Page 75 of Touch

With riveted features, Andrew skates the textile along her slot, the tips of his fingers rowing back and forth. Patiently. Lazily. He explores her cunt through the silk, feathering over her walls, coaxing open the rift.

Moans splinter from her lungs, and her hips circle against his fingers, seeking additional friction. Oh Fates, she’s being touched. Or as much as she can be touched by this mortal.

It’s nothing like the solitary moments when she rubs herself to orgasm. No, this stimulation exceeds anything that has come prior. For this experience is shared.

On a rasp, Andrew thumbs the flanks of her pussy. Then he grazes high to the outline of her clit, lightly flicking the inflated crest of skin.

The cry that jumps from Love’s throat echoes through the cottage. Andrew groans and orbits his index finger around the kernel, teasing and patting the peak. Love is leaking. The crux of her thighs pours onto the sheet, seeping through the fabric to dampen Andrew’s fingers.

The mortal hisses. “Dammit, Love. You’re soaked.”

With every circuit of his fingers, her clitoris pulsates, and her cunt drips. She drenches the material, her arousal smearing his fingers.

He fondles the apex, alternating between skimming her clit and massaging her folds. Unable to withstand the leisurely drape of his hand, Love splays her thighs and grinds herself on his upright fingers. With a disorderly moan, she lowers herself, clasping not one but several fingers between her walls, drawing the tips into the tight, slippery space.

Andrew growls and fulfills her wish. Curling his digits, he sinks farther inside, her pussy sealing him to the knuckles.

On a combined groan, they stare. A touch that is not a touch. Victory and torment kindle between them, because this is all they have, and it must be enough.

Determined, Love fists the sheet at his sides and bobs on his hand. Equally obstinate, Andrew juts his arm, meeting her pussy with his cloth-encased fingers, pumping gradually.

Bracing on her knees, Love rolls her waist and rides his digits. Blood races to the center of her body. Perspiration beads down her spine. Perhaps this is what heat feels like.

She chases the feeling. His covered fingers piston, plying her flesh to the brim, her pussy contracting around her panties, the sheet, and the shapes of his digits.

“Ah,” she keens, bouncing quicker. “Oh, Fates.”

“Beautiful,” he groans, his free arm heaving Love nearer, the sheet enabling them to close this gap.

Yes, this is beautiful. And remarkable. And excruciating. She needs him to take pity and ease the tension coiling inside her.

“Yes, my Selfish Myth,” Andrew encourages. “Fuck yourself. Use my hand to make your body come.”

On the verge of ecstasy, Love drenches the sheet, which pitches in and out of her folds. The fabric creates its own magnificent friction, magnifying the pleasure. Her moans amplify, the noises vehement.

She springs up and down on the fabric, on his fingers, on the edge of euphoria. “Oh, Stars. Fuck, I cannot—”

“Then don’t,” he urges. “Come on my touch. Come.”

Love spreads even wider, arches her spine, and bounds on his hand like it’s his cock. While flinging her waist, flickers of light blast before her vision like shooting stars. Blood rushes to her pussy, the tension snaps, and she reels farther backward.

With a low shriek, she comes on the sheet, on Andrew’s lunging fingers. Her bones jolt, and her intimate muscles squeeze his digits, the inner flesh contorting and wetness flooding from her cunt. Convulsions throw spots before Love’s eyes, the swivel of her hips ebbs, and Andrew’s fingers stroke her through the final shocks of pleasure.

Spent, Love slumps forward. Andrew catches her with the sheet, his clothbound palm cupping her scalp.

The crown of her head tingles. Andrew’s mouth finds a different way to penetrate her, skimming his lips over Love’s, his skin passing through hers like a breeze. Their erratic breathssmash together, his broad chest crushing her breasts through the material.

With Love’s face bowed into his throat, her flesh misting with his own, her closed eyes sting. Thankfully, she composes herself before lifting her gaze to Andrew.

Pewter irises have vanished behind his pupils. His fingers, her sodden panties, and the sheet are still encased in her pussy. Tenderly, he withdraws from the clamp of her walls, rearranging her garments and leaving a hollowness behind. Having seeped through two layers, her climax glistens on his digits, which he glides between his lips, sucking on her release like a confection.

The gloss of his eyes deepens. He hums around his fingers and then licks his lips. It’s the most erotic sight she’s ever beheld, other than the vision of his features shortly before that phantom kiss.

He stares, mesmerized. “You’re bringing out the selfish in me.”

“In what manner?” she gusts out, scarcely able to articulate a coherent thought.

Impishness alights his features. Instead of answering, Andrew fists the sheet around Love, hauls her into his embrace, and drops her onto the bed. A stunned noise bursts from her lips, the mattress springs breaking the fall. She has barely recovered from the orgasm when Andrew is upon her once again.

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