“I meant no touching butts! Shut up.”
“Will you get under the covers already?”
She huffs, and I feel her warm body nuzzling up against mine and then I feel her moving her lower body away from me.
Our backs are pressed together. She adjusts the coat over us. I can feel her gathering her hair to one side. And then I feel the back of her skull knock against the back of mine.
“Owww!” we both cry out at the same time.
“Shit!” Birdie hardly ever swears. Usually only when she stubs her toe or spills something.
“Are you okay?” I flip around to rub the back of her head.
“No.” She laughs quietly. “Oh God, your hand’s cold! I can feel it through my hair! Put your hands back under the coat!”
I do, but I don’t turn to face the wall again. I press up against her back, all of her, spooning her.
She sighs. Not annoyed but resigned. And then she presses back into me, finds my right hand, and pulls it around her waist. I wrap both arms around her. She covers them with hers, rubbing my hands, warming them up. It’s sweet and comforting but it’s also something else.
The train is rocking us back and forth, up and down, and the friction between us is unbearable and good. Really unbearably good.
We stay like this, quiet for a while, and then she breaks the silence with, “Are you still going to see Alana in New York?”
“No.”
“Are you going to end things with her?”
“Yes. I’ll call her in Chicago. Are you going to go out with Rupert?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t think you should.”
She stops rubbing my hands. “Why not?”
“I don’t want you to.”
“Why not?”
Okay, new plan.
“Because he can’t make you feel good the way I can.”
“He can’t make me angry and confused either.”
“You’re only angry and confused because you’re resisting it.”
“Resisting what?”
“Me. And all the things I can do with these hands.”
She releases her grip on me altogether, and I take that as a sign that she wants me to be free to use my hands.
So, I do.
I press into her back a little more, grip her hip with one hand, and stroke the side of her thigh with the other. Down and up. Down and up.
“I mean, I don’t recall anything in your guidelines that would restrict me from using my not-at-all skinny fingers to make you feel good...”
“Don’t talk.” I can tell she’s squeezing her eyes shut again. Her body is so tense.
I’m going to do something about that.
I’m going to do a number of things about that.
But first, I remove my jacket so I can have more mobility. I place it over the blankets, closer to the foot of the bed.
And then I slide the palm of my hand down the side of her thigh, up the back of it. I cup her ass and squeeze it, and Birdie’s loud gasp is so satisfying. My left hand works its way under her sweatshirt, slowly, as my right hand takes the high road over her hip and down between her legs, over her sweatpants.
She twitches just a little when I touch her there. And it’s already damp there. She’s been wet for a while now already, and that is all the encouragement I need to move my left hand up farther and to apply more pressure with my right hand.
She squeezes her thighs together, wriggling around, making cute little kitten sounds.
“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”
She doesn’t say a word.
“I’m not going to stop until you come for me, Birdie.”
“Big talker,” she mumbles.
Sassy little… “What was that?”
After a beat, she says, “I’ve read that the body heat from bare skin is better at warming a cold person up…”
“I’m ready to test that theory.”
She pulls off her sweatshirt, tossing it aside, and I remove mine.
She struggles to pull down her sweatpants, so I yank them down for her.
She somehow manages to tie her hair up into a knot on top of her head before lying back down.
I start to straddle her, but she covers her breasts and rolls onto her side again. “Stay the way you were.”
I spoon her again. Still wearing my sweatpants but pushing my ever-stiffening cock up against her ass. I trail kisses along the back of her shoulder and then cup her breasts. Those perky, friendly breasts and those perky, friendly nipples. She is exactly as smooth and soft as I imagined she would be. I kiss her neck and massage her tits, and she moans softly. She isn’t relaxed yet. She’s shivering. Her whole body’s trembling.
“Are you cold?”
“No.” She says it like I must be an idiot.
And I must be an idiot because only an idiot would wait six years to kiss Birdie Beckett.
I reach down between her legs, over her wet panties. They’re all lacy, and I bet they’re black, and I want to see them, but more importantly, I want to gently massage her clit through them. I kiss the crook of her neck and bite her there, not hard because she isn’t ready for that yet.
“Oh, shit,” she whispers as her back arches. She reaches back to grab on to my neck, combing her fingers through my hair and tugging on it. Kinda rough.
Well, maybe she is ready for more.
I swirl my tongue, suck on her neck, kiss all the way down along the top of her shoulder, holding her hair up out of the way while stroking her scalp with my fingernails. She tastes clean and sweet and spicy, and I want to know what she tastes like everywhere.
She’s already undulating, rocking her hips and pressing her ass back against me. I wish I could see her face, but I know she’s biting her lower lip right now because of the way she’s groaning. I kiss all the way back up her shoulder, to her neck and behind her ear, and she goes limp.
That’s my girl.
I’ll remember that spot.
She’s twisting around to face me now, her bent arm cradling my head, and I think she wants to kiss me. I kiss along her jaw and up to her open mouth. I lick her lower lip, and our lips touch for one hot second before she pulls away, burying her face into the pillow.
