by Alix Nichols
Zach’s lips part. “You’re so beautiful.”
And then he drops to his knees.
I stare at him, incredulous.
Gripping my hips, he rains kisses on my stomach while his hands roam my back, my derriere, my thighs. When his mouth reaches the triangle at the juncture of my legs, I stiffen, shame finally catching up with me.
“Let me,” he says against my belly, his voice coarse. “Please let me taste you.”
And just like that, the shame vanishes, giving way to the thrill of anticipation.
He nudges me to sit on the bed. “Lean back.”
I do as I’m told while he spreads my knees. He plants a kiss right in the center of the wet mess between my legs and pulls back while his fingers stretch and open me up.
For a long moment, he just looks at me in the bright light of the overhead light. If someone had shown me this picture just a few hours ago, my reaction would’ve been “no way.” I couldn’t possibly let anyone do this to me, take so much from me.
But here I am, letting him.
“So beautiful,” he says before kissing me again.
This time it’s more than his lips. His tongue, even his teeth get involved, licking, nipping gently, suckling, and driving me toward madness. I let myself fall on my back, relinquishing the last shreds of modesty and control.
I’m at his mercy.
I’ve never given this much to anyone.
Yet my body aches to give him more—to give him everything. My hands are in his hair as I writhe and push against him until I peak.
Zach moves his tongue a little faster, and I come again, my thighs trembling and more wetness gushing out of me.
When I’m able to see again, Zach is towering above me, his eyes hungry and dark.
I sit up and tug the zipper of his jeans. “Take them off.”
He strips immediately.
I leer. His body is as gorgeous as it was in the swimming pool back in August, except this time, there is no Speedo to cover his manhood.
His substantial manhood.
He chortles. “I’m flattered you’re so impressed.”
Shrugging, I try to school my features into a worldlier expression. Except, a worldly person wouldn’t be wondering what I’m wondering now.
I look up. “Has it grown bigger since… um…?”
Something like embarrassment flickers on his face.
“It just seems…” I huff, frustrated with my inarticulateness. “It looks larger than when you flashed it on the couch.”
He strokes my head. “Uma, please know I’m not in the habit of flaunting my dick in such a cavalier manner. I was hoping the sight of it would scare you away.”
“You gambled,” I shrug, channeling my inner Lalita, “and you lost.”
He grins. “So you weren’t appalled?”
“I may be a virgin, but I’m a twenty-three-year-old twenty-first-century virgin.” My lips quirk. “I have a good knowledge of male reproductive organs.”
His arches an eyebrow. “Do you now?”
“I’ve read lots of educational articles on the topic.”
“With pictures?”
I nod. “I’ve also seen a couple of… er… instructional videos on the Internet.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Of course, you are. I bet you’ll be even gladder to hear what I’ll say next.
“If I remember correctly,” I say and pause, cocking my head, “there was something else you wanted to do before deflowering me.”
The look of shocked excitement in Zach’s eyes is priceless.
“You mean…?” He glances at my mouth.
I nod.
His expression is a mixture of elation and disbelief. “You sure?”
I nod again.
With my gaze trained on his proud member, I inch closer to him at the edge of the bed. My hands shake a little when I touch his throbbing hardness. I run my fingers up and down, trying to remember how the woman in the video Priyanka and I watched went about it.
I look up. “Will you tell me if I’m doing it wrong?”
He nods, his chest heaving and his eyes filled with feverish keenness.
I lay my left hand on his muscular ass and wrap my right hand around the base of his erection. So far so good. He watches me.
You can do this, Uma.
Wetting my lips, I kiss the slick tip and drag my tongue around it. He moans. I lick some more, tasting salt. He grits his teeth and takes my head between his hands, guiding me gently. Before I know it, my lips are around him, and I draw the crown into my mouth. A few moments later, he begins to push in, going a little farther with every thrust, and I take him as deep as I can.
“Oh God, Uma,” he rasps.
Funny how the act that looked so gross when performed by porn actors in the video, doesn’t feel that way when it’s me doing it to Zach.
“Ouch,” he says suddenly.
I freeze, looking up in panic.
He smiles and strokes my cheek. “Try not to scrape your teeth too hard against it. Men’s cocks are… sensitive.”
I move to draw back so I can promise him I’ll be more careful, but he uses his hand on my nape to hold me in place. I raise eyebrows in question.
“Your lips around me—it feels too good to let go,” he says.
For the next ten minutes, I embark on a sharp learning curve, making dramatic strides in the art of “giving head” as he put it earlier. What I lack in experience I make up for in zeal. Zach pushes in and retreats, his thrusts measured in comparison with the fierce onslaught I remember from the video. He makes sounds. Sometimes it’s a moan, other times a growl, and other times an encouragement.
He says, “Oh, c’est bon, mon chaton.” So good, my kitten.
I almost purr.
At one point, I go beyond what feels comfortable—and gag.
“Easy,” he says, wiping my tears with his thumbs. “One thing at a time. You aren’t ready for that yet.”
I promise myself I will be soon. If I can’t figure it out on my own, I’ll ask him to teach me. I want to be able to pleasure him in a way a savvy French woman would.
