Goode Vibrations

by Jasinda Wilder

  She dragged her fingers through my hair, again and again. “I think…I think maybe more of those kisses would help.” A smile up at me that was as tender and affectionate as it was adorable and heart-palpitating, heart-stoppingly gorgeous. “I think that might do the trick.”

  “I think I could manage just a couple more kisses.”

  “Just a couple?” A moue, faking a pout.

  “I mean, if you really wanted me to kiss you, I guess I could manage it.”

  “I would love it if you did,” she said. “I really do enjoy the way you kiss me. It’s rather nice.”

  “Rather nice, hmm? Is that all?” I kissed her, and this time, there was more than just tenderness in it. “What would I have to do to get it up past ‘rather nice?’”

  She clawed at my shoulders over my shirt as I kissed her again, this time harder, deeper. “That’s a good start,” she gasped, when I released her.

  Then she pushed at me, suddenly ferocious, and we rolled together and I ended up on the bottom, with Poppy straddling me.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” she whispered, once she was on top. Cradling my face in her hands, she nuzzled her lips on mine without making it a kiss, nose to nose, chin to chin. And then took my mouth, demanding another searing, mind-melting kiss. “But we can do better.”

  And then she slashed her lips onto mine yet again, and this time the kiss was burning, devouring, starving, desperate. We clung to each other through it, hands gripping wherever they found flesh, scraping, seeking bare skin.

  Finally we broke apart once more.

  I pulled at the hem of her shirt. “I think maybe I could kiss you more thoroughly if this weren’t in the way.”

  She sat up. “Oh, well, in that case, please, allow me to remove the distraction.” And began to peel the shirt off.

  I caught her wrists. “I think maybe I had better do it. You did say you’d forgotten how, remember.”

  She snapped her fingers. “You know, you’re right. I just clean forgot how. You definitely had better help me.”

  She was wearing a long-sleeve T-shirt, deep scarlet, V-neck, made from thin, silky cotton, clinging to her skin, cut to accentuate her bust and trim waist. With it, tight, stretchy jeans and black boots with chunky two-inch heels.

  I gathered the hem of her shirt in my hands. “I feel like a kid on Christmas about to open a present he’s been waiting for all year.”

  “I’m wearing a bra and underwear, so I’m definitely all wrapped up for you.” She grinned. “I woke up feeling sexy, so I put on my skimpiest lingerie. It looks so good, you may not even want to take it off.”

  I growled. “Oh, I will. But I just may have to make you put it back on so I can take it off you again.” I lifted. Lifted, baring her tummy. “I can’t wait to be skin to skin with you, Poppy.”

  Then I had the shirt off and she was shaking her hair out—loose, wild, black wavy curtains around the golden skin of her shoulders. White lingerie, and when she said it was her skimpiest, she wasn’t kidding. The bra, such as it was, existed mainly as sheer mesh, with a scattered starburst of flowers embroidered over her nipples.

  “Fuck me,” I breathed. “So fucking gorgeous.”

  “I’d love to,” she said, “but I can’t until you’re finished undressing me.”

  She rolled backward, stood up, backed away. I followed, knelt in front of her. Kissed her belly, her hip, over the waist of her tight, dark wash jeans. Helped her out of the boots, the tiny white ankle socks. Reached up, freed the button of her jeans, then lowered the zipper. She watched, gazing down at me. Tugged the jeans down—to thighs, past her knees. Around her ankles. She’d have just stepped out of them, but this was my show—my job. I gently tugged her foot free of one leg, then the other. Just to draw it out, I neatly folded the jeans and set them aside. Now she was clad in just the lingerie—and she hadn’t been exaggerating. She looked so fucking incredible in all white, like an angel of lust, that I almost didn’t want to strip her any further.

  I held her hips in my hands and stared up at her, kneeling in front of her. “You’re a goddess, Poppy.”

  “Your goddess,” she breathed.

  “Mine.”

  The key word a few lines up is “almost.” Meaning, I absolutely had to have her the rest of the way out of her clothes.

  Needed her naked. Needed her skin, bare, all for me.