She can’t handle the intimacy of kissing yet.
Okay.
I bite the top of her shoulder, a little harder this time, and I know that no man has ever done that to her before. I know that I’m the one who’s teaching her what she likes. And I know that I could be happy spending the rest of my life teaching her and learning what she likes.
I slide my hand down under her panties. It’s already soaked down there. Just when I touch my fingers flat against her slick, warm clit, a train passes, the horn and the loud rattling causing her to squeal and jolt. Or maybe it’s my fingers on her clit. I flutter and circle and make a V with my fingers, sliding up and down alongside it, getting faster and faster. And then I rub with my whole hand, nice and slow.
She bucks against my hand, just once, says my name, and that’s when I know it’s time to slip my fingers inside her and fuck her with them. Hard. She cries out, reaching her arms up and back again, trying to find me. My cheek is pressed against hers. She grabs my face, strokes the stubble on my cheek.
“You still want me to keep quiet?”
“No. Shit! No.”
“You like how that feels?”
“Yes. Oh God, Eddie. Don’t stop.”
“I’m not gonna stop. I told you, I’m not stopping until you come for me.” She is so impossibly wet, and my throbbing hard cock wants to be inside her. “Has anyone else made you feel this good before?”
“No. Never.”
“You knew I could do this for you though, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you think about it?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve thought about it too, Birdie. Fucking hell, you have no idea how much I’ve wanted you. I thought about it the first
time I saw you and I’ve thought about it ever since I saw your beautiful tits that night in your room.”
She writhes around, magnificently, whimpering.
“You’re beautiful. I think you’re beautiful, you know that, right?”
“Eddie.”
I curl my fingers to massage her G-spot, and that’s when something awesome happens.
Birdie Beckett screams my name, contracting and releasing around my fingers, and now I’m flying.
I brace her torso against mine with one arm as she comes and comes and comes, alternately sounding like she’s in pain and in ecstasy.
Arching her neck, she swears a blue streak, and Shakespeare himself could not have written a more beautiful monologue.
There’s no song or music that could make my heart race more than the sound of her wailing and the rhythm of the hurricane of pleasure that’s ripping through her.
I wait until she’s gone completely still before pulling my fingers out and massaging her tits again.
I’m high as a kite and hard as a rock, and I don’t want this to be over.
Just when I’m about to kiss her neck again, she wriggles around, and I feel her hand on my cock.
Fucking hell, she is the best friend I have ever had.
15
Birdie
The One with the Frorgasms
Holy shit, my hand is on Eddie’s cock.
This was certainly not a part of the plan. This is the exact opposite of what I had resolved to accomplish this year. But he is wearing gray sweatpants. And he did just give me the first or possibly several of the first orgasms that I’ve ever experienced with another person, so it would be rude not to thank him and return the favor.
Did I just have multiple orgasms?
Is that really a thing?
From fingers and hands and oh God his mouth and tongue on my neck.
Take that, frequent flyers! Who gets spooned and fingerbanged while lying down in a private room on a commercial flight? No one, that’s who.
He is so hard and so very erect. I stroke the length of him over his sweatpants. How are you not the cockiest man on earth, Eddie Cannavale? Oh my God! This is a magnificent male sexual organ. I’m so proud of him.
He kisses my neck, up to that spot, that spot right behind my ear, and oh God, oh God, oh God, how did he know to kiss me there? How did he know to curl his fingers inside me and touch that spot? He groans and exhales, groans and exhales, and it’s such a rush to know that I’m making him feel good.
I want to make him feel so much better than good.
I’m goin’ in.
I reach down under the waistband of his sweatpants, under the waistband of his boxer briefs, and cup my hand over the head of his cock. His skin is so warm and smooth. He sucks in a breath when I twist my palm over it, sliding down and then up and then down, slowly, delicately.
He grips my shoulders and rocks his hips, slowly, gently.
It’s nighttime, and I’m still a little tipsy and the train is rocking us around like one of those coin-operated beds they used to have in cheap motels. I have no doubt that I will regret this in the morning because my heart won’t be able to handle this, and I know for a fact that my brain will ruin everything. But our bodies deserve this, and merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, this feels like a sex dream. And you do not want to wake a person up in the middle of a sex dream. So, I will see this through.
I just hope my hands and fingers are as talented and skilled as his.
And I hope I can bring him to completion without having to face him because I can’t look at him. I can’t look at Eddie’s face, into his eyes, when I’m touching his penis. I can’t kiss him on the mouth when we’re both topless like this.
Now I understand why Julia Roberts had that No Kissing rule in Pretty Woman.
I will work that cock like an unpaid pro.
Or like a very good friend who is totally capable of understanding that sometimes sex really is just sex.
But it is just too awkward, doing this at this angle, so I turn around to face him, but I keep my head down. It’s not completely dark. I could still see his features, but I still don’t want to. I push his shoulders, so he’ll lie back, slide my hands down his arms, grab his wrists and move his hands up to clasp behind his head. He stays like that for me.
