by S. E. Law
His kiss remains gentle but becomes more urgent as he caresses my sweet spot. His lips break free of mine and his hand reaches into my corset, the only item of clothing left on either of us, as he cups and fondles my breasts.
“Oh, god, Peter. That feels so good,” I tell him, needing to participate. I lean forward a bit, thrusting my hips back into his, rotating them in a circle against his shaft. He pulls away for just a second and then he’s between my legs, not inside me, just sliding his huge cock back and forth against my outer layers.
He takes his hand away but he’s so big that his mushroom tip rubs the same spot from behind. His hands find the zipper on my corset and the lace falls to the ground. My ample breasts are free and I’m completely naked on a balcony in New York City on the verge of an orgasm.
“You are so beautiful,” Peter murmurs, running his hands over my ass, up my hips and finally stopping to cup my breasts. The slow tease of having him between my legs but not inside me continues.
“Will you please put that hard cock inside me,” I ask breathily. The ache has become an urgent need.
In one expert move, he slowly enters my pink core. I feel myself close around him and it is glorious. The slow, careful thrusts are excruciatingly pleasurable.
Peter’s hands keep roaming my body, up my bare back, down my arms and then returning to focus on my nipples, delicately pinching them to evoke more moans from me. He sustains the same slow, steady drive of his arousal into my slit. It’s maddening and I try to increase the pace, but he keeps me from sliding back and forth on him faster.
“I told you I was going to tease you tonight, Whitney. How does that feel?”
“It feels like I can’t take any more teasing,” I gasp, pulling off for a moment. Then, I turn around to face him.
“It feels like I’ve been waiting for a week to climax with you actually inside of me, rather than just in a dream. I want to experience the first of the many orgasms I expect tonight. Now,” I inform him and push him back onto a patio lounge chair.
The teasing has emboldened me so I tell him what we’re going to do next. “Sit back on that chair so I can straddle you. I adore when you take me from behind, but I want to see your face when I hit that apex.”
He doesn’t say a word but does as instructed. If possible, he seems even more erect than before. I take him inside me and work my way down an inch at a time. He’s huge, and it takes me a minute to adjust to the full length of him inside. But soon enough, I straddle him and put both my feet on the ground, taking all of his length. The slight curve of his erection pushes forward inside of me towards my stomach and I am now blissfully aware that the g-spot is not an imaginary thing.
The tip of him bumps against that spot inside me and sends a wave of euphoria through my body. This lounge chair is the perfect location for sex, and with my feet firmly planted on a hard surface I can get the leverage I need to slide up and down harder and faster, stimulating the mythical location that is about to give me my first peak of the night.
Peter’s eyes are glued to mine. His gaze is adoring as a tidal wave of ecstasy slams into me, knocking me forward onto his chest. My tempo comes to a screeching halt as little convulsions course through my body.
“Ohhh!” I cry, head tilting back. “Oh god, yes!”
As I convulse and shake, Peter sits up and lifts my face to his, kissing me tenderly. My eyelids are heavy with the massive dose of endorphins my body just released, but I see him smile.
“Let me take you upstairs,” he whispers in my ear.
“But you haven’t finished yet,” I protest. Are we going to bed for the night? He grins, reading my mind.
“Oh, neither of us is finished but I think you deserve a big, comfortable bed for round two.”
That makes me smile too.
“I think a bed would be perfect right now,” I say and let him slip out of me so we can climb the stairs of his penthouse naked.
He takes my hand and leads me to our destination where I fall back, still on an endorphin high, onto the soft mattress. The sheets have been pulled back and I glide onto the crisp, white, Egyptian cotton textiles. My handsome companion slides in beside me and my heart shudders. He’s huge and gorgeous, and I’m reminded of just how lucky I am.
He silently presses his lips to mine. I haven’t kissed him enough tonight and my arms go around his neck to pull him in to me. I can’t get enough of him, physically or emotionally.
“Whitney, I want to make love to you,” he tells me so quietly and vulnerably I barely recognize his voice.
“I’m pretty sure that’s what we’ve been doing,” I joke, not sure how to handle this new side of Peter. He shakes his head.
“No, honey. We’ve been having amazing, hot sex and I relish that, but I want more. I have feelings for you, sweetheart. I haven’t sorted them out yet because this has been such a whirlwind, but making love is different than hot sex. Making love requires a deeper, emotional connection and I think we’re there, sweetheart.”
I understand what he’s saying and I can’t respond. I’m afraid if I open my mouth that my lips will betray me and I’ll blurt out that I love him. Love? Suddenly, I know it’s true. Even if he hasn’t sorted out his feelings, it seems I’ve sorted out mine. Instead, I roll to face him and take his face in my hands, kissing him sweetly, and imbuing it with all the emotion that I can’t say.
He pulls me close, intertwining his legs with mine. His arms coil around me tightly so my breasts are held firmly against his broad, bare chest and his arousal is pressed between us, patiently awaiting attention. The urgency of our previous sexual endeavors has passed. In its place are slow, deliberate caresses and soft touches of lips.