  The panties were a complicated network of straps and laces and silk mesh. I laughed, grinning up at her. “I don’t even know how to get those off.”

  She just laughed with me. “Try getting them on.”

  I hooked my fingers into the topmost layer of straps and laces, and tugged down, but they snagged on the generous swell of her hips.

  She bit her lip to stifle laughter. “Rip them off if you have to. I’ll just make you buy me more.”

  “Make me?” I echoed. “Try and stop me.”

  I yanked them down, and she gasped, and I definitely heard a seam rip, but she only gazed down at me still as if the very sun itself revolved around me, as if I was her oxygen, her reason for breathing, for being, as if not being naked with me in the next few moments would be the worst tragedy there was.

  I stood up, and her breasts brushed my chest, hard nipples pressing into my pecs, and she reached for me as I circled her body with my arms to find the clasp of the bra. I made quick work of it, and she let it slide down her arms, let me catch it. Not caring if I looked like a creeper, I sniffed it. She just laughed.

  “Weirdo,” she breathed. “I’ve been wearing it all day. It can’t smell good.”

  “It does. Smells like you. Like what I’ve been missing so badly all these weeks.”

  Naked now, I released her and stepped back. Just stared at her. “Goddamn, Poppy. How did you manage to become more breathtaking since the last time I saw you naked?”

  “I think that’s the love you’re seeing,” she whispered. “Or it’s your love acting like a filter.”

  “Ahh,” I murmured. “That explains it.”

  “I just want to keep looking at you,” I said.

  She moved forward, reaching for the fly of my jeans. “You can look at me all you want,” she murmured. “But I have needs too, you know.”

  “You do?”

  “Oh yes. Quite a lot of them, as a matter of fact.”

  “Like what?”

  She was trying to take off my shirt with one hand and unzip my jeans with the other at the same time. And bless her, but she managed to succeed. She pushed my shirt up off my head and threw it aside, and at the same time, got my jeans unbuttoned and unzipped. Once my shirt was off and my jeans were open, she shoved them down, moving with greedy desperation. I stepped and clumsily kicked free of the denim, and by the time my feet were freed, she had my black boxer-briefs down around my thighs, and then I was naked with her.

  She grasped my cock in both hands, groaning in utter relief. “This,” she moaned. “This is what I need.”

  “Oh fuck,” I growled, as she stroked me with both hands, greedily, as if to make up for lost time. “Slow down, or this will be over before it starts. I haven’t had myself off either, you know. So I’m sort of, uh, primed to blow.”

  “I don’t care,” she murmured, not slowing. “I just don’t fucking care. You can come all over me if you want. We have all night. All day. We can rinse off in the lake. I don’t want to slow down. I want to touch you. I want to taste you.”

  We stumbled for the bed, and I somehow landed on my back, filling my hands with the warm round globes of her ass, filling my mouth with her breasts, my taste buds with her skin. She had her hands on me, caressing my cock with both hands, kissing my chest and my chin and jaw and lips, wherever her lips landed, she kissed.

  The box of condoms was under the bed, since there wasn’t a bedside table—I fumbled for it blindly, with one hand. Found it. She noticed what I was doing, took the box from me. Unable to move fast enough, she tore it open, ripped open a packet still attached to the str
ing of the rest, pulled the latex ring out. Sheathed me in it, rolling over me hand over hand.

  The moment I was covered, she pressed her body against mine, cradling my face in her hands, lips to lips. “Errol, please.”

  I held myself in one hand, traced her opening with the other. She gasped as I nudged against her, writhed to take me. Her mouth dropped open, lips quivering against mine as we joined.

  “Poppy,” I groaned, grinding in to fill her, feeling her sex swallow around me, sliding in, deep, slow.

  Her tremulous lips touched mine, in a half-kiss, an un-breathing touch of lips to lips, her gasp shattered as our hips met. “Oh god…Errol. Errol!”

  She pulled away from the kiss, lifted up to brace her hands on my chest. Breasts hung, swayed as she found her balance on me. Eyes on mine, never looking away, not daring to even blink.

  She held there, still fully impaled with me.