I loved it when he was talking dirty to me, but the sound of his heavy breathing, the sound of him trying to control his breaths, is just as sexy.
I lower myself a little to let my nipples skim across his chest, just once.
He sighs, and it’s so beautiful.
His jaw must be so tense right now.
I glance up quickly because I just know his eyes are closed. His neck is arched and his whole body is tensed up. I want so badly to kiss him on the mouth, but I can’t.
So, I kiss the crook of his neck, just once. He tries to kiss me, but I move away.
I let my hands explore his hard chest and then his abs, those perfect, flirtatious abs, as they travel down. Glide my fingertips around, soft and slow.
He is beautiful, everywhere, inside and out. I know this even when I’m not looking at him.
He shivers.
“Are you cold?”
He scoffs. “No.” Like I’m an idiot.
I am an idiot for not kissing him, I know.
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do.
They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
I remember those lines from Romeo and Juliet. Romeo, begging for a kiss.
Eddie’s whole body is silently begging me to kiss him.
So, I do. I plant kisses down to his pelvis, across that skin that’s stretched so tight, down along those common iliac arteries.
I pull his pants and underwear down, kiss the head of his cock very quickly, and then climb over to lie down on the other side of him so my right hand can do its best work. Resting my head against his chest, I stroke up the bottom of his shaft with my fingertips and then wrap my whole hand around it, squeezing before moving my hand up and down.
“Do you like that?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
He hisses, raising his hips up and down again. “Fuck, that feels so good.”
I’m taking it slow so this will last, but I don’t want to bore him. “Do you want me to go faster?”
“You’re doing everything right.”
“Okay… I just want you to know that you have a really wonderful penis.”
He blows out a laugh. “Thanks. You’re really great with it.”
“Thanks.”
I reach down a little farther, to see if he likes it when I touch him there, and he bucks once, groaning. He seems to like it a lot.
I feel his hand on my chin, the fingers of his other hand in my hair.
“Look at me, Birdie.”
“I can’t.”
“Then close your eyes and let me kiss you.” He has that authoritative tone in his voice, and I feel it in my abdomen.
I let him lift my chin up. I straddle him, and we both catch our breaths, because fuck, his cock feels so good between my legs. My soaked lace panties are the only thing separating us now, and part of me is so grateful for the barrier but part of me hates them and just wants him to rip them off me.
I press down on his chest, lifting my chest up a little, hovering over him the way I did that night of my party. This is just the natural progression of that night, I suppose. I remember exactly how he looked at me then, and I’m sure he’s looking at me the same way now, but his eyes are probably cloudy with lust and even more hooded. I wouldn’t know, though, because my eyes are closed.
He flips me over onto my back, not very gently, and I like it. His chest is pressing down against my breasts. He pushes my hair out of the way, strokes the sides of my face, and when his lips touch mine, it’s the most tender form of electric shock. He kisses me twice like that, close-mouthed and gentle. And then his tongue slips between my lips, his hands are up in
my hair, his hips rock against mine, and I have no idea where we are in Kansas right now, but this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. Under Eddie Cannavale. The weight of him on top of me, his beautiful mouth on mine. My hands are all over him, everywhere they can reach, stroking and squeezing and scratching.
I wonder if Lucretia Mott and Mary Cassatt really did get this up close and personal with their closest male friends too.
Maybe Layla was right. Maybe we do just need to have some vacation frorgasms and then get on with our lives.
I just want to devour this man.
I lick his stubbly chin, nibble on his lower lip, and then French kiss the life out of him. I can’t get enough of him. Not kissing him is definitely the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my life.
Eddie Cannavale kisses like a cross between Romeo and a porn star, and I would double high-five him if my hands weren’t so busy squeezing his butt.
“Jesus, fuck, you’re so hot.”
“So are you.”
Okay, new plan.
“I want you inside me.”
“I want that too, Bird.”
“You can rip my panties if you want to.”
“How ’bout I remove them with my teeth?”
“Yes, do that.”
He kisses me on the mouth again once, hard and fast, and then trails down the center of me with his tongue, alternately swirling and licking and kissing, all the way down to my panties. I feel his teeth graze my skin, just above the waistband of the panties, his hands massaging my hips, and then cool air rushes in when he pulls those panties down to my knees with his teeth, shoving them down the rest of the way. He kisses back up the inside of my leg, inner thigh, and then—oh, thank you sweet St. Valentine and all those weird pagan guys before him—he flicks at my clit with the tip of his tongue, and I think I just died and went to frorgasm heaven.
“Be right back.” He slides out from under the covers, making sure the blankets and coat stay on top of me.
“You can use the ones in my bag,” I tell him.
“I have my own, thanks.”
Right. The not-regular-sized ones.
I tie my hair up into a knot, wondering if I should just leave it loose so Eddie can keep running his fingers through it and tugging on it. Whatever. He can pull it loose if he wants to. He can do pretty much anything he wants to me tonight.
A Very Friendly Valentine's Day Page 10