Cycles

by Deborah Boyer

  His engorged cock, passion-swollen and undoubtedly aching with a greed of its own, imprints itself into my hip. I twist, try to make enough room to give his ignored rod solace, only to have him hastily push my hands away.

  He is close already.

  There is a special and unique power in this comfort of ours. With sure knowledge stemming from years of study, I know each and every unspoken signal. I know when to stroke him soft and when to stroke him hard. Whether by vision, touch, smell or sound, I know when he is a simple act away from finishing. I know each and every hot spot—and every last little thing that will drive him over the edge.

  Denied the satisfaction of playing with him in return, in a passion-colored blur of senses, I trace his ear with my tongue, travel its hills and valleys as if I never visited its mystical hollows before. The insidiousness of my expertise invokes a growl of delight and Cole shudders, shrugs my tongue away. But rebuff only spurs me to giggle and, by deliberate design, a nip of his earlobe ignites further expansion. He butts his rampant erection insistently into my thigh.

  I laugh into his ear, breathy and proud.

  In defense, he returns his mouth to mine with bruising fervor and our tongues wrestle for dominance. Sweat springs from my pores, its sheen evidence of the height of my arousal. He spreads my lower wings and circles my throbbing clit with pure preponderance of purpose—proof he knows the location of every last one of my buttons, too.

  I buck against his hand, whimper as his fingers enter me. Ever-appreciative of how he can double my pleasure, the heel of his palm applies matching rhythmic pressure to my clitoris.

  Writhing under his petting, I burn for release and know I can't take much more of his decadent indulgence without exploding—but before I do, I want to make him the center of my attention, just like he is making me the heart of his.

  I want his succulent hardness in my mouth. I want to feel the tensile iron façade of his cock twitch under my tongue's rasping, while I please him in a way that's just for him.

  But divining my intent, Cole keeps me from moving downward and rolls me to my back instead. I look into his eyes and know there will be no more prolonging the journey to what we truly desire.

  My legs part around his hips without a thought. Poised, with his cock a hot pulse against my hungry need, he hesitates.

  Panting, I yearn for his prodding, anticipate the gloriousness of our union. Yet he gives me only the tip of his readiness and again hesitates, gazing into my eyes with serious contemplation. His cockhead is barely stretching my starving entrance, a tease of momentous proportions that strums my taut body and my heartstrings. I moan, craving his entire length like I have never craved it before.

  "You," he murmurs as he slips scant inches into my famished sheath, "are my life."

  Before I can say he is mine, too, he claims me with a thrust, adamantine phallus driven into my soul without further warning. I cry out, sheer rapture in being impaled on the staff of his enduring adoration.

  "God, Cole, it's been—I love—"

  His lips stop my voice as he moves, the center of my yearning empty and full by turns. I want to scream: You are all I want! You are all I need! But something lost has been found and I can only whimper as we engage in warm joy instead of cold sex. He is half of me and I am half of him, and when we are joined in pleasure instead of habit, I know we will never be anything less.

  "God, baby," he groans, "I can't—" Thrusting harder, faster, he bathes my insides with exquisite release while the climax strips him of speech.

  I'm not far behind and milk his spurting organ with my slickened passageway, lift my hips to meet him. He doesn't withdraw but pushes up to slide his hand between us, teasing the nugget of molten gold that quivers above his penetration. I sob with pleasure, reach for the looming cliff with everything I am—oh God, please, I'm so very close! I need to feel him inside me when I—

  Launched into the cosmos of love's purest reward, where neither rational thought nor concrete planes are allowed, my convulsing tunnel milks his remaining rigidity as I swim through the celestial flashes of forever, seeing only an eternity spent loving the man boring into me, until the last of my orgasm spills into my muscles, and is reabsorbed.

  The room fades into focus and I submerge in his loving eyes, as blue as spring skies that are within easy reach.

  "God, Cole..." I'm drained, relieved—as limp as he is. It takes an amazing amount of strength to reach out and stroke the soft scruff of his cheek.

  "I couldn't hold back," he murmurs, kissing my palm, "it's been too long."

  "Mmm, do you hear me complaining?"

  "No, but—"

  "Shut up, Doc. Give me a couple of minutes to recover and I'll feed you—then we can start over."

  He laughs, low and satisfied. "Okay." He props his head up to look at me. "Do we really have two days?"

  "Until four o'clock Sunday."

  "How did you..." he trails off, stroking my belly.

  "It was Carol's idea, actually."

  Snorting, eyes dancing, he asks, "Why am I not surprised?"

  "The note was Lindsay's."

  He frowns. "Just how much do they know?"

  "Don't worry about them," I giggle, "they still think you're the best catch in Lancer. Hey! What happened to the roses? Or better yet," I lift a brow, "why are there roses?"

  His delicious lower lip disappears between his teeth—sucking it is a sure sign of discomfort. "They were the sheriff's idea."

