You open your mouth under his, inviting him in. He obliges, slipping his tongue between your teeth, guiding yours between his. His hand comes up, the knuckles brushing your cheek, stroking back a bit of hair, fingers finally moving toward the top button of your shirt.
"Waitaminute, waitaminute!" you gasp, breaking the kiss. You're in a community room, and you're not the only insomniac in the house. "Someone might come in."
"They won't." He speaks in the flat tone of absolute fact, his eyes on yours, studying, judging. He watches you, waits for you. Leaving you a way out.
You lean forward a little and plant your mouth firmly on his, memorizing the rough and smooth parts of his mouth, hoping that sheer want will compensate for your inexperience. Your hand comes up, sliding up his neck, noting the smooth path of skin, the tense muscles and tendons, the soft bristle of hair, the hard pounding of his pulse under your palm. You relax back against the sofa, bringing his head with yours, concentrating on kissing him back, hoping like hell you're doing it right.
You ease forward, breaking the kiss, catching your breath, shifting your weight until you're on your knees. Your hands move toward his shirt, aware only of a need to see and touch bare skin. You uproot his T-shirt from his jeans and draw it over his head. He drapes it aside on one of the footstools as you watch his chest, tracking the way the muscles work to bring his arms down. You lean forward, kissing him, kissing his mouth, his cheeks, his eyes, his forehead, moving down, kissing his throat, his shoulder, drunk on the warm smell of his skin.
His hands take you by the arms, gently pushing you away. With slow, easy dexterity he undoes the buttons on your shirt. He slips it off your shoulders, baring you to your underwear.
The cool kiss of the night air makes you shy. You try covering yourself. Before your arms have time to move, though, he pulls you into his arms, letting his body heat mingle with yours. He kisses your temple, inhaling the scent of your hair as he shifts, guiding you until you lie flat on the floor.
"Close your eyes." His voice is dark, raw with lust.
With a flippant little grin, you make a production out of covering your eyes with one hand. "No peeking," he chides, teasing. You giggle. My body is practically buzzing, and god-amongst-men here is playing hide-and-go-seek.
You keep your eyes shut, concentrating on your hearing. You hear the clink of a belt buckle, the muted rasp of a zipper, the soft whoosh of denim in free fall. You feel the quilt under you shift as he settles beside you.
You aren't really sure what to expect, but it's not what you get. You feel a drop of something cool and wet at the juncture of your neck and shoulder and nearly jump off the floor.
He shushes you, resting his hand over yours, settling both firmly over your eyes. He takes his hand away, and a moment later you feel another cool and wet droplet just above your upper lip. Your tongue darts out and tastes it before it can run up your nose. Oh, grape juice . . .
Robbed of your eyesight, your skin becomes hypersensitive, noting even the tiniest detail of sensation. Your muscles flutter as he draws a long, wet line down your chest, from collarbones to navel, and they riot as he follows his handiwork with the tip of his tongue.
He continues his ministrations for a bit, drawing loops and runes of frosted fire on your belly, moving to your hands, your forearms, the crease of your elbow, your shoulder, your neck, studiously avoiding your breasts. He stops at the shelf of your jaw, moves away. You think, for a brutal, panicked instant, that he's left, gone away to the great beyond again, leaving you stretched out as good as naked in the living room for the amusement of your roommates.
"I'm not leaving," he whispers, reaching up to take your hand away from your eyes. You look into his face, see the light flush of his skin and the intent look he's giving you, and you relax. He's not going anywhere.
You also realize if you're as good as naked, so is he. You look over his crouched body, muscles defined under a light coat of skin. A fine fuzz of gingery gold hair starts just underneath his solar plexus, brushing down his belly in a thin trail, and there, nestled in an awry mess of gold hair . . .
It's the first time you've seen a man with his pants off, up close and personal, and you blush. No, to be completely accurate, your whole body blushes, pulling the peaks of your nipples tighter and making the muscles deep in the pit of your belly twitch. You're dimly aware that the crotch of your panties is soaking wet.
