A comfortable silence was had in the car to go feed our giant lapdog who was clearly put out by the late hour, though this was made up for by his warm mash for Christmas dinner topped with treats and carrots and apples. For once, my focus wasn’t on my adorable fuzzy four-legged animal, instead it was torn to the man with me. All the time he touched me somewhere. In the car, his hand on my leg. At the gate, a hand on me as I climbed over. In the field, my body pulled firmly against his. I keep telling myself he’ll tire of this, of me, not to get used to it. But it’s so damn nice.
Homeward bound, the silence is a little bit heavier but with anticipation instead of fear. I can feel my own arousal building, then again the hand on my thigh isn’t helping much. I glance down and once again notice just how huge they are, strong hands, working hands. “Do you mind if we swing up to my place? I just want to grab a few bits,” he asks. “Of course,” I reply. He leaves me behind, telling me he won’t be long. I feel a little alone without him, then brush that silliness aside. Out he strides, arms laden with bags and a giant smile plastered across his face illuminated by the headlights. He thinks he’s fucking moving in, is the first thing that enters my head. How the hell am I going to deal with this one?
The three minutes it takes to get home are filled with his avid conversation, none of which I can remember as none of which I actually heard. Car off, bags grabbed and he’s striding to the door. I follow, praying to anyone willing to listen that I’m wrong. Door closes, I immediately kneel and start to take his boots off. Just as quickly and he’s taking mine. It’s then he realises there’s something wrong and looks up at me, questioning with one of my feet in his hand as he peels a sock away. He doesn’t need to ask, I know his question just from his eyes. “What’s in the bags?” A cheeky grin, he bounces to his feet (I so envy his agility) pulls me close and declares “Presents! It’s Christmas!!! Well those and a some clothes and a few bits for myself.” His laughter is infectious. “I left all the torture toys at home for when you visit,” he winks at me and slaps my ass. Bags grabbed and we head for the sitting room, a loud creak declaring his descent to the couch (please stop sitting in my spot btw lol) while I retrieve the few gifts I have for him under the tree.
“The teen’s first,” I tell him, presenting the gift my gorgeous girl has made for him. An entire book of sketches dedicated to him, each one with a title, each one with a picture of him in all the ways she knows him. We look at them together as I haven’t been let in on the secret gift and I’m, as always, astounded by what she sees. Close to the back, about five or six pages in, there’s a picture that takes both our breath’s away though. The page is split in two. The title on top says it all, as there below is a sketch of me sitting hunched with my head on my hands just looking. On the other side, there he is in his resting stance that’s so familiar to me: one leg propped on a gate, the other firm and strong on the ground, his arms spread wide with strong hands gripping the top bar of the gate, just looking. And the title above? “That Look”. I don’t know if she understood what she captured, but she captured it perfectly.
Next he got mine. A framed photo I managed to capture while he was absent on one of my walks, a deep stormy sunset with the gulls swarming above heading inward to land for safety. I got a kiss for that one. The second was a tongs to put coal on his fire, something he’d admired and approved of at my own house. I got a laugh and a kiss for that one. The third was a selection of candles and a solar-powered pump for his water, an homage to the day we spent together preparing for the storm many moons ago. For this, I was pinned to the couch and tormented and teased until I begged him to stop, laughter pouring from both of us as I fought against him while he managed to hold me down with one hand. His eyes burned into mine as he told me he’d open his last present later, then tugged on the cardigan I still wore.
Finally he let me back up, and I sat while he knelt in front of me rummaging in his bag like Santa Claus. He left the teen’s and something for the manchild under the tree with a promise not to peek before they got home. Then he presented me with mine. Very unsure of myself now, I took what he gave me and unwrapped two beautiful carved bookends of horses rearing. I turned them in my hands over and over, recognising the beautiful animals in my hands as my own. This got a deep kiss. Next was a pair of gloves. This one got a questioning look, and then he reminded me of my coal covered jeans from the day before the storm.
He was hesitant of handing over the last one, I could feel it in him. I unwrapped it carefully, but before I could uncover it he placed a hand on mine. “This isn’t something I expect you to keep,” he tells me. I’m confused, but remove the paper nonetheless. There in front of me is a photo of him and a laughing woman, his wife. His eyes are searching my face, trying to read me. I run a finger over the picture, first his face, then hers. A whirlwind of emotions run through me, thoughts running riot in my head. I think back to our conversation at our place earlier, all the truths he spoke to me there of her and I speak the only truth I can to him, “she made you happy, that’s all that matters to me. Thank you for sharing her with me.” My nose is being kissed again, and as I look at him I see tears threatening in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere”, he tells me. “I’ve missed you too,” I reply.
Presents get abandoned and I’m back under him once again, though this time he’s given me back my hands to explore. The tempo has changed this time, urgency replaced with passion, lust replaced with want, hands becoming familiar with the feeling of each other, mouths - omg his mouth is just dangerous… Once again I’m reminded of my earlier inability to control myself as fresh floods release from somewhere deep inside me and I feel the damp heat between my legs. I can feel him growing on top of me, feel his unmet need pressing into me. “Can we go upstairs so I can unwrap my last present?” he asks me. Fuck, the state of my bedroom was long forgotten. Shit, sex? This was happening… I hadn’t thought about this… Panic started again, heart racing and not in a good way, and once again he felt me tense. “I don’t want to fuck you - well I do, but not yet, not until we’re both ready. But I would like to sleep with you, be with you, stay with you, if you’ll have me?” Well I can’t really refuse that, now can I?
