NOTE: Hi Readers! We're pretty much in PWP territory here, mostly because I felt like writing some smut. Hope you enjoy!
FRANCO and ELIZABETH: PORTRAITS
by Tessaray
CHAPTER NINE
Many minutes later, they're lying on their backs, separate yet holding hands, each recovering in their own way.
"We did all that with our sneakers on...," Franco says, distantly amused.
"Hmmm. That's not very sexy," she manages, though she can barely speak.
He chuckles. "Not really an appropriate story for the grandkids."
Elizabeth smiles.
Elizabeth's smile lingers as she lies next to Franco, their fingers intertwined. Her body is utterly sated, but her mind is busy reviewing, forming questions, recalling phrases...
The grandkids...
It's the way he said it... nonchalant, matter-of-fact, as though marriage and kids and a committed future together are a foregone conclusion. She searches herself for any sense of warning — at the very least it was a presumptuous thing to say, at the very worst dangerously obsessive — but instead of alarm, she feels warmed, strangely secure...
Still, she can't let it pass. "Grandkids?" she teases. "Our grandkids? Aren't you getting a bit ahead of yourself?"
He rolls his head toward her and blinks like he hadn't realized he'd said that out loud. "Oh... I freaked you out. I should probably say I was kidding..."
She smiles, starts to protest, but he abruptly pushes up on his elbow.
"The thing is... so, I'm in this for the long haul, Elizabeth. I might as well just say it now. Grandkids, no grandkids, dogs, cats, pot-bellied pigs, whatever. It probably seems sudden, but it's not sudden for me."
There's about a dozen things she wants to say, but he charges on.
"Yeah, I know, you're right, I should probably slow down," he says, dropping his head. But it snaps right back up again. "But I don't want to slow down. I want it all, right now. That doesn't mean I'm rushing you — I'm not expecting promises or commitments, I'm not asking for anything except permission to... to love you. To celebrate you, and do everything in my power to support you and make you happy... you and your boys."
She's bowled over, speechless, feels her mouth opening and closing like a freshly-caught fish. She has no doubt he means it — his face is awash with that familiar tenderness, that love... his heart wide open, even after so much injury. She remembers being that open once, a very long time ago...
Tears flood her eyes and she smiles up at him until his brow furrows.
"What?"
"It's just... I," she stammers, looking for the right words. "I never imagined I'd say this, Franco Baldwin, but I think in some ways you may be a little too good for this world."
His eyes fly wide at that. He barks a stunned laugh and shakes his head hard in a vehement no.
"I just want to be good for you, Elizabeth," he whispers, caressing her face, tracing every plane, every contour... and as he watches her sink deep into the pleasure of it, a change comes over him...
"And that leads me to the only other thing I'm asking for." His tone drops, eyes darken... and the intense erotic connection they've begun to forge flares between them. His hand drifts down her throat, over her breasts, his fingers making soft, leisurely circles around her nipples...
"Don't you want to know what it is?"
She's much too busy arching her back and shivering under his touch to answer.
"I want the chance to make every one of your fantasies come true," he says, gently rolling a nipple between his fingertips. "What do you think about that?"
"I think," she says, steadying her voice, wildly aroused, but determined not to be a total pushover. "That we should at least see each other naked before we start talking about grandchildren and—,"
He pinches the nipple, making her gasp and lose her words.
"—And pot-bellied pigs?" he says.
She nods, no earthly idea what she's agreeing to.
"Fair enough. Me first." He pulls away from her and sits up, bends his legs at odd angles, pulls off his sneakers, stuffs them with his socks and tosses them aside with twin thuds. He glances down at where his jeans are slung very low on his pelvis, his semi-erect penis free and growing again.
"Give me a hand?" He leans back on his elbows and lifts his hips. Her body ignites with the visceral memory of him moving inside her... and somehow he knows, gives her a hot, breathtakingly carnal look that makes her blush from head to toe.
For all his self-loathing and vulnerability, in some ways he's a very proud man... and he has every reason to be. Still, Elizabeth doesn't want to stare. She's aching for him, but tilts her head, arches a brow.
"Give you a hand with what... exactly?"
He looks down in a general way. "You know...,"
"Yeah, I know," she teases, gets to her knees and slides his heavy jeans and boxer briefs down his long legs and off. Out of domestic habit she starts to fold them, but he scowls and yanks them away.
"Nope, uh-uh. None of that here." He hurls them overhand into a dark corner where they land with a metallic clatter.
She's laughing, then stiffens with alarm when she notices a stain of crimson red near his hip... but it's not blood — it's just the rose, a bit flattened. She picks it up and the perfume wafts over her, sending her deep into the sensuous memory of its touch on her skin...
"Lie back," she whispers to Franco.
His eyes widen for a moment, then go dark and smoky.
"This is supposed to be about you," he says.
She twirls the rose slowly against her cheek. "How do you know this isn't about me?"
He gives her a slow, sexy smile and does as she says, lowers himself to the bed, stretches languidly...
