Sex
When he closed his eyes in the thick dark of his own room, he knew how it would be if it were ever to happen. He could piece together his experiences, pull from this memory and that recollection, matte her face along it all and almost have it, there in the shell of his own skin.
It would start with a hesitant feather-light touch; she had spent too far and gone too long without so much as the breath of contact to jump immediately into the heavy petting. Her hands would wander over him, tracing the broad planes of the muscles of his chest, the accordion array of his stomach, first over his clothes and then, gradually, peeling the cotton and the denim away to slide her hands over his bare skin.
She would avoid his groin for a long time, fingerprints dragging over his flesh until he was hard, so hard it ached. But eventually, inexorably, her attention would draw inward. Fingers that had seemed so hot elsewhere would be cool against him here, suck his breath from his lungs in a long, vaguely surprised hiss. They would explore with a faint blush, superior strength easing his legs apart so she should cup and soothe, trace the lines and contours of him until his voice trilled softly in the bottom of his throat.
Her tongue would come next, encouraged by his response to questing fingers, and briefly he would strain against the bed, shoulders rolling. Long sweeps of heat would be replaced by the shivering cool that was the wake of her tongue, sloppy kisses would grow longer and more sloppy until eventually, somewhere between the kisses and the dragging tongue it all blended together and she'd slip the warm of her mouth over his very tip.
He'd burble high-voiced, reactions sharp and honest, and pull his hands up to tangle them into his own hair, only to avoid tangling them with hers. She'd enjoy that reaction, and swallow around him, inexperience and briefly dragging teeth made up for by a sudden eagerness. She would take it slow, taunting him until his voice dragged along his larynx, and although she might have intended to pull away just in time, she wouldn't know the meaning of the way he jumped in her mouth, wouldn't recognize the way his back arced up to her until he was already spilling apart. She would open her eyes wide—sharp green searching for his own, although he wouldn't be able to see it through the haze and his lashes—and after just a second of bafflement she would swallow reflexively. She would keep swallowing, and it would be with sparked mischief that she licked him clean again when it was all finished. She would not allow him to relax.
Instead she would slide against him, lithe and smooth and insistent, and in the kiss she'd take from him he would smell himself, taste himself on her tongue, and it would send a chill down his spine to wind beneath his belly. It would be his turn, then, worn thief's fingers tracing over the curves of her body, learning the dip before her breasts and the swell of her hips. He would be gentle and careful, starting with long, light strokes from front to back as he watched her face stretch in wonder and pleasure. When she crooned to him, pressing her hips to his hand, he would smile secretively against her cheek and slip a finger gently upwards, testing her heat and warmth and allowing her to adjust to the feel of someone within her in such a different way than she was accustomed.
She would gasp, briefly, before she regained her composure, and dazedly drag her lips along his jaw. One finger would become two, and two become three, until he could feel her grinding her pelvic bones against his knuckles, muttering in breathy Southern drawl with her eyes half-closed. It would be then that he'd draw his hands away, bracing them just beneath her ribcage, and he'd lock her gaze with his, watching. Waiting. She'd breathe his name against the air, lost to herself, and with a deep-voiced croon of assurance, he would pull her to him just firmly enough to press through that brief twinge inside.
He would have to swallow her cries with his own mouth, and he would eagerly, feeling her voice tumble down his own throat. She would be all he knew, surrounding him, above him, long hair sweeping over his chest and body shivering, and he would worship her there, motions easy and rolling. It would become clear in that instant that all he ever did before, all the practice and the one-night-stands, were just a prelude to this moment, only to teach him what to be. She would surge against him—she was a quick learner—muttering into his mouth, and when the inexorable shift of muscle and pleasure began around him, bringing wordless feral ferocity growling between her teeth, he would be drug along. Then, they would be one, him inside of her, her drawing more out, and he would tell her in French, in English, in some language between that this was how it was meant to be. This is what he had been waiting for, for so very long. And then after they would lay, still tangled, and he would play with her hair as she leaned her head on his chest, and he would finally tell her—now that he had shown her—of all the plans and hopes he held frail and safe for them in the deep of his heart.
He could, when his eyes were closed and the room was empty in the deep of night, almost smell her near him, almost taste her shampoo. He never opened his eyes, to see if perhaps she had come to him unexplained in the middle of the night, to watch and want from across the room, because he feared if he did, she would be there only to see the tears in the red.
