Page 87 of Wilder at Heart
The massive, unfathomable pleasure coursing down my spine and around my balls and up my dick as I ram home, over and over and over.
And the slippery, swollen nub under my fingertips that tells me she’s this close to losing it.
I rub.
Thrust.
Roll.
Rub.
Her cries match my rhythm perfectly. When I bottom out, she practically sobs. She’s nudged her legs even wider apart, andher face is buried in her hands as she rides this insane fucking wave with me.
And then she breaks, sobbing and gasping and panting and shuddering and convulsing on my finger and around my cock. Arms stretched out in front of her. Fingers splaying. Clawing at the rug. Whimpering God’s name. My name. Like I’ve broken her apart and put her back together and changed her forever.
The flutters around my cock send me over the edge too, the deep, burning heat of my orgasm flooding every fucking corner of my nervous system as I go rigid and buck and explode inside her, coming and coming in what feel like an endless release until I’m spent and shaking and can hardly stay on my knees. My hand does laps of her spine like it wants to crawl under her fucking skin. As if being inside her in just one place isn’t enough.
I pull out too quickly, and she whimpers, but I’ve got to get to her. My cock leaks everywhere as I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her down to the floor with me.
So I can roll her over onto her back.
Cover her with my weight.
Snort the scent of her skin.
Find her mouth.
Kiss her. Feverishly. As if I’m trying to communicate the fucking tsunami of emotion that’s hit me in the only way I know how.
With my body.
Because words aren’t sufficient to tell this woman—my Nora—how I feel about her.
Not quite true. There’s one word that comes to mind.
CHAPTER 33
Nora
Theo won’t let me do anything afterwards.
Nothing except hold him.
Which is fine by me, because I’m in a sort of blissful limbo. Drunk on the smell and taste of him, on the things he said to me and the way he filled me up and wrung me out so effortlessly just now.
On him.
It’s messed up how potent our bodies’ chemicals can be. How much they can trick you. How a cocktail of endorphins delivered via orgasm can make you feel an intimacy and a connection with another person that you’d swear was transcendent. Spiritual. When really, it’s just physical. Biological.
If I were to overthink what I’ve been doing with Theo, these past few days (and obviously I never overthink anything), I could be forgiven for seeing this man as someone who’s sending me tumbling deeper and deeper down an emotional rabbit hole, rather than someone who happens to be devastatingly attractive and shockingly skilled and downright psychic in bed (and on rugs. And on barstools. And in showers).
Someone who’s found me at the right time. Who’s giving me an opportunity to broaden my horizons and experiment a little.
A technicolour moment in my life that’s as fleeting as it will be memorable.
And allowing myself to enjoy this moment without getting consumed with guilt is something I’m explicitly struggling with. It goes against all my instincts to be having hot, filthy sex with one man while staying focused on ensnaring another. It seems so self-indulgent. Selfish. And a month ago, I would have saidslutty.But I reckon Glennon Doyle would approve. She’s always saying women need to own the concept of wanting more. Demanding more.
After we’ve roused ourselves from our post-sex haze and cleaned up, he leads me through to his room, puts his t-shirt back on me and tucks me up in his bed. If the t-shirt didn’t look so much better on him, I’d definitely steal it when I move out.
