Playing House Insert ...


"Mmm," he said aloud, because he wasn't really thinking anymore.  Bending, he kissed one of the breasts that she'd more or less offered up, and his palm covered the other.  She seemed to be humming; he could feel it vibrate in her chest and he ignored his own arousal to shift to her other side and free his remaining hand, slipping it under the waistband of her pajama bottoms and sliding fingers into the slick, hidden folds.  The skin there was hot, and she squirmed against his touch, but not, he thought, in objection.  She squirmed as if she wanted him to press harder; he could sense that's what she wanted, but she still didn't seem able to verbalize it, even telepathically.  He freed his hand again to get her pajama shorts off, panties and all, until she lay naked on the sheets.  One of her knees was raised and slanted in, hiding her crotch, and her arms had come up involuntarily to cover her breasts, which was rather pointless but he understood her sudden uncertainty.  So he didn't stop with her pajama shorts, but shucked his pants, too, dropping them on the rug beside the bed.  His turn, now, to be embarrassed, and he could feel her fingers stroking his back and the curve of his spine.  What was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander, he supposed, so he turned and lay down next to her, resisting the urge to yank the sheet up over his lower body.  He wasn't usually this self conscious, but physical nakedness between strangers could be like plate armor, hiding the person inside.  Kitty had already seen a lot of the person inside, so being naked was .  .  .  being naked.  She was stroking his shoulders and chest, his arms, then his belly, as if trying to get a look at him without staring, and now her shyness excited instead of frustrated him.  He found himself moving in against her, fitting one of her hips into the hollow of his own and gripping the other.  Her hand slid from his stomach to his hip, too.  They turned heads to kiss and brought their lower bodies together.  Ardor ignited, and her leg went over his, hooking him closer.  

The kiss turned mindless, sucking lips, pushing tongues together, sometimes striking teeth.  He wasn't thinking or orchestrating, just feeling, his free hand skimming all over her back and ass then around to her front, finding a breast again.  She seemed to like that and dropped back against the mattress so he could reach her more easily.  Raising up on his knees, he returned to his earlier position, mouth and one hand fondling her breasts, the other hand between her thighs.  With no sleep shorts in the way, it was much easier, and after a moment, she spread her legs for him, humping his hand.  Her own hands had been gripping the sheets, but now she let go, reaching up to stroke him wherever she could reach and cupping his erection.

She wasn't particularly skilled at handling a man, yet that very naivete was provocative, her exploring fingers doing unexpected things.  It wasn't how he'd touch himself, or even how most women had touched him before, and the surprises made up for not hitting his more sensitive places, or not lingering there long enough.  He finally had to move her hand, in fact, because he was getting too worked up, too fast, wine not withstanding.  I want to concentrate on you, he sent when she protested.  I like it too well when you touch me.  But at least they'd broken the barrier of her embarrassment.  

She seemed to have reached a plateau of arousal in which she floated.  As he'd noticed before, he seemed all but able to read her mind -- and he wasn't a telepath.  Was this a side-benefit?  Raising his mouth from her breast, he pressed his forehead into hers instead.  Can you show me what you want me to do? He asked.  If you can't tell me, if you're too embarrassed, can you let me feel what feels best?

Clearly, that was a new idea for her, but he felt the walls slip down and a backwash of her sensations assaulted him, much more precise than verbal direction.  It allowed him to make such fine distinctions as the fact that the sides of her nipples were more sensitive than the tops, and his fingers were only half on the right spot down below.  Adjusting them, he concentrated pressure and she gasped, arching up, her thighs squeezing his arm until he found himself laughing.  That was the response he'd been looking for, to make her feel that good, and she undulated against him as he massaged her.  After a moment, he shifted his hand about so that his thumb pressed her clit and he could slide two fingers inside, widening her a little, though he intended to make her come before he tried intercourse.  