Better than a savvy French woman would.
Who knew this act could be so arousing? Empowering, even. Every time I do something to deserve his praise or a groan of satisfaction or even a small grunt of approval, it feels like a victory. All shyness, all hesitation… gone. What’s left is desire. Discovery. A sense of connection.
And a burning, aching, pulling void between my legs.
THIRTEEN
Zach
Her hair is silky smooth under my fingers, and the look of single-minded concentration on her face as she works me with her hands and mouth is as endearing as the act is hot.
That she’s enjoying it makes it even hotter.
Her ardor—unexpected in a virgin—could make me forget myself, forget this is her first time. Her eagerness to learn, to do what I like, to give me everything she’s got makes my cock harder than it’s ever been.
Strangely, it has the opposite effect on my heart.
My sweet Uma is a natural. She takes her cue from my reactions, doing more of what makes me groan with pleasure and less of what doesn’t work.
Her hands and her tongue quicken, and for a split second, I consider letting myself come right there with her lips still around me.
But she’s too green for that.
I take a deep breath and still her. With more control than I think I am capable of, I withdraw from her mouth.
When my mind clears enough to permit coherent thought, two things become evident.
The first one is that I don’t give a shit if what I’m feeling for Uma is just crazy lust or something bigger. It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, I want more of it.
I want more of her.
The second realization is more pragmatic. I had better remember where I put that condom.
Because if I don’t, I’ll take her without one. Barring sudden deat
h or full paralysis, there’s no way in hell I’m making it through the night without filling Uma’s sweet little sex.
“Don’t move,” I say as I rummage through the closet drawers.
“Bingo!” I turn to her with not one but two condoms in my hand.
I am the king of the world.
Uma stands up, and for a long moment, I just stare at her. All of her.
“You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on,” I say, meaning every word.
She smiles, blushing a little.
When I’ve had my fill of looking, I take a step toward her and cup her breasts. The contrast between the softness of the flesh in my palms and the hardness of the nipples prodding them is incredibly erotic.
I point my chin to the pillow. “Lie down.”
Uma stretches out on her back.
I slide a condom on and position myself over her, holding myself up on my forearms.
Her black hair fans out on the pillow, glossy and smooth. I nuzzle it. It smells so good. It always smells good. Lifting my head, I take in her delicate nose, her glistening lips, her expressive eyes.
They hold nothing but tenderness and blind trust. So much trust that I begin to second-guess myself. I shouldn’t be doing this. Of all the women in the world, Uma is the one forbidden to me. She’s out of bounds, she’s the worst possible choice for what I want from a woman at this point in my life. There’s still time to backpedal.
Get up and leave, Zach, right now, for heaven’s sake—
She wraps her arms around my neck and spreads her thighs, pressing up against my erection. “Make love to me, Zach. I want you. I’m ready.”
Game over.
I press hot kisses to her face. “I want you more than you know.”
Craving a taste of her “readiness,” I almost go down on her again, but she wraps her legs around the back of my thighs, locking me in place.
Wicked girl.
I reach between our bodies and stroke her folds. She’s ready all right. Ready for me. This beautiful, strong-willed woman wants me to claim her body, to be her first ever lover. I’ve never been anyone’s first before, and I wasn’t expecting to ever be. But Uma came along and chose to bestow that privilege upon me.
Who am I to say no?
With guilt and doubts retreating from my heart, the glee that’s been there all along expands, filling the vacuum. My mind almost melts with the rush of knowing that I’m about to bury myself in Uma’s tight, wet heat… I hope to God she’ll enjoy it as much as I will.
“Promise me you’ll tell me if I’m hurting you,” I say. “If you’d rather I stopped.”
“I promise.”
My heart hammering in my chest, I press against her entrance.
Slowly. Gently.
First timer.
Her fingers dig into my back. She frowns a little, as I apply more pressure. I thrust. She flinches. I expect her to ask me to stop, but she doesn’t. She pushes against me.
Emboldened, I plunge into her.
She lets out a groan of pain, her eyes watering.
I still and search her face. “Mon amour…?”
“It’s OK,” she murmurs, smiling weakly. “Not half as bad as my sister had painted it.”
Thank God. “Can you take more?”
She nods.
I lever myself on outstretched arms, and we both watch as I push a little deeper into her. Then a little more. And then more. I kiss her between thrusts. So tight. So hot. Her groans turn into soft whimpers, and she writhes beneath me, clutching me with her arms and legs.
When I’m sheathed inside her, I search her face again. Uma’s eyes are closed, and her expression has shifted from pained to relaxed.
Are her cheeks flushed?
Is my little ginger candy enjoying her first time?
I withdraw a little and push in. She gasps. Another withdrawal and thrust. A throaty moan. Soon, we settle into a rhythm that she seems to enjoy. I strain to keep it slow and gentle when there’s nothing I want more than to sink in to the hilt, as deep as her body will allow. As if that would somehow brand her as mine.
Only mine.
I startle. Why am I feeling that way? I’m not the possessive type. Besides, I have no right to be possessive with Uma. She’s free to go back to Nepal if that’s what she wants. She’s free to make love to whomever she chooses.