Peter tangles his hands in my curls and keeps his eyes locked on mine when our lips part. The connection is so much more intense and my longing for him goes so much farther than just wanting him to fill the void inside me.
“Make love to me, Peter,” I finally manage to whisper.
For the first time, I am on my back and he’s on top of me, his elbows holding his weight so he can still meet my eyes. He slips into me like a boat parting the waves, smoothly and seamlessly, closing his mouth over mine and moving his tongue in the same rhythm as his pelvis. I’m floating on a plane of ecstasy. Every nerve in my body is tingling.
I wrap one leg around his waist and the other tangles with his. I gradually rock my hips to keep tempo with him. I am not in a hurry to end this connection.
“You are so beautiful,” he tells me, pulling out and lifting himself onto one knee. “This sensual neck leads to these utterly spectacular, enormous breasts,” he narrates, exploring the area with his mouth.
When he reaches my sensitive pink nibs, he takes them in his mouth, caressing them lightly with his tongue and lips while keeping his eyes locked on mine. It’s not the same intense pleasure and pain dance from the first night we spent together, but it sets my body humming in a different way. I focus on his face, watching as he tastes me while running my hands through his hair.
“I adore how feminine your body is; it’s like a Botticelli goddess,” he murmurs worshipfully, running his hands over my soft stomach. “And this,” he adds, tracing a finger down to my bare sex, “tastes sweeter than any confection I’ve ever had.”
He covers my mound with his mouth and I watch him making love to me this way; tasting every inch of my body with his hands and mouth yet touching my soul with his eyes. I savor the communion of emotions but despite my best efforts to focus, my body has other ideas.
“Come back up here to me,” I gasp and he obliges, moving with his panther-like grace to settle back between my spread legs.
“I like pleasing you,” he growls in my ear, easing inside. Then, he thrusts a little faster than and I gasp. The penetration is intense, and it’s like the first time all over again. Slowly, my body adjusts.
“I like being pleased by you,” I moan and close my eyes for a moment, knowing if I meet his, I’m gone.
; “Come with me Peter,” I say, catching his gaze and crushing my mouth to his. He speeds up and pushes into me harder, grabbing one of my hips for leverage but not breaking the lock between our mouths. One, two, three more thrusts and I gasp as shocks pulse through my body. I feel Peter’s own hot release timed to match mine, and it’s magnificent. My heart pulses even as my body swims with the waves, lost in the sea.
We are spent. The exhaustion goes so much deeper than the physical. Sleep comes in a tangled web of limbs and synchronized heartbeats, and I couldn’t be happier.
15
Peter
Waking with Whitney’s head on my chest feels natural, like she’s always been there. The bond we forged last night has implications I’m not quite ready for this morning, but Whitney takes my mind off those ruminations with a small giggle and her hand on my cock. Her insatiable sexual desire is a turn on, and some rough and tumble morning sex always starts the day off right.
My kitchen is awash in the smell of fresh baked goods as I come downstairs after an invigorating shower. Whitney has her hair piled loosely on top of her head, a loose ringlet escaping here and there. She’s dug out an ancient apron from my days of actually cooking at Shake Place, and it’s now adorned with berry-colored splatter and a dusting of flour. Singing along to whatever rock song is playing in her headphones, she doesn’t hear me come in. I lean against the wall and watch her as her hips sway to the music while her hands expertly roll out some dough. She’s gorgeous, and frankly, I want her in my kitchen every morning.
“Oh, geez, you startled me,” she exclaims as she turns around to find me observing her in her natural element.
I walk to her and pop the headphones out of her ears and kiss the strawberry off her lips. Whatever she’s making with it is going to be delicious, even more so because her hands have been on it.
“How about I put this music on the sound system so you can continue to dance around the kitchen while you prepare a culinary masterpiece?”
“I don’t dance,” she insists.
“I just saw you dancing.”
“Oh, that wasn’t dancing, I was just kind of moving to the music.”
“Yeah, Whit, that’s called dancing,” I chuckle.
“How long were you standing there watching me, anyway?” she accuses playfully.
“Long enough to see those ample hips sway to the beat,” I tell her and put my hands on those hips to shake them to a tune I can’t hear. Whitney giggles.
“My friend, Alvina, dances. She loves the country line stuff where there are very distinct steps that everyone follows. I’ve tried it with her in her apartment, but my feet get all tangled up. I’m just not a dancer”
“Dancing should be like sex,” I tell her. “You move in a way that makes you feel good and it just flows. Sure, there’s a lot to be said for the precision of choreographed dance, but that doesn’t mean you should miss out on the fun. Let’s have a dance party in the living room tonight. I may not be able to take you out on the town at the moment, but we can have fun right here.”
She smiles, but then it fades.
“I’d love to, but I have to go home and feed Apollo. I left him enough food to last until this afternoon, but I can’t neglect him forever. He’s been the only reliable man in my life for years.”
I consider this. I want her here, but of course she can’t ignore her feline companion.
“Go home, pack enough clothes for the week and bring Apollo back with you. Demeter could use some company too.”
She giggles.