So we head for the stairs, my legs ridiculously wobbly and knees creaking and clicking at every step. I try to put all thoughts out of my head, just stay in the moment woman, if it feels right then it feels right. He’s brought a bag. I quickly gather up the clothes I’ve abandoned earlier and unceremoniously dump them in a corner, both of us laughing as I do. And then we’re both just standing there in hot anticipation and a little bit afraid of what’s to come. Not even twelve hours have passed since he landed on my doorstep, and so, so much has happened since then.
He closes the gap between us, and starts unwrapping me, his final gift. The cardigan drops easily. He reaches for my jeans next, button by button making me wait between each one. Sliding them down, he leaves my underwear on. Once again I’m asked to step out of each leg, only this time he’s in front of me. As my second leg is lifted, I feel his breath on me, hot and fast. His mouth latches onto my clit through the thin material as he tugs my jeans free of my foot. I hear my name again, feel my name from his mouth against me. He teases with his teeth, his tongue lapping every drop I produce in response. My hands are on his head, more to steady myself than anything else as I rock myself against him. I know I’m moaning his name, though what else I’m saying I’ve no idea. I do know “please” was said a lot.
He finally releases me, pushes me back gently until I gratefully feel the bed against my legs and sink down to it. He joins me, lies with me for a little while and asks me questions: what I’ve tried on myself and enjoyed, what I haven’t enjoyed, what turns me on when I don’t expect it to, what turns me off. The list goes on and on, yet while I reply he uses that mouth on me, those hands.
His questions keep coming, and then a big one: what part of my body do I like the least. A few months ago it would have been every part, but now, lying here with him, the only part I’m worried about is my belly. So far he’s left my top on, and now he asks me “why” as he slides his body down, fingers begin to push it up little by little, his mouth covering what his fingers have unearthed. A nibble here, a kiss there, a lick, a bite. I have no reply as inch by inch my belly becomes his to explore. He sinks his teeth deep into each inside of me, pulling on the flesh he finds. His rough hands coax and soothe where his mouth has left, tracing circles against my skin. “Why?” he repeats, burrying his face in it, licking from the top of my pussy to the bottom of my bra, landing with his chin resting perfectly between my breasts as his eyes meet mine. “Lost your voice again?” he asks me, a rumbling chuckle as he works his way from where he was back up to my mouth.
I know he’s impatient, but I’m even more so to feel his skin against mine once more. My fingers find the buttons of his shirt, one by one expertly opening them and pushing it from his shoulders. “You’ve got to teach me how to do that,” I hear against my lips. He’s biting my lip now, but I still want more and I tell him so. I can feel him against my thigh through his jeans. But I want more than that. I want him without his jeans. I reach for him then, my hand finding his length before he can stop me as I whisper “more” against his lips. I hear him pant, feel him pant. My fingers tighten around him slightly and move slowly towards the tip, he holds his breath. My name again, pleading, begging, “stop”, he asks me. I flatten my hand against him and feel him relax a little, a slow groan escaping.
He quickly rolls on his back, his hands running through his hair and I can see he’s torn. I roll on my side, hand flat on his chest, remembering his words to me earlier and knowing what he really wants to do. “I’m not ready for that,” I tell him, planting kisses everywhere I can, feeling his heart absolutely racing under my lips. “I know, and I don’t want you to,” he tells me, though I don’t entirely believe him. “What are you most afraid of?” I ask. He pauses for half a lifetime, slowing his breathing, taking my hand in his to stop me moving it. “I’ll show you,” he says.
He rolls of the bed, stands and stares at me. I sit up, top still askew, hair everywhere, and really not giving a shit anymore. He smiles at me, realising quickly I don’t care anymore as my belly hangs out in the slumped pose I’ve created with my legs crossed. He shrugs his shirt off and I’m treated to the most magnificent view of him as he hands there, jeans taut against his hips, strong thighs bulging through the denim (I do love a decent set of thighs), firm torso rippling and rolling as he breathes.
And then he turns. My breath catches. Tears fall as I scramble towards him falling over in my haste. He’s turned back to face me before I reach him, pulling me into him as my heart breaks in two for him, a deep ache that I’ll never forget. “Do you understand?” His voice is loud, and he’s scaring me. his hands grab my arms now, shaking me back to reality. I just want to touch him, to hold him, to tell him it’s ok. “Tell me, tell me you understand,” he’s shouting at me now. I’m not afraid anymore. I’m trying to find the words but I can’t stop crying. “I need to hear you say it, please tell me you understand” I can hear the pain in his voice, the anguish drowns out everything else inside of him. “I understand,” I nod against him. “Look at me and tell me, please, please look at me.” It takes everything inside of me to meet his eyes, but I do. His are wild, yet pleading, hard and unreadable, yet so vulnerable. “I promise you, I understand.”
