Page 49 of We Were Something
At her request, I unbutton and unzip her then slip my hand beneath the soft material of her shorts, beneath the silkiness of her panties, until I feel a tiny strip of short, coarse hairs and then the slick, damp heat of her pussy.
She takes in a shuddered breath as one finger slides between her lips, assessing, before gliding over her clit in the same slow and steady rhythm with which I stroked the seam of her shorts.
“God, Logan,” she says, her hands coming off the fridge and grasping at me, her fingers gripping my wrist and trying to move my hand at a quicker pace, to a beat that will get her off faster.
“Shhhhhh,” I tell her, refusing to alter my cadence.
“Logan, I’m so close,” she says, her voice a soft cry in my ear.
“I know you are,” I tell her. “I can feel the way you’re close to falling apart, the way you’re twitching in my arms.”
She moans again and I circle her little nub before shifting my hand lower to pulse at her entrance.
“But this will be so much better if you let me take my time.”
Her hands still grip mine, but they no longer try to control. Instead it feels like she’s trying to anchor herself so she doesn’t float away.
Which is exactly where I want her.
Taking one finger, I press into her tight heat, unable to hide my own desperate moan at the feel of her. Then I add another finger, loving the bite of Paige’s nails as they dig into the skin at my wrist.
“Fuck, it feels so good,” she whispers, moving her hips against mine.
Taking my other hand off the fridge, I wrap my arm around her chest, slipping a hand into the top of her shirt and tugging on her nipple.
“Logan,” she cries as I thrust two fingers inside of her and caress her breast. “Logan, I can’t, I…”
And then her body arches almost unnaturally, shuddering and rocking against me as she breaks apart in my arms.
It’s the sexiest, most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, watching her head fly back, her eyes closed and her mouth wide open, like the shock of her orgasm is too much for her to handle.
I stroke her gently, helping bring her back down as she becomes a puddle in my arms, and the two of us slip down to our knees on the kitchen floor.
We stay there for a long moment, and somehow I manage to keep the analytical part of my brain turned off. Instead of dissecting what just happened, I choose to merely enjoy this moment, with Paige slumped in my arms and purring like a kitten.
“God, that was…” She moans like she’s coming back to life.
Her head tilts back and she looks at me, her eyes glazed and satisfied and hazy with orgasm-induced dopamine.
Then her lips press to mine in a long, drugging kiss.
I can’t remember there ever being a moment like this between myself and Jen, where we were so turned on by each other that we messed around in the kitchen.
I mean, there wasn’t anythingwrongwith our sex life. It was just simple. Our interactions were appropriate in public and demure in private. Sex was missionary and quiet, Jen never wanting the neighbors to hear, which I never had any issues with because hey, we were having sex, and there isn’t such a thing as bad sex, right?
Only now, having just gotten Paige off against the fridge, listening to her agonizing, desperate pleas to come, I’m wondering if there might be…if notbadsex, at leastbettersex. Nothing ridiculous like I’ve seen in the porn I’ve watched since things with Jen fizzled over the past few years and then during the divorce. But, at the very least, the kind of sex that leaves a fucking smile on my face the next morning as I head into the office.
It makes me wonder what sex with Paige would be like, and for the first time, I admit to myself that maybe a fun little fling with her is exactly what I need to move on from my disaster of a marriage. It might not be my normal approach, but I don’t think Ihavea normal approach in this area, really. I need to start from scratch, and Paige might just be the perfect person to experiment with.
The two of us right ourselves and stand, eyeing each other with goofy smiles as we each grab a glass of water.
Her eyes dip to my jeans and take in the still-raging hard-on that seems to be a constant presence when she’s around but is definitely full steam after that escapade.
Then she looks at me mischievously over the rim of her water glass before setting it on the counter and stepping closer.
“I’d be more than happy to…” she says, one hand dropping down and grazing over where I ache for her.
I groan but grit my teeth and shake my head.
