A tender moment (Romance, very M)

. . .

Butterfly

It is as delicate as the wings of butterflies, as detailed as their intricate patterns. His fingertips barely graze the exposed skin of her thigh, roaming up towards the curvature of her hip. He is in no rush. There are times when he can not get close enough, that even being inside of her does not satisfy his need for intimacy. So he leaves fingerprints on her hips, bite marks on her neck - anything, to prove to himself that this is real, she is his, they are one. But in this moment, with her already naked form beside him, he wants to cherish her skin - in the change of texture as goosebumps begin to prickle beneath his fingers. She is focusing on her keeping her breaths steady. Such a simple touch should not have this drastic effect on her body, yet she can feel the chills erupt on each inch of skin his fingers run along. As he reaches her ribcage, his hand takes a detour from its road trip north and wanders over to its desired destination.

"El."

It's a delicious combination of a whisper and a groan as his index finger swipes across one of her nipples. He stays there, circling in an achingly slow rhythm, with still the sheerness of a monarch. His touch is so light that it nearly tickles, but it balances equally with the pleasure. Her nipple hardens under his fingertips, and it's a sensation he'll never tire of. He has to wonder if he provokes the same feeling in her. As he pictures that sensual gleam in her eyes and how she bites down on her lower lip, he reckons that she feels this exact mix of pride and eroticism anytime he grows within her touch. He shifts carefully, so his nude figure presses against hers, giving himself the leverage to trace her collarbone and down towards her other nipple, already perked and awaiting his touch. His free hand brushes the messy waves of hair off of her neck, and with the same tenderness, he places a kiss below her ear. Her eyelids flutter shut at the contact, and she releases a soft mmm. Dragging his lips up, he whispers an I love you. She returns the sentiment in an appreciative sigh, "I love you too."

"Come here, sweetheart."

He assists her in rolling onto her back and tucks an arm under her that she can rest on. At her newfound angle, she reaches over to wrap her hand around him, but he catches her wrist before making contact.

"Mmm-mmm," he refuses. "I'm focusing on you." He plants an open-mouthed kiss to her neck while returning his hand to its rightful place on her breast. He rolls the perked bud gently between his thumb and index finger, thus eliciting a tiny whimper from her. "Just you," he emphasizes against her pulse point.

Truthfully, she could cry. No man has ever touched her this way before, never cared to. With Elliot, she feels cherished, entirely whole. To him, the peaks of her breasts are precious diamonds, and liquid gold flows between her legs.

His hand then finds its way south, pausing to write cursive on her stomach which incites her body to shudder slightly. The language of his fingertips stimulate a fluttering sensation in her core, and she spreads her legs in anticipation of his hand finally traveling lower. He gladly accepts her invitation, brushing his fingers through her dark curls, down to her heat; his knuckles nudge her thigh to open up for him a little further. The two groan in synchronization as he glides his middle finger between her folds, with him marveling at the strength of her desire.

She momentarily loses contact as he retracts his fingers, bringing them to his lips. With dilated pupils and her bottom lip locked under her teeth, she watches as he sucks her arousal from them. Her hand reaches around to the back of his neck, and she pulls his face to her own. Instantaneously, his hand dives to her clitoris as she crashes her lips to his.

She swipes her tongue along his, then mumbles against his mouth, "I wanted to taste myself on you." A low growl rips from his throat, and he increases the pressure of his circles on her bundle of nerves. She clamps down on his lower lip with a high-pitched cry, and he moans from the jolt of pain.

She releases her hold on him for him to say, "One day..." he plunges a finger into her depths, "you will be the death of me, woman." She grins seductively up at him, but it's quickly washed away when he curls his finger inside, making her eyes roll back.

He lowers his head to swirl his tongue around one of her nipples as his bare ring finger slides in to join his middle. Her hips rise from the mattress in response, her velvet walls already tightening around his fingers. He flicks his tongue as he sets the pace below - partially retracting his fingers, thrusting back inside, dancing on that sweet spot - and he makes certain with each array of his pattern to thumb her clit. Every movement is causing her breaths to rapidly increase.

He gently sucks on her bud, nibbling lightly, before releasing it with a soft pop. He's desperately craving her lips, so he trails his tongue up her clavicle, her neck, her jaw. She's exhaling heavily, nearly every breath is released with a whimper. He refrains from dominating her mouth and gives a peck in-between each of her moans creating a perfect rhythm to match the tango of his fingers.

"Close," she murmurs against his lips. "Faster. Please." Her hips buck up when he obeys her request, speeding up the pace of his fingers twisting inside her. The arm she is resting on manages to tug her body even closer against his. He's reveling in each cry that falls from her lips and against his. As they raise in pitch, he knows she's teetering on the edge of her climax. Her legs start shuddering, and he prepares to seize the scream he knows is near.

"I'm gonna..." she whines.

And she's taking flight - it's a slow rise, but when she reaches her peak... god, she's soaring. Weightless. She could be levitating. She could be free-falling. All she is sure of right now is that her body is living for him. Every nerve, every cell, and all her senses. His kiss lingering on her tongue. The glorious combination of his musk and aftershave overwhelmingly surrounding her. His godforsaken fingers encouraging her legs to keep quivering, forcing him to keep muffling her cries with his mouth - the vibrations echoing down his own throat.

Olivia is a beautiful woman. He adores her bright smile, her resounding laughter. And all those sweet moments: intertwining his fingers with hers as they stroll through Central Park, secretly watching her dance in the kitchen while making Sunday morning waffles, stroking her hair as they're curled up on the couch watching a romance movie they both swear is too corny, (yet refuse to turn off). He'll never tire of the beauty of those simple occasions.

But fuck, when she's unhinged like this - skydiving through the epitome of pleasure - he could simply die. If he could imprison time, he'd lock himself in eternity with her trembling body in his arms and her moans enticing his tastebuds. He'd engulf himself - his fingers, his tongue, his cock - within the fire between her legs until she can't take it anymore.

"Good girl," he soothes, as her orgasm slows and earth welcomes her back from the atmosphere. His fingers have, too, slowed in time with her decompression. They slide out from inside of her and grant some final attention to her clit with a couple leisurely circles - invoking one last blissful shudder from her.

"God," she exhales, finally catching her breath. His delicacy resurrects with a light kiss to her temple, and she can feel the smile on his lips. Her own smirk forms as she reaches behind to grasp him, evoking a low growl in his chest. And with that same delicacy, she swirls her thumb around his tip, dedicated to assuring that he is just as much a treasure to her as well.

"Your turn, my love."

Thank you for reading. Reviews are always appreciated. :)