It wasn't going to take much, at this rate.  He'd located spots she hadn't known she had, and her head was thrown back against the bed, her knees spread wide instead of clenched together.  She was shaking, and flushed on chest and cheeks, nipples and lips, and starkly beautiful.  He kept up the rhythm with his hand, moving faster, as he stretched out beside her, his other hand beneath her shoulders to support her.  She came moments later, mouth wide open, probably screaming if he could have heard, and he watched with awe as her body jerked again, again, again .  .  .  He wondered if she'd ever come like that before, and felt intense gratitude that she trusted him enough to let him give her that.

The orgasm seemed to last a while -- it was one of the things he envied about women -- and then she wound down, her body pressed against his, her face hidden in his shoulder, hair tumbled all over.  He withdrew his hand, absolutely soaking wet.  He wanted to laugh, but wasn't sure how she'd take it, so he just held her close and kissed her hair and grabbed a corner of the sheet to wipe off his hand.  Thutmose picked that moment to leap up on the bed (the thrashing was over) and start butting his head against their feet.  He kicked the cat away.  Stupid cat, he sent.  Kitty giggled, finally raising her face.  He smiled at her.  I love you, he sent, thinking she might need to hear it again, after opening herself up like that.  

She nestled down against his side.  Love you, too.  And it sounded easy, like words they could get used to, old and soft on the syllables, well-used, instead of sharp with youth and insecurities.

For a while, they just breathed each other.  With his eyes closed, unable to hear or see, it was all about touch and trust.  He could feel her stroke his side steadily, gentle rather than insistent.  He hadn't finished but he hadn't wanted this to be all about him, so he was trying to wait and let her relax.  He didn't want her to think he didn't like holding her, but the truth was that the longer they lay here, skin on skin, the more interested his lower body became in pursuing the rest.  He wasn't sure if her shields were still down to know that, but her hand moved slowly from his side to his hip and over his ass, then around to the front.  He sucked in breath and kept his eyes closed while she stroked him.  Do it for me, she said into his head with a mixture of shyness and curiosity and affection.  What I let you do in my head.  Do it for me.  Let me feel what you feel.  

So he did.  And her hands and fingers grew knowing, seeking out his trigger places, stroking the vein on the underside and around the rim.  Twice she brought him close to orgasm, then gripped the base, squeezing until he subsided, and it left him all worked up.  Hot-n-bothered.  I want to be inside you, he sent.  I want to be inside you now.

But 'now' turned into three or four minutes as he fetched a condom from the night-stand drawer while she waited, then put it on.  Finally, climbing between her legs, he fumbled around until he found her entrance, as if he were parking a car, not making love to her, and the moment of penetration certainly wasn't surrounded by soaring violin music.  It was almost too intense for him, and uncomfortable for her despite the lingering wetness, because she was so tight.  She squeezed her eyes shut a moment, then opened them.  "Go ahead," she said aloud, but her expression looked strained.  

Anxious and balanced precariously, he thrust a few times only to fall out (embarrassingly) on the fifth stroke.  One would think he'd be more adept at this, but she was all stiff beneath him as if bearing with it rather than enjoying it.  When he got back inside, he held still.  Go ahead, she said again but he shook his head and relaxed his body against hers a little.

And gradually, gradually, she relaxed, too.  He could feel her muscles unknotting as she rubbed his back.  He began to thrust again and she rocked up to meet him now, her eyes shut.  He didn't seem to be hurting her anymore.  Then he stopped thinking, letting his head hang as he pushed into her, her hands gripping his ass, nails digging in just a little.  Her legs had come up to lock around the back of his and he could feel her breath bursting against his ear every time his pelvis struck hers.  His release was sudden, hard and intense, and he banged himself into her as if he could screw her right through into the mattress.  Definitely not a romantic image, but the one that flitted through the forefront of his brain, and he hoped she was strong enough to hold him.  When the spasms passed, he sank down against her and buried his face in her neck, letting her stroke his back and thighs. 

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