Page 47 of No Hope of Rescue

“Well, good morning,” she croons and wiggles herself into to me.

Still on my side, I trace the curve of her arm, then her waist, with my fingernails. Breathing into her hair, I slide my hand back up and around her front, gently cupping her left breast and running a thumb along the lacy top. With a second pass, her rib cage expands with a sharp intake of breath, and her back arches against me. I curl over her more so I can see her face.

Her mouth, small and red, is open, eyes closed, and there’s a muted humming in her throat. “Brock” comes as whisper. I lift her hair and nuzzle the base of her neck, once again sliding a finger along the lace, then diving under the tank. She shifts more to her back, and I pull the tank up over her, stopping at her wrists while her arms are above her head. Her neck arches, her rib cage expanding even further, her body open, her breasts erect. Sitting up slightly, I run both hands down her sides. She shivers again. I shove an arm under her back, lifting her higher. Her head falls further back, and a pulse in her throat beats at a frantic pace.

She wants me.

My mouth feels hot, and when I suck her nipples, they prick even harder. Her shudder and low moan nearly make my cock explode.

My hand wanders slowly between her legs, where her clit throbs, while I scoot her head in the crook of my other arm. Her sky-blue eyes open, unfocused, and then close when I slip two fingers deep into her vagina. I hold her pubis as she thrusts gently against my hand. I move fingers along the velvety folds within her.

She climaxes almost immediately—a surprise to us both. Her eyes fly open again, her mouth opens further, and a guttural, animal like sound releases from that white throat that is so honest, so authentic, I want to crush her mouth with mine.

She bucks hard while I continue to stroke inside her. As she comes in waves, I work to move with her, creating a spiral movement with my fingers, first deep, then swirling to the edge of her opening. Finished, she shudders, and I give her sex one more stroke, in time with her last spasm.

But there’s another surprise . . .

She comes again, though this time, she hasn’t the strength to even open her eyes. I rip the tank from her wrists and she trembles. It’s all her body can do, writhe feebly in my arms, her hips barely lifting and releasing in a rhythmic pattern. A soft moan rises from her lips again, and she tries to grip me, but she’s so weak that her hands slide down my shoulders. She moans once more as her body finishes. After a minute, she opens heavily lidded eyes.

I’m so hard I feel like my body is going to go off. I grab the condom I set on the nightstand, roll it on, and then move on top of her. She mumbles something, and I hold her to me as I grind us into the bed. Lifting her hips, I bury my cock inside her in one full stroke.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” I say as she gasps, her eye widening, then closing again. Her chest, now so seemingly frail, thunders under mine with a fierce beat.

Her body moves from trembling to taut as I thrust deep. Her pussy is so wet, so firm, that I glide in and out, slippery with both of us.

I can’t tell how long it is, or when I come, but the explosion carries me to the core of myself . . . and back to her. There’s a strangled cry, which I realize moments later is me, and my body spasms, holds on, releases, shudders, and spasms again. I lay a hand along her forehead while my body shudders, trembles, then stops.

We lie still for a very long time. My back grows cool in the night air. Slowly, our breathing becomes more even. She stirs under me, blows a lock of hair from her face, and kisses me sloppily on the cheek.

“You have to get off,” she mumbles, “but slowly. Slowly.” Her eyelids are still thick, heavy with sex.

Very slowly, I leave her, inch by inch. I lie on my good side, my dick spent and wet, every muscle like gelatin. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I feel is something warm and rough wiping me down.

In the yellow light of dawn, she’s cleaning me up with a washcloth.

“Jesus, Brock,” she says, gently rolling me onto my back. She wipes my stomach with long firm strokes, being careful of the dressing, and then rinses the cloth and returns to wipe between my legs. The room smells of lilacs and musk.

“How are you walking?” I mumble, dragging an arm across my eyes.

“Barely,” she answers and somehow this conversation makes sense.

“You were right. This changes everything, doesn’t it?” she says, coming back from the bathroom.

“For the better,” I grin. “So much for the better.”

She lifts the covers, but instead of settling back into my arms, she sits, legs akimbo, with the covers pulled around her.

Her small face is serious. I drop my arm and scoot up on both elbows.

“I don’t know how to be right now,” she says.

“I think you did a pretty good job last night.”

She frowns. “I’m trying here, Brock.”

“Okay, sorry.”

“I don’t know how to do this. How to act.”