He was trying, very hard, to remember how to breathe, a task made all the more difficult by the breathless stunning beauty of her. The impenetrable dark of her eyes, the soft galaxy of her mouth, the thought-vanishing softness of her skin seemed to have magicked every molecule of air from the room, left him falling into ever-expanding universe of her, shaken to his core by the transcendence of the gift he had been given and the responsibility it had placed on his shoulders. Olivia, and here, in bed, with him, his knees between her parted thighs, her leggings discarded and the hem of her sweater rucked up beneath her ribs, her hair a wild tumble across the pillowcases; she was beautiful, and his, now, his to touch, his to care for, his to love, and he wanted so many things, and wanted them so profoundly, that he hardly knew where to begin.
So he looked, for a moment, just looked, ghosting his hands over her thighs and watching the way her legs parted for him, the scrap of black satin at her center doing nothing to hide the coarse dark hair curling damply beneath it, and her face turning pink, just a little, as she caught him staring at her there. Beneath his palms he could feel the goosebumps rising on her skin, and her knee knocked against his, a little nervously, and that nervousness triggered something in him, some desire to protect her, to ease her anxiety, to make her feel more comfortable, there with him, and so he smiled at her reassuringly, and then began to move.
Slowly, slowly he slid his left hand up the length of her thigh, over the ridge of her hip bone, across the softness of her belly, and as if in answer to a request he had not made she shucked her sweater, then, let him see the heavy weight of her breasts swaying tantalizingly inside a soft black bra, and she sighed, when the sweater came off, a sound like relief, and maybe it was, because he felt himself burning alive beneath his own shirt. While he watched her, while she reached behind herself and unclasped her bra, while his left hand remained anchored to her belly, while she rocked ever so slightly towards him the rest of his body slowly lowered down, and down, until he was lying on his belly with his head pillowed on her thigh, eye level with her cunt and hungry for it now. He turned his face into her thigh and kissed her gently, lips trailing lightly over the tender softness of her silken skin, and above him she covered his hand on her belly with her own, laced their fingers together and held them there just above her belly button. Neither pushing him away nor urging him on but holding, waiting to see what he might do.
He knew what he wanted to do; at this close range he could smell the musky tang of her arousal, and he had asked her for patience, asked her for time, asked for the chance to do all the things he'd ever dreamed of, and the thing he dreamed of most was her pleasure. The taste of her, the warmth of her, the sound of her, all these things he yearned for, but none so deeply as he yearned to make her happy.
And so he drew in a deep breath, realizing a beat too late how salacious that might have seemed but savoring the smell of her anyway, and then he bowed his head, and nosed at her through the damp fabric of her thong. It was a gentle, nuzzling touch; a greeting, almost, acquainted himself with a part of her never before revealed to him, a part of her body, a part of her soul, that he was unfamiliar with but desperate to learn. And despite the simplicity of it it was perhaps one of the most erotic moments of his life, lying there with his nose, his lips, achingly close to the wet heat of her, separated by the thinnest of barriers, each sensation heightened by the drag of wet fabric against electrified skin. At the touch of his face to her cunt he felt her body shudder above him, and that shudder made him bold; he flattened his tongue against her, learning the topography of her, his skin growing slick with her while her feet scraped against the bedsheets and her hips canted towards him in undeniable invitation.
His left hand remained on her belly, but his right he drove beneath her, caught a great handful of her perfect ass and held on tight as he pressed the tip of his tongue against her opening, pushing the fabric of her thong with it, fucking her through it, the taste of her exploding in his mouth, and in response her back arched and a soft, needy sort of whine escaped her, and good, he thought, that was a good start.
Only a start, though.
He rocked back onto his knees, reached for the thin band of elastic at her hips, curled his fingers around it and tugged, and she knew what he wanted, wanted the same. While he peeled the thong away she arched her hips up to help him, and all the while she watched him with eyes big and dark and hopeful. There was something vulnerable about her like this, quiet and naked in her bedroom lying on her back, open for him, offering him so much of herself, trusting him with it, when he knew she found trust so hard to give. It was a trust he was determined to earn, and so as he bared her he eased himself back down between her thighs. Eased in, and did not dive; he was not submerging himself in cold water, rushing through the shock in the hopes that he would adjust; instead he moved at a slow and lengthening pace, the stretch before the marathon.