  "What?" I giggle again. "Tell me you're kidding! Wait a second," I say sternly, "just how much does he know?"

  "Touché."

  "Seriously, Cole?" I'm incredulous. "You talked to Thomas about us?"

  "I thought the spark was gone," he replies with concern, "and I was thinking about how we used to say we would never stop doing it. We were going to be the old couple who hold hands, remember?"

  "I've been thinking about that all week."

  "And who in town is older than us and obviously still going at it?"

  I grin. "Jane and Thomas."

  "Right. And I hope I never have to do that again. It took more beer than I thought to get up the nerve to broach the subject."

  "I'm glad you cared enough to do it though."

  "Me, too." He grins and his stomach proudly bemoans its lack of dinner.

  I pat the damp fur covering the protester. "I never got around to lunch—I'm starved, too."

  We traipse into the kitchen, hands entwined. The wood stove makes it the warmest room in the house and our nakedness seems natural. I go for the fridge but he yanks me back for a kiss. With a growl, he deposits my rump on the table.

  "Wait here," he instructs, "I'll get food."

  I laugh with delight as he whips open the refrigerator door and stands there, mouth open. The shelves are jam-packed with ice cream toppings—semi-sweet and milk chocolate syrups, heatable fudge, thick caramel, blueberry sauce, strawberry sauce, butterscotch, maraschino cherries and twenty-two—yes, twenty-two—cans of real whipped cream.

  Eyes smoldering, he stalks toward the table armed with sweet cream—and starts shooting before he gets halfway. I squeal, duck past him, grab another can and promptly return fire.

  "Take that!" I holler—and gracelessly slip on the fluffy floor. Reactions swift as always, Cole catches and kisses me in one fell swoop.

  "Mmm, yummy." I lick dollops of whipped cream from his beard.

  He returns the favor by lapping up some of what's dripping down my breasts. "What the hell is all of that stuff for?"

  "Somebody suggested you were a banana split. I thought I would improve on the picture it put in my head."

  "A banana split?" He snorts and shakes his head. "Where are the bananas?" He squints at the countertop. "I can think of several interesting things to do with bananas."

  "Damn."

  "You forgot them?" His throaty chuckle stirs the embers in my belly. "Well, that's okay, babe—I have a real nice one right here." He guides my hand to the stiffen
ing fruit between his legs, groaning as I grasp it firmly.

  "The best way to see if it's ripe enough to use," my voice is husky, too, "is to give it a taste." I plop my behind in a chair and pull his hips toward me.

  "Wait a sec," he says gruffly, proceeding to cover his wakening cock with whipped cream until it disappears from view and the can is empty.

  Doubtful, I ask, "How am I supposed to find it in there?"

  "Just like bobbing for apples," he says matter-of-factly. "Oh, sorry, I should have asked." He adds a flashing grin. "You do want nuts with your sundae, don't you?"

  ~:~:~:~:~

  Dawn

  It will be light soon. I'm so pumped and sated at the same time, I couldn't sleep even if I wanted to. Cole's eyes are closed but he's not sleeping either. I shut my eyes and drift on the gentle, felt-but-unheard tune which is the core of what we are. It's back—and louder than it was before it took a vacation.

  The fumbling clatter of Cole's watch hitting the floor accompanied by a quiet curse means it must be about time for him to get to the slopes.

  I yawn. "We are coming back here after practice, right?"

  "Rabid animals couldn't stop me," he rasps. We've been talking for hours and he's hoarse.

  "I think we might actually have to sleep this afternoon," I say wistfully.

  "I was thinking the same thing," he murmurs. "We might be acting like we're twenty, but we're not, are we?"

  "No—and I'm glad."

  "Me, too. So," he continues casually, "we have enough time—do you want to try for five?"

  "Mmm, sure." I slide my hand up the inside of his thigh. "We might as well set a record while we're at it."

  About the Author

  Deborah Boyer's affair with the written word began at 14, when a teacher suggested her homework essay be submitted to the school paper. Entitled 'Make-Up Madness', it targeted such travesties as blue eyeshadow and earned her a regular humor column.

  Enslavement to computers, however, came a decade later. One fateful spring morning in 1986, she arrived at work to discover her typewriter missing and several large boxes in its place. Intrigued, challenged, seduced and finally commanded by DOS onto the World Wide Web, her professional and personal devotion to the computer age grew along with the Internet.

  Deborah reads anything and everything she could find. Favorites encompass Newberry Award winners to Daphne du Maurier to a musty box of True Confessions magazines.

  Deborah lives with her husband in Pennsylvania, in the worker's house erected for her great-great-grandfather, the second in a town the Reading Railroad built.

  Visit www.DeborahBoyer.com for reviews, excerpts, stories, poetry

  and other free reads from humorous to hot.

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