I don’t want her to.
She opens her eyes. “Why did you stop?”
I say nothing and just stare at her face.
“I’m doing great, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she says before nodding with feigned aplomb. “You may resume.”
My lips curl up. “Thank you. May I go faster?”
“Yes.”
I give her an are-you-sure look.
“I need you to go faster,” she says.
God help me.
She shifts, spreading her legs wider and tilting her hips to give me better access.
I withdraw almost fully and plunge into her in a long, deep stroke. She moans. Her voice is husky and sexy as hell, the last trace of pain gone from it.
That’s all I needed to hear to give in to what my body demands. No more holding back. She said she needed it, and I’m going to give her exactly what she asked for.
As I pound into her, my thrusts deep and hard, she bucks and our bodies slap against each other. My ears ring, and my vision goes blurry. Control slips away, but I resist. I don’t peak yet.
Uma closes her eyes and presses the back of her head into the pillow. Each time I drive in, her lips part on a gasp and the sounds she makes grow louder and wilder. She’s letting go completely, abandoning herself to the pleasure of our joining.
Come for me.
It’s preposterous to expect a woman to climax the first time she has penetrative sex, but seeing how incredibly receptive Uma is, she just might.
I want to take her there.
Leaning on one forearm, I pet her sweet little breasts, glide my hand down her belly and rub her between her legs.
She arches her back. “Oh my God! Zach, please…”
“Please what?” I whisper against her temple.
“It’s too much—”
“You’re hurting?”
“No. I’m loving this.” A moan escapes her lips as I drive into her. “But, with your hand, it’s too much, too… intense. More than I can bear.”
“That means you’re close.” I brush a kiss on her lips. “Just relax into it, chaton, and let yourself come.”
She peers at me as if deciding if she can trust my promise and nods.
I take her mouth again, harder this time, pushing my tongue between her lips at the same time as I plunge into her heat. I do this again, and again, and again, until she cries out and her muscles spasm around me.
A few more jerky thrusts, I climax, too—hard and sweet—and collapse on top of her.
Fevered words tumble from my mouth as I roll off to my side, so I won’t crush her. I have no idea what I’m saying, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that she’s smiling.
She looks happy.
Ten or maybe twenty minutes later, I fetch a towel from the bathroom and wipe her legs. Before I cast it aside and lie down next to her, I glimpse dark smudges on it and remember the implications of what we just did.
Uma touches my hand. “Hey, don’t look so glum! It was totally worth it.”
My heart lightens when I see her smile, and I stretch out beside her. She nestles her head in the crook of my arm. I stroke her face softly, delving my fingers into her thick hair.
After a few moments like that, all my thoughts and worries retreat. The only thing that remains is a feeling of profound satisfaction. Peacefulness.
Contentment.
FOURTEEN
Uma
It’s TV dinner night.
“I want to watch Star Wars,” Sam declares.
I glance at Zach who shrugs a why-not.
Sam pulls a boxed set fro
m the shelf and climbs down from the chair. “We’ll watch the original trilogy.”
Zach’s eyebrows go up. “Wow. You know what a trilogy is. I’m impressed.”
“Everyone knows what a trilogy is,” Sam says.
“I’m afraid I don’t.” I do my best to sound convincing. “What is it?”
He grins, visibly happy to explain something to a grown-up. “A trilogy is three DVDs in one box.”
“Of course,” I say, lifting my embroidery frame to cover my mouth.
Zach high-fives him. “Best. Definition. Ever.”
Sam’s grin reaches his ears as he fumbles with the discs and the remote.
“It’s gorgeous.” Zach points to the taut silk in my hands. “If you don’t get an A for this, I’ll have words with your teacher.”
I smile. “My stitching is decent, but my beadwork has room for improvement.”
He peers at the textured design I’m creating with seed and bugle interspersed with gold sequins and tiny seashells. “What are you talking about? I don’t see a bead out of place.”
As he says this, he covers my hand on the frame with his, big and warm. Our eyes meet, and then we both glance at Sam who’s staring at the screen, his lips moving as he reads the DVD menu. Without taking his eyes off Sam, Zach gives my hand a gentle squeeze and strokes it with the pads of his fingers.
My lids slide shut.
The Star Wars opening theme sounds from the television. Zach lets go of my hand. Sam spins around and jumps onto the couch between Zach and me.
As Luke Skywalker’s destiny unfolds, I listen to the onscreen action and try to get on with my embroidery project. But with Zach sitting so close, with his left arm stretched along the back of the couch behind Sam and his fingertips caressing my cheek, concentrating on my work is hard.
It becomes impossible when my mind flashes images of what he’ll likely do and say to me a couple of hours from now.
“Mon amour,” he’d whispered at one point during our first night when he’d pushed through my hymen, and I’d cringed.
He murmured my name after that and called me chaton—a kitten—and all sorts of silly things like ma petite puce. You must be French if you call your lover “my little flea.” He whispered words of comfort and encouragement as he inched deeper, stretching me to the point where the thrill of our joining gave way to pain.