  “Errol…” This time it wasn’t a gasp of incredulous bliss, but a predicate, a beginning. Lips on mine again, now a brief kiss. “I love you, Errol.”

  I didn’t bother hiding or wiping away the damp salt at the corners of my eyes. Didn’t tear my gaze from hers—let her see it. She bent and kissed the tears, laughed giddily, sniffing, sobbing.

  I ached within her. Didn’t need to say it back. That’s not how it works. You say it when you mean it. When it emerges from you unbidden.

  She rolled back, and then I ached to be deeper, and she sobbed again, laughing still as well, and then we were moving together, me sliding in, deeper and deeper, and my groan was her breath, mouth shuddering on mouth. Each movement was slow, feeling each other, taking this as a measured experiment of what it was to make love. She clung to me and let herself sob out loud each time I drove into her, and I heard my own groans become broken as our hips met, as I delved into the deepest part of her.

  It wasn’t long.

  It didn’t matter.

  It was us, expressing love.

  Climax was a combined eruption, more of half-sobbed sighs than of screams, of whispered benedictions of gasped names than of growled expletives.

  Them

  Body on body in the moonlight. The lake wrapped warm around us, enveloping us as we swam, splashed, laughed, naked together. Dove down into darkness and found each other, skin on skin, twisting and rising as one.

  There was only we.

  Dawn met us as we lay wrapped in a blanket on the porch, sharing a single chair, sipping from a single tin mug. Sated for the moment, we luxuriated in the feel of flesh and warmth of togetherness, sunrise staining the treetops pink and then the sky above salmon-orange and then the lake a brightening molten gradient of pink-to-scarlet.

  * * *

  He carried me inside once the sun had risen, and we ate a breakfast of eggs and bacon and toast cooked over an open flame, and he wore only a pair of what he called “stubbies,” and I stayed wrapped in his fleece blanket, which now held so many memories of us in its soft pilled surface. More coffee, and I lay on the bed with my head on his thighs as he read aloud to me from a book of classic fables he’d found on the mantel above the fireplace. The fire had melted to glowing coals by the time we drowsed, with the sun fully breaching the windows, bathing us in stunning yellow light.

  I fell asleep to the sound of his voice reading to me, the soft gentle hum in his chest and that delicious accent I never tired of hearing.

  He began to drowse and I half woke to feel him set the book on the floor and slide down and now it was my turn to hold him—I cradled his head against my breasts and felt his breath on my skin and knew he heard and felt my heartbeat lulling him to sleep in my arms.

  We slept longer than I think I’ve ever slept in my life, till the sun was orange again.

  He went outside and turned on the generator, and a few minutes later the narrow, cramped shower in the bathroom was wreathed in steam, and even though it was so small it barely fit me let alone us, we took turns scrubbing ourselves clean in the iron-tang of the well water.

  I left my hair wet, only taking the time run a brush through the snarls, and then he took over, sitting behind me, his legs around my hips, brushing my hair. I remember him telling me how he’d done this for his mother, and I felt him connecting to that past, felt him let it wash through him, heard him breathing hard and sniffing, and gave him space to feel it and as he brushed and brushed my hair till it shone, I felt him mourning for the first time and in so doing letting the memory and the pain become less intertwined.

  I lay back against his chest, removed the brush from his hands. His chin rested on my shoulder, and I twisted until I could kiss him. I tasted salt once more, and his willingness to let me see it, feel it, taste it, to let me know the depth of his sorrow made me love him so much my heart wanted to expand past the confines of my chest, and I could only show him by kissing him, clinging to him, lying on his body, my back to his front.

  He shifted and shimmied, and he was naked under me. I reached up, behind my head, clutched at his neck, his head. His hands scoured my belly, cradled my breasts, and I felt him angling hard and thick against me.

  “I have to get a—”

  “I don’t care.”

  I grasped him, took him into me.

  “Poppy…” he whispered, shattered to be bare inside me.

  “We’re covered, “ I whispered back. “Birth control.”

  “I’ve never felt anything like this before,” he growled, desperate, wild.

  “Me either.”

