Page 64 of Love Always

Chapter Thirteen

Laurel

When Mateus picks me up I feel weightless. I’m a little heavier than my sisters, especially around the hips, and have never felt delicate, or dainty or all those other attributes of traditional femininity. The last person to carry me anywhere was my mom. Dad had thrown his back out after getting kicked hard by a heifer, and I was sick. She carried me downstairs to what we called the oyster shower, the washing station in the kitchen. She used the spigot to cool me down.

There is something so evocative about being carried, being cared for, being loved, that I have to look away as tears fill my eyes. He doesn’t love me, love takes time, and I certainly don’t want to saddle him with any expectations. But this is lovely. It isn’t until he rolls up his pants to take off his prosthetic that I remember he wears one.

“Think of this as sex prep,” he says.

It’s easy to do. I watch the muscles of his back move under poreless skin and the cleft of his triceps shift as he pulls it off. As soon as it drops to the floor, I take his upper arm, warm, thick, the muscle hard underneath, the skin smooth and supple, and pull him down on the bed, next to me.

“Let me do the rest,” I say.

There’s something about a man’s bare chest, flat stomach, ending with a belt buckle that’s incredibly sexy. Just the sound of leather sliding against material is enough to make me a little wet. But this? He lifts his hips slightly as I tug the belt through, and then his abs relax when he settles back down—his groin flinching slightly as I unbutton the top button on his jeans and slide the zipper open. His hips lift again, and I watch the play of light across the “v” of his abdomen.

He slides his pants off, sits up, and takes me in his arms. His shoulders are so broad, they more than eclipse mine. His skin, under my fingertips, is so soft and warm and yet, what lies underneath is steel.

His erection bulges from beneath some black silky stretch trunks.

“Nice underwear, mister.”

“I pride myself on my collection,” he says, and I laugh.

The laugh triggers him. We’re on our knees, one hand is under my ass, the other at the base of my head, his fingers are in my hair and his mouth is so warm, soft, plying mine open with every catch and release, our breaths ragged, hard, coming together, creating a rhythm matching the throbbing in my clit.

Within minutes, I am on my back, his lips move down my neck to each breast, sucking, his tongue flicking, sliding. My hands have nothing to do but to hold on to bedsheets. I arch up completely open to him and to whatever he wants to do with me.

He slides further down, and I can barely see him through heavy lids. With one hand on my chest, he slides the other between my legs as he rubs my clit. He dips his head down, tasting me with regular flicks of his tongue, creating another pattern my body can’t compete with.

I succumb, with deep, guttural moans, wanting to touch him, to bring him here, with me, but I can’t.

All I can do is feel.

Just as the wave is about to crest in my groin, he eases up and grabs the back of my head and, lifting me slightly, kisses me deeply. My fingers find the sides of his face and I shudder.

He starts to lay me back down, but I resist, having found an oasis of consciousness.

I pull myself up and throw a leg over him and he lets me flip him on his back. “Now it’s your turn.” His neck smells so good.

“I don’t need a turn.”

“I do,” I say, locking my hands with his and pushing them flat down on the bed above his head.

This stretch leaves his pecs flat and long, the dark swirls of areola pucker and his nipples are tight. I dip my head down to suck one.

His moan makes me gush. Watching his throat work as he writhes slightly under me, his chest shuddering, makes me let go with one hand and slide the other beneath that waistband and grab his cock.

The shaft is just like the rest of him: silky-soft on the surface, and rock hard underneath. The head is like velvet and wet with precum. Sitting up, I release him for a moment and he pulls his trunks off. Reaching over to my nightstand, I pull open the top drawer and take out a condom.

“Let me,” I say.

There’s something very satisfying about making condoms part of foreplay and I’m pretty good at it. For one, men don’t think of prolonging the condom scene long, and this can be a mistake. Second, I think they don’t spend much time buying them and they don’t know what to look for. They’re also afraid to size themselves. At least the guys I’ve slept with. I’m lucky that Devon dumped some packets in my drawer last month after a long lecture about dating again. She said she didn’t need them.

This one is polyurethane and transfers heat well. It also has a swirl at the tip. I peel it out of its wrapper and place it in my mouth. After going so long without sex, Mateus has reignited me, made me aware that I am sexual, that I can cherish and be cherished during sex. I haven’t been bashful in bed in years and I love how I feel right now: in power.

Looking at him lying on my bed, his dark eyes capturing my gaze, my hand just below his navel, I want to give him all of me. I want to make him come. I am so wet, so hot between my legs, I’m afraid any touching will be too much. I reach down and fondle his sac, and his testicles harden and pull up. I dip my head and place the condom at the tip. I make sure my lips are pulled over my teeth before I slide the condom down with my mouth, unfurling it along the length of his shaft. I’ve learned to do it fast, to keep him hard, and he gasps as I rise and pull the rest down towards his base with my hands.

I can tell he feels the difference. His breath comes ragged, and his eyes widen.