She kneels at his side and lets her eyes roam over him — his long, lean, gently-muscled body, golden skin lapped by flickering candlelight, his soft hair fanning out around his head. He's fully erect now, completely unselfconscious, watching her with open desire and the slightest glint of a dare in his eyes.
When she touches the rose to his lips, the artist in her appraises the sight, noting color, shape, texture... but she needs to taste him and leans down, replaces the rose with her mouth. He parts his lips for her tongue, and soft pressure quickly intensifies in heat and hunger, his hand slipping behind her head... but she pulls back and sits up. There's plenty of time for that.
As though of its own accord, the rose drifts slowly over his throat, his broad shoulders and chest... and she notes that everywhere it touches, he shivers, sighs, relaxes further as though releasing years of tension. When it brushes his nipple, he jerks and hisses... and it's a revelation to Elizabeth. She lowers her mouth, licks the soft skin until it tightens beneath her tongue. He groans and grabs her head — so wildly responsive that she sucks, rims the nipple with her teeth the way he did to her... and it seems to drive him crazy. She pinches his other nipple, rolls it between her thumb and finger...
"Fuck... oh, fuck," he growls, arches up from the floor, and when she notices that he's reaching for his cock, she pulls away, breaking all contact. He drops back heavily, gasping. Dizzy with her own power she says, in a husky voice she barely recognizes:
"You like that."
He swallows hard, laughs breathlessly. "You sure give as good as you get...,"
She smiles — proud, satisfied — and resumes caressing the rose over the contours of his ribs, taut stomach, hip bones... marveling at his acute sensitivity. She notes every minute reaction — every spasm, stretch and sigh, what makes him grit his teeth, reach for her or clench his fists. She's loving learning him in this way... and is deeply, primally aroused.
"Spread your legs," she says, and he does, with a helpless groan. She drifts the rose up the inside of his thighs, glorying in his near-convulsion as she guides it delicately over and around his testicles, up the length of his straining cock, and down... up again to his tip, twirling the rose slowly as he thrusts, leaving the glisten of pre-cum on the petals...
Her own body is on fire, and finally it's too much. She needs... and abruptly grasps his thick shaft, bends and circles his tip with her wet, eager tongue. She hears a guttural moan and the thud of his head knocking back hard onto the concrete beneath the makeshift bed.
"Fuck...," he whines, then laughs, and she laughs at his laughter until they're both breathless and trembling.
She curls herself down by his hip so she can watch his face as she gently pumps him; he's flushed, chest heaving, one arm folded beneath his head, eyes hot, hooded and locked on her mouth. She feels a kick of self-consciousness. Somehow she expects that he'll stop her, explain that she's too maternal or delicate for this task, but instead he looks half-crazed, desperate for more...
The power of the moment surges through her. She could make him beg, she could deny him, or she could give him pleasure. It's no contest — her body, mind and heart are overwhelmed by him, are driving her to lift him out of himself, to make him happy. Without breaking eye contact, she takes him between her lips and slowly engulfs as much of him as she can take, wrapping her hands around the rest...
His groan is long, shuddering and soul-deep. He reaches down, weaves his fingers into her hair and whispers, "You're so fucking beautiful, Elizabeth. You're a goddess."
She smiles around him, and goes to work.
#
It's not at all what she expected, given the misery and intensity of the morning, all the tears and missteps. Franco smiles often, laughs freely... tells her what he wants and what feels good to him. And once she gets over feeling vaguely insulted by that, she realizes what a boon it is; there's no fumbling, no time wasted guessing. And he says exactly what's on his mind, no matter how crude or direct, encourages her to explore him, touch places on his body she thought were off-limits on men. In short, he's fun. She's had all kinds of unforced sex — passionate, loving, routine, mournful, guilty, obliging — but she's not sure she's ever had fun sex. And definitely not adventurous sex, which she suspects is just around the corner. She honestly hadn't known what she'd been missing.
She's sucking him in a wet, steady rhythm now, and stroking a particular spot on his perineum he'd guided her to. His eyes are closed, hips rocking gently, hand resting on her head. Her power over him is intoxicating and absolute... and she knows enough about him now that she can choose her moment...
She slides her palm over his chest, and very deliberately pinches his nipple. His hips buck, his cock leaps in her mouth. She does it again and twists, sucks him harder, faster, presses the spot between his legs mercilessly, and within seconds he's keening, hand fisting in her hair, his entire body going rigid... and he comes with a choked cry that shoots right to her clit. She stays with him until he's finished, until the waves recede and he drops back bonelessly onto their bed, his hand slipping heavily from her hair...
Her mouth is hot from him, her body tingling like a live-wire. She licks his softening length, listens to his low sounds of satisfaction and ease... then she lets him draw her up his body for a deep, languid kiss.
He takes her head in his hands and holds her up and away from him, studies her face like he's trying to memorize it, or solve an enduring mystery. Then his expression darkens and he seems as lost and unsure as he'd been earlier.
"All this feeling...," he says softly, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. "It hurts... and it doesn't. It really is almost too much."
"Constant exposure," she says with a gentle smile.
His face breaks open like the sun through clouds.
"Constant exposure," he repeats, and gathers her into his arms to rest.
To be continued...