  “It feels too good,” he murmured, breathless, forcing himself to move as slowly as possible, sliding into me millimeter by millimeter, savoring the enrapturing ecstasy of bare unity, skin on skin, flesh within flesh and nothing else between.

  “So good,” I breathed. “Too good. I want it to last forever.”

  “We have forever.”

  His palm caressed my breast, thumbed the nipple and the piercing until I ached and mewled, and the fingers of his other hand slid over my tender swollen aching center and I didn’t need the help, feeling him like this was more than enough, was more than everything, but the added rough brush of his fingertips over me took me to heaven, to climax and beyond within seconds, to a place beyond climax where even screams couldn’t express the full shattering nirvana of this, with him.

  I cried out, I wept his name again and again as I came apart on him, his body my bed, his arms walls around me shutting out the world that wasn’t us, sheltering me; his lips whispered prayers to my body, worshipped my name, sang love to me.

  I came and I came, and his growling predatory snarl told me he was keeping his back, making this moment last as long as possible and I wanted it forever, to never end. To feel him impaled full and iron hard and silk soft inside me and his hands all over me touching me so I became a wild creature of savage pleasure with every instinct unlocked and unleashed, screaming on him, snarling as I came around him endlessly, pleasure waves rolling one after the other, one into another, until there was only the breathless sobbing wonder of us, of us, of us.

  “Give it to me, Errol,” I gasped, when I had breath to even whisper, voice shaking.

  He couldn’t speak, could only groan, growl, got my name out, Poppy, god, Poppy…

  I sat up, sat forward. Tucked my feet under my shins and rose up to gyrate, rolling my hips.

  He whimpered, a soft male groan of desperation, the agony of ecstasy.

  He tried to sit up, but I reached back and pushed him down, braced my hands on his thighs. “Let me,” I whispered. “Just let me take it from you.”

  He grasped my hips, caressed my ass, and held me as I moved. Helped me lift, brought me down. And then just held on to me for dear life as I began to roll my hips, faster and faster, taking him deep with each gyrating, grinding roll of my sex onto his throbbing erection.

  Held me, groaning my name.

  When he began to push against me, when his grip went painfully fierce, I slowed. Instead of rolling to get a full slide of his length, I spread myself
apart to take him deeper, seating lower on him, leaning forward and pushing my hips backward, angling him away to draw this moment out.

  He was truly crazed with need, now, trying to move, but I had him at my mercy, and my desire was to make this a moment that would be imprinted forever on his very soul. Deep, so deep. Felt him throbbing thick, and with nothing between us, I felt everything. He was so huge within me, stretched my sex so I felt each vein and ridge and ripple stuttering past my nether lips, felt the thick vein on the underside against the edge of me. Leaning forward like this, facing his feet, I needed only to balance with one hand on his leg, and with the other I reached between my thighs to feel where we joined. Felt his heavy soft sac and caressed it, massaged it.

  He cried out, nearly weeping with the need to explode, but I wouldn’t let him. Slow shallow thrusts, a tease of a roll, so he slid through me, so he pulsed inside me, pulsed ever so slightly deeper…

  “Poppy, fuck, please, my love, please.”

  I laughed with delight at the mad desperation in his voice. The plea. “You want to come, now, Errol?”

  “Have to, Pop, fucking have to.”

  “How hard are you going to come, when I let you?” Slow, so slow. Almost not moving. Just sitting harder on him, pushing deeper and deeper yet, angled forward until he was strained to the very edge, until his erection couldn’t angle any farther away without causing real pain.

  “So fucking hard.”

  “Are you going to fill me, Errol?” I teased him again, pulling up just a touch, then slamming down. “I need you. I want to feel you fill me.”

  “Poppy, you don’t even understand. I need to come so bad it fucking hurts.”

  “Do you love me, Errol?” I asked, turning to gaze at him over my shoulder, more teasing, not-quite-enough rolls of my sex around him.

  “I love you so much, Poppy. So much it scares me.”

  “Ask me again, Errol.”

  “No. You give it to me when you want me to have it.”

  I bent forward further, and he hissed, thrust or tried to. I caressed his sac, and he groaned. Cupped him, squeezed until he cried out.