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He bends down slightly, wrapping his arms around my waist, and quickly lifts me up. I yelp in surprise, but then fall into it because I can’t get enough of him right now. Can’t get enough of his warm skin and his soft lips and his body, so strong and sure,against mine. He starts walking eagerly, kissing wherever he can: my mouth, my neck, my chin. Messy and sloppy and exactly what I want.Thisis what I want—to feel so desired that nothing else matters.
“Hope I’m going the right way,” he mumbles against my shoulder, and I let out a laugh. He steps into the guest room, the one everybody occasionally likes to crash in, and lays me down on the bed.
This room is mostly bare except for a bed with generic bedsheets and a closet full of storage bins that may topple over when opened. Generic artwork on the wall, a small window overlooking downtown, blinds shut.
“Guest room,” I explain, reaching to get him close again.
“Oh. Do we need to move?”
“No no no, come here.”
“Okay good, I don’t want to move,” he rushes out, and I giggle again. Light and effervescent andhappy.
His hands are firm against my hips, pinning me onto the bed, and it makes me love this that much more. Like there isn’t a question or a doubt. His thumbs graze hip bones, my body rolls to meet his.
“Are you tired? I know it’s late,” he asks, checking in.
More laughter, more joy. “I have never been less tired in my life.”
“Tell me what you like.”
The shame of my early adolescence comes back to haunt me with that phrase. What do I like? I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever been allowed to know. I learned to never ask for what I wanted, even though I wanted so many things.
But Logan here with me is so much more than what I would have hoped for otherwise. From the start he has been nothing but tender and gentle. It’s not a surprise it would translate to here.
“I think … maybe I’m still learning what I like, or don’t like.”
“Okay,” he says, but it’s not placating. It’s him listening and absorbing the information.
“I like … Ineed… foreplay.”
“Jesus Christ, your ex sounds like a clueless, selfish ass.”
“No, no.” I put my hand over his mouth. “I don’t want to talk about him ever again.”
“Good.” He kisses me roughly and something about it makes me feel so alive.
“Kissing is the best foreplay.”
He smiles, nipping at my bottom lip. “It is, isn’t it?” and he leans in to kiss me again, but this time slowly. He's not in a rush to do anything. The languid movements of it, the exploration of tongues and mouths. A delicate, sensual rhythm is starting to build and I’m feeling a whole lot of need climbing to the top.
“Tango is the best foreplay,” I spill out, and he just laughs softly as he peppers me with more kisses.
“What else do you like?”
But with his mouth on me and his body next to mine, I want everything. I want too much.
“Just touch me.” I sound impatient, but it’s nothing but need.
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
And so, his hands make their way all over my body. They go up and down my arms, down my back, grabbing my ass. They continue up my thigh, bunching up my dress. The anticipation is delicious, his hands are addicting.
“Can I?” He motions to my dress.
“Yes.” I respond quickly, but he slowly, slowly pulls my dress up. Every new inch he exposes, he kisses lightly. My knee, my lower thigh, my upper thigh. Higher and higher, making everything build, making me crazy for it. It’s only serving to ramp up all my nerves.