“Um, I don’t know about that. What if they don’t get along? Apollo has only ever been around my mom’s cat and that bitchy furball sends him cowering into a corner,” she says wryly.
“Did it sound like there was a question mark at the end of that sentence? You and I are going to spend the week together. We will dance and watch movies in the screening room at night. During the day we can work on the new shake flavors for the new menu. I can even be your guinea pig for anything new recipes you might want to try for the bakery.”
Whitney considers for a moment, and I decide not to give her the option of backing out. She has a way of talking herself out of things that are good for her, thinking she doesn’t deserve it for some reason. I pick up my phone to call my driver.
“Hi George, I’m going to need a few hours of your time today. I need you to pick Miss Porter up here at noon and take her back to her apartment. But instead of just dropping her off, I need you to wait for her to pack a bag and then bring her back. She’ll also have a cat with her.”
George has been my driver for more than ten years and he agrees immediately.
“Of course, sir.”
“Thank you, George,” I tell him and end the call.
“Hey, I never said okay!” Whitney protests before I even have a chance to set my phone on the counter. She’s clearly miffed.
“And what reason would you have to say no?” I ask, one brow raised. “Are you not enjoying our time together?”
“Of course, I’m enjoying our time together,” she retorts but the cadence of her speech has quickened and she’s enunciating her words in an exaggerated, clipped fashion. Her brow is furrowed and the corners of her mouth have turned down. This must be what an angry Whitney looks and sounds like. “But you have to wait for me to say yes first, and you didn’t! You just went ahead and booked the car.”
This is a bit irritating and insulting.
“You’re being ridiculous, sweetheart. It seems to me that you’re allowing your silly sense of pride and independence get in the way of good decision making. We’ve already begun the menu collaboration. How did you think we would keep going with that? Via a chat room online? I have plenty of space, and you can have your own bedroom and bathroom, for god’s sake. I like you because you aren’t like other women, but this little fit is fucking annoying, Whit. Why are you creating a fight where there doesn’t need to be one?”
That was the wrong move. She doesn’t say a word and stomps up the stairs like a petulant child before slamming a door somewhere on the second floor. I take my coffee and my phone to sit out on the balcony in the early morning sun and check my email. I should just let her go home and sulk alone, but I want her here. I tell myself it is the logical thing for us to do at the moment; quarantining together will be productive.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. It’s all because of the pandemic, right? I’m bored, and I have the extra space, and besides, it’s good for my business. But somehow, I know that’s not all.
I take my time and finish my coffee, giving us both time to cool off. I guess this would be our first fight. It’s odd, because I rarely argue with women I’ve been involved with romantically. I find myself trying to recall a memorable disagreement in my past relationships, and I can’t. It’s sad, but I’ve never really cared enough to feel very strongly. I just let the women have their way, and then walk away when things get out of hand.
I suppose my previous relationships were disposable. I don’t mean that the women were trash, or I thought of them as having no value. They were all beautiful, but really quite shallow. In the back of my mind I knew they were temporary and so I never cared enough to put any effort into correcting a misunderstanding. I guess that would make me shallow, too.
But now, I realize that I do want to smooth things out with Whitney. She’s worth it, and the sassy girl gets under my skin like no one else. Resolute, I seek her out on the second floor of the penthouse, and lo and behold, the only door closed in the long hallway is the library.
I knock, even though this is my property.
“Yes?” her voice sounds normal again, the signs of irritation gone.
I enter to find my traitor cat curled up on her lap and a leather bound book with tentacles snaking across the cover in her hands. There are so many books in this library that I can’t recognize each by its cover alone.
“What are you reading?” I ask, easing back into conversation with her.
“Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. It’s one of my dad’s favorites. We read it together several times when I was growing up. We’d read a chapter every night before bed until we finished the book. This is a beautiful copy you have here, by the way. The embossed leather cover is exquisite. Do you know where you got it? I’d love to get a copy for my dad for Father’s Day.”
I smile wryly.
“It likely came from an auction I went to. I tend to buy un-inventoried lots of books when I go to Sotheby’s. It’s like opening a treasure chest when I get them home.”
“Maybe I could write to the publisher to see where I can get a copy,” she suggests, leafing back to the cover page of the novel.
I close my hand over hers on the cowhide cover, and shake my head.
“Take this one and give it to your father, Whit. It sounds like this means a lot to the two of you and god knows, I haven’t touched that one in ages.”
“I can’t take this from you,” she protests, and I am again tempted to tell her she is being ridiculous.
“You can. Whitney, can you try to see that I like doing things for you? I have more money than I will ever be able to spend and you allowing me to do things for you doesn’t make you less capable or intelligent or independent. It just makes you objective enough to know how to accept gifts when they come your way. The benefits will trickle down to others too. Whether it’s keeping your employees in jobs or giving a meaningful gift to your father, refusing to take from me would ultimately make those you care for lose out too.”
She’s silent for a moment, looking down at her hands.
“It’s hard to be mad at you when you put it that way. I’m grateful for all you have done for me and those I care about. Maybe you could just pretend to let me make my own decisions?”