Now I am *intensely* glad I put this quilt down, you think as you watch him kneel at your feet. A gesture brings your glass of grape juice to his hand. With a lazy motion, he dips his fingertip into the purple fluid, draws a thick line from just beside your left toe to your ankle, and sweeps over it with lips and tongue, making you squeak. No one but you has touched your feet since you were a kid, before you got too big and cool for tickling games.
He traces more lines around your ankle, at the base of your calf, on the inside of your shin, lifting your leg up. The feel of his mouth at the inner bend of your leg stops your breathing for a moment, and he moves on, relentless, up the back of your thigh, around to your hip, down the front of your leg, until he's back at your toes. Moving like he's got all the time in the world and then some for coffee breaks, he repeats the process with your right leg, driving you to the brink of physical madness. Unconcerned with how it must look, you caress your breasts, gently twisting at your aching nipples.
Finally, after drinking most of your grape juice (off you), he stretches out toward your face. Your inhibitions eroding under the onslaught of sensation, you grab his face, kissing him greedily. Your hand finds his cock by accident, and you feel it stiffen in your grip. He groans into your mouth, laying beside you, his hands cupping your breasts. He ducks his head and takes a nipple between his teeth, nipping it gently, like he's peeling the candy coating off an M&M. His hands hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down. You lift your hips and he slips them to midthigh. You kick them off the rest of the way.
His fingertips brush your belly, near the arrowhead of hair between your legs. He spreads you labia and tweaks your clit. "Aie!" you cry. His hand moves lower, and you shudder as one of his fingers slips inside. It hurts.
He pauses, frowning. He's picked up your pain. Comprehension bursts across his face. "You've never done this." Without waiting for a reply, he scoots down, settling his cheek on your thigh. You catch a mental snapshot of him, lying next to you, skin and hair painted gold by the light of the lamp, gray eyes intent and concerned, then he lowers his face between your legs.
Several minutes and two fingers later, you're writhing on the floor, crying out inarticulate moans of need, every nerve in your body working towards overload. You're arched halfway to a sitting position, one hand clawing at the quilt, the other holding the back of his head, the close-cropped hair tickling your palms, his paintbrushy tail between your fingers.
He pauses, looks up into your eyes. "Obi-Wan . . ." you start, but he doesn't let you finish, meeting your mouth with his. You taste yourself on his lips. His hands bring your body under his, while your hand grabs his sex and guides it towards yours.
As he finds his way into you, you give a little breathless gasp. It hurts a bit, yes, but it feels right. Better than right. It feels as though the only reason you've ever existed is to feel him, above you, around you, in you. You wrap your legs around his waist, taking his weight. He sprawls on you, guiding your rhythm, adding his voice to yours.
And when it ends, as you feel him convulse inside you, as you cling to him like the only lifeboat in all the seven seas, you moan into each others mouths, aware of nothing but each other. Oblivion collapses around you and you fall into it gladly, finding joy in the fact that if you're falling, at least you're not falling alone.
---
You wake, come to really, to soft lips kissing your temple and a soft voice calling your name. "Hmmm?" you answer, waking entwined in your lover's body.
"Look at me."
You look. The beauty in those cat eyes is still enough to make your insides do funny things. Now they're contrite, apologetic.
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize . . ."
"You couldn't have. It's okay," you answer. He looks like he might say something else, but it's lost as you press your lips to his in a lingering kiss.
You disengage your arms and legs from his. Did anyone see us?!? you wonder, horrified.
"No," he answers.
"We made enough noise . . ."
"They ignored us."
"What?" The thought of any of the people you live with ignoring two people making mad, passionate love in the living room boggles your mind. "How . . . wait, don't tell me, I don't want to know." You purse your lips, thinking. "So, now what?"
"Now," he says, easing himself up, "you and I are going to get dressed and go to bed. Separately."
"Rats."
He grins, flashing dimples. "But first, you are going to tell me when you get off work this evening."
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