stubbly chin, nibble on his lower lip, and then French kiss the life out of him. I can’t get enough of him.Notkissing him is definitely the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my life.
Eddie Cannavale kisses like a cross between Romeo and a porn star, and I would double high-five him if my hands weren’t so busy squeezing his butt.
