He’s here.
I lie in the dark, listening to the shift of his breathing. He’s just jolted awake beside me, staring up at nothing.
I speak first, my voice thick with sleep. “Are you okay?”
He startles a little. “What?”
“I asked if you’re okay.”
“Yeah. Did I wake you? Was I snoring?”
“No.” I pause, feeling the warmth of him still pressed along my back. “You moved suddenly—like something startled you in a dream.”
He’s quiet for a moment, searching his memory. I can almost hear the blankness.
“If I was dreaming, I don’t remember it.”
“Go back to sleep,” I murmur, and I roll away from him, just enough to give him space.
But he follows. Of course he does. He spoons against me, skin to skin except for the thin cotton of my vest and pyjama bottoms and his shorts. His hips settle against my ass so naturally it could be innocent.
It isn’t.
I feel the heat of him, the unmistakable ridge of his cock resting in the cleft of my cheeks. I don’t move away. Instead, I press back—just a fraction, barely there. But he feels it. I know he does, because his breathing changes.
His arm slides over me, slow and careful, his palm cupping my left breast. He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t demand. He just holds me, like he’s leaving the choice entirely to me.
I don’t pull away.
My nipple tightens under the cotton, rising against his hand as if it has its own will. I push back again, a little harder this time, and feel him answer with the same subtle pressure.
That’s all it takes. We both know where this is going.
His hand drifts down my stomach, fingers slipping under the hem of my vest to touch bare skin. He drags his nails lightly across my belly and I shiver. I reach back, find the warm plane of his chest, and scratch him gently in return.
His hand moves lower, easing inside the waistband of my pyjamas. His fingertips brush the top edge of my pubic hair, teasing, tickling, until I let out a soft, helpless sound and shift away—just enough to tell him I want more.
He’s fully hard now. I can feel every thick inch of him pressed against me. It’s been weeks. I’m aching for him, but I want him to take his time. I want to feel every second of being wanted this much.
He tugs at my pyjamas; I lift my hips to help him slide them down. I kick them off, hear them land softly on the floor. His hand strokes the outside of my thigh, then the sensitive backs of both thighs, always moving upward, inward.
When his fingers finally graze my sex, I gasp.
He parts me gently, reverently, like he’s handling something precious. I’m only barely wet. He brings his fingers to his mouth—I hear the soft sound of him licking them—and then he’s back, spreading warm saliva over my outer lips, stroking me until I’m slick and swollen and breathing in little shudders.
Again he wets his fingers, this time opening me just enough to glide inside my folds, coating me deeper. I sigh with every touch, pushing back against his hand, greedy now.
A third time he licks his fingers, and then he finds my clit, circling it slowly, tracing its hood until my thighs tremble.
He settles into a steady rhythm, soft and relentless, the kind I can lose myself in. But tonight I want more than friction. I edge away from his fingers, telling him without words what I really need.
He understands.
He slicks his fingers once more and slides his index finger inside me—slow, deliberate, all the way until I’m full of him. He curls it, strokes my inner walls, and I moan quietly into the pillow. The window’s open a crack; the thought that someone might hear me makes me even wetter.
He withdraws just as slowly and replaces it with his middle finger, pushing in with the same patient depth. I rock against his hand, chasing more.
I reach back, find his cock straining against his shorts, and squeeze. My message is clear.
He pulls his finger free and shoves his shorts down. I smell myself on his skin when he brings his hand to his mouth again, tasting me. Then he’s wetting his cock, coating the head and shaft until he’s slick and impossibly hard.
He guides himself between my thighs, pressing the head against my clit. I cry out—soft, but sharp enough that I imagine someone outside pausing, listening.
He slides his length along my slit, fucking my clit with slow, measured strokes that make me shake. Sometimes I let him control everything, let him position me exactly how he wants and work me to the edge. Sometimes I take over, gripping him and rubbing his head against me until I come undone.
Tonight I take over.
I’m close—so close—and as the first wave hits me, I push him down, clumsy in my urgency, and suddenly he’s sliding inside me, no resistance, just heat and fullness and relief.
We both groan. He bottoms out and whispers, hoarse and raw, “Fuck.”
“I love your cunt,” he says against my ear.
The words send a dark thrill through me. I love hearing them, even if I never admit it. I wish I could tell him everything that flashes through my mind when he’s buried deep—the filthy, secret pictures that make me clench around him. But I stay quiet. After twenty years, some things remain locked away.
He’s close; I feel it in the tension of his body. He grabs my wrist, brings my fingers to his mouth, licks them, then guides my hand between my legs.
“Make yourself come for me,” he says, low and commanding.
It’s not a request.
At first I’m lazy, still riding the aftershocks. But the need builds again fast, and soon my fingers are flying over my clit, hips lifting off the bed as I chase him.
“That’s it,” he growls. “Come for me. Come all over my cock.”
I do—hard, just before he does. My orgasm is still pulsing when I feel the first hot surge of him deep inside. He pulls back slightly so I feel every spurt along my walls.
“Fuck,” he says, loud enough to carry.
I turn my face toward him in the dark, eyes wide, feeling him empty himself into me. “Fuck,” I whisper back, earnest and breathless. I reach down, cup his balls gently, coaxing every last drop.
He softens slowly inside me, but I keep him there, unwilling to let him go. The room smells of us. My body is heavy, sated, warm.
If only it could always be like this.
Often like this, I correct myself.
He’s drifting already; I feel it in the loosening of his arms.
“Are you falling asleep?” I ask softly.
“Uh-huh.”
“Go back to sleep.”
He’s gone within seconds, breathing deep and even against my neck.
I lie awake a little longer, holding him inside me, staring into the dark, thoughts swirling—unclaimed desires, untested wants—until I finally let go too.