You see, what I saw when he turned were scars. Lines up and down his back. What I felt as sinew and muscle and traced with my fingers with lust and awe were not just what I thought they were. They were scars too. What seemed like hundreds of them. I knew what he was afraid of now. I knew his deepest darkest secret without him telling me. He was utterly terrified of losing control, of truly hurting me and not being able to stop.
He let me touch him then, he let me grieve for the person he should have been, could have been, without the past he’d had. He let me touch him, soothe him, kiss him, murmur to him as we lay together in bed. We talked about an Irish upbringing, we talked about times long since gone. We talked about a good life with his wife, how he thought it would be forever and the demons that came back when she died. We talked about us, we talked about me, we talked about how my life had gone wrong and how and what we need to do together before anything else. Sometimes we laughed, sometimes we cried, but we were together and that’s all that mattered.
Somewhere we ran out of words, and replaced them with kisses instead. He pinned me down and explored every single piece of me with his mouth and then came back for more. He asked if he could mark me, I told him of course he could but he already had surely. He brought me to a mirror to show me he hadn’t, apart from the fabulous bitemark on my ass. I eventually managed to pry his jeans off under protest, but the rest wasn’t allowed.
And then he went back to exploring me. My belly will never be safe again, and apparently it’s the perfect place to leave the first letter of his name as no-one else will see it there. My underwear was removed, and there on my belly he lay, etching his name into my skin with his teeth as his fingers plunged inside me taking me over the edge again and again and again.
He knelt back on his heels, that dark look in his eyes as I lay there utterly spent, my hand rubbing my belly where he’d been for the last hour or so. “Does it hurt?” he asked, with more than just that one question in his eyes. “Everything hurts”, I tell him, “but in a good way, I promise”. I didn’t think his eyes could get any darker, but a shadow fell across his face. I spread my legs wide, inviting him, watching his shaft twitch as I did. Fear returned to his face, indecision as his own hand found himself and stroked the material covering it. “I need you”, I told him, “please”, I begged.
He hesitated, I saw his muscles tense, his jaw working overtime. “Lie with me,” I suggested. His eyes never left mine as he moved towards me. I stopped him as he hovered above, reached for his waist, pushed at the band. He was tense, but he didn’t resist. Much and all as I struggled, my eyes never left his, something I found incredibly difficult to do. I got them down enough for him to wriggle out of, and then there he was, just as naked and vulnerable as I was, aching and hurting just as much as me but for a different reason.
He buried his head in me then, “there it is, that scent I’ve been searching for” he told me, his hands holding tight to fistfuls of my hair as he devoured my skin. I could hear his mouth and teeth working on my skin, feel the bites as the deepened. Slowly, gently I rocked my hips against him. My name was back on his lips, a whimper, a plea of my name. This gorgeous incredible man was here with me whimpering in my arms. Finally my hips found the right angle and I felt him nudge at the entrance to me, yielding gladly. But he froze, my flesh trapped between his teeth. I hushed his cry, moved further underneath him to let him in, his teeth clasping on me as he did. I won’t lie, I was more than just a little terrified that what he’d latched onto was going to be torn off, or that he was going to split me in two. Either way, I’d die happy.
My hands on his ass were trying to coax him further inside, it was like trying to coax two blocks of stone though. My nails dig in, and a reaction came from deep inside him. I felt it before I heard it, a primal roar so deep I’m sure it woke my neighbours. His hands tore mine away and pinned them above my head, his legs forced mine further apart than they already stretched, his mouth covered mine and sucked what breath I had away and replaced it with his tongue. I’m guessing maybe an inch, maybe two were inside me, that was all. And then, well then I became a brat. A complete and utter brat. I clenched around him, hard, so hard it actually physically hurt me. His head shot up and suddenly I was full, so goddam full and that roar was back building in him again as he pulled back and slammed into me over and over again. I came hard and fast, every piece of me splintering apart in pure undiluted ecstasy. He shouted at me to look at him, and as I did with another orgasm hitting me, his body pounding into mine, I told him one last time “I’ve missed you so damn much.”
I’ve never seen someone cum like that, never felt it, hot streams melting and soothing me inside triggering one last incredible orgasm as I milked him for all I was worth, never felt so complete as I did in that moment, never truly watched someone lose control inside of me. It was raw, fuck it, I was raw at that stage, but it was the most beautiful thing to feel him, see him, touch him, and taste him as his mouth found mine one more time.
He lay on top of me for a while, my hands still firmly pinned above my head, still connected in the middle, just being, catching our breath, enjoying every moment that just was right then and right there. One hand on my hip, he rolled to his side taking me with him. He pulled me further onto him, “I don’t want to come out yet,” he told me. “I don’t want you to either,” I laughed back. “You need an ass-whooping for that,” I’m told as he nuzzles me. “Promises promises,” I drowsily reply, immediately regretting my words as I see his eyes darken and feel him twitch inside me. Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. “Maybe in the morning,” he warns me, “now go to sleep.” I close my eyes, and I do just that.