She Went to Him

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She went to him

She went to him.
When the thought of him, lying naked and alone, drove her from her bed, out into a night so dark each step was a was a question of faith. Into his house, into his room, stopping only long enough to catch her breath as she stood on his threshold.
She went to him barefoot, stealing, yes stealing, into this place where he slept, where she knew he would not think, would not consider, would simply let go.
She went to him, listening to his sleep sounds, and pulled her nightgown over her head, the wanting of him blotting out everything except the nearness of his body, supine and vulnerable.
She went to him and slipped into his bed, between his sheets so smoothly she became part of his dream. From the foot of his bed, her hands sliding up his legs, feeling the shape of him, the skin and muscles and scars. She put her mouth on him, hungry, feeling him grow and harden as she devoured him, knowing, as he gasped awake, that he was, in that moment, hers completely.
Waking, he was only aware of this, of this woman, of her mouth on him, of shock and pleasure so sharp it took his breath away. He reached his arms up, grasping the brass columns at the head of the bed, as if he needed to hold on to keep the vortex of her mouth from pulling him away from the world.
And when she could stand it no longer, when her need to have him inside her body was everything, she straddled him, so wet he slipped into her completely in one motion, filling her.
Neither moved for a heartbeat, two, “Just be there, feel this,” she said, her hands reaching underneath him, pulling, concentrating, grasping him within her.
Yet she wanted more, wanted his whole body in her. She pulled her knees up, planting her feet on the mattress, grinding herself down, pushing herself up to slam down onto him again and again.
She felt him jerk upward. She had been so completely engrossed in her own pleasure, in the fact that she had done this, that it shocked her to realize he was about to come, it sent her over the edge. She crashed down onto him, both crying out, anguished shouts of release.
He woke alone, only the scent of their fucking and wisps of the feel of her to convince him she had been there. His bed was wet with sex and the dew she had carried in on her feet.
She slept in her bed, dreamless. Her mind clear, her body loose. She would sleep alone, until she couldn’t. Until her desire made it impossible.
Until she knew must make love to him, or go mad.
Until she went to him.

One response »

  1. I am just new to your writings – so i went back to read in order as posted here.
    Impressed with the first taste of how you see the man’s side of your acitivity and cant wait to to see your next effort

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