Carefully he arranged her, laid her left leg straight out and encouraged her to bend her right knee, and in the sanctuary formed between them he buried his face once more in her wetness, delicate hairs tickling his nose without the barrier of her thong, and his tongue slid easily, easily between her folds, sinking in, curling into the soft wet pink of her. With long, slow stokes he fucked her with his tongue, and above him she curled her fingers around his thumb, holding on to him gently, sweetly, while she hummed, a sound that was no doubt meant to convey her pleasure but did not satisfy him, because it was only a hum, gentle and soft, too controlled, too intentional. She was still thinking, and as long as she was thinking she was not feeling, and it scared him, sometimes, the places she could go when he left her alone with her thoughts.
He was just going to have to try harder.
To that end, then he moved again, settled himself firmly on his belly and then caught her legs in his hands, guided them both over his shoulders, and she yelped, a little, at the sudden change in position, at the way his hands clutched at her ass, lifted her hips and pressed her more firmly against his face. Holding her ass in both hands and hardly breathing he began to thrust his tongue inside her again, deeper, the neat line of his teeth pressing into soft and tender flesh, and she moved with him, as best she could, tried to help him set a rhythm. While he worked her over with his tongue the slick of her arousal coated his lips, his chin, left him obscenely wet with her, and not enough, he thought, still not enough, because she was still too quiet.
The situation seemed to call for a change of tactics, and so he lifted his head, laved at her clit with his tongue and sank a single finger inside her, and he watched her over the rise of her belly, watched her throw her head back on the pillow, watched her eyes slide closed.
"Yes," she said, softly, breathlessly.
It must have been what she wanted, he thought. She must have wanted him inside her, deeper than his tongue could go, and he'd give her anything she wanted, give her the fucking moon, if she'd ask it of him. He joined a second finger to the first, and she gasped, and her thighs tightened around his ears, and something like relief swirled inside him. He could feel her sex clutching at him, drawing his fingers in, deeper and deeper, and he began to pump them, faster, and faster, listening to the way she panted, feeling the way her body responded to him, encouraged him, her thighs tightening around his ears, holding him in place while still his lips and tongue worried at the nub of her clit, while his fingers curled inside her, searching, searching, for the little spot that made her swear when he found it.
"Please," she gasped raggedly, "please," and that was what he'd been searching for, hoping for, dreaming of; her inhibited response, her reckless, wild beauty. He pistoned his fingers inside her and laved at her clit with his tongue and her heels drummed against his back, and he could feel it, the moment she let go, the moment she delivered herself into his hands. The tension was building; he was holding his breath, so focused on keeping up the pace of his thrusting fingers, on bringing her closer to her own rapture, needing it so desperately there was no room left in his head for thoughts of breath or his own body.
"Please." He wasn't sure who said it, her or him, but really it made no difference. Whatever she wanted, he wanted the same.
This was Olivia, stretched out beneath him, Olivia's arousal on his lips, Olivia's cunt clutching at his fingers; this was the taste of her, the slick of her, the truth of her, as he had not ever known it, a gift he wasn't sure he deserved but one which he would treasure, always.
But still, more, his heart seemed to say, and more, her body seemed to ask for as her hips rocked against his face, and a steady stream of sounds were escaping her now, whimpers as if it was more than she could bear, as if she were suspended on the edge of bliss and begging him to take her over, and is three too many he thought, wondering if she could take the stretch of it, wondering if she wanted it, but he no sooner wanted it than he heard her pleading more.
Three fingers stretched her wide and her moan was high pitched and breathless, and he had to see, had to watch her take him into herself, and so he rose up on his knees, felt the wind knocked out of him by the sight of her tits, swaying with each punishing thrust of his hand, by the sight of her head thrashing on the pillow as she gave herself over to sensation, by the sight of her hands, fisting in the bedsheets, her back arched in pleasure. His forearm was beginning to ache but he could not stop, would break his own wrist before he'd leave her without relief, and Jesus, she was beautiful like this, beautiful in her abandon, beautiful in her trust of him, beautiful, and naked, and fuck, he could see his own fingers disappearing inside her, inside Olivia, and it was too much, too much.
"Wanna see it," he said, "wanna feel you come," he added, balancing himself on his knees, his right hand fucking her furiously while his left began to rub at her clit, and that did it, that ended her; her panting little moans turned into one long, needy keen, and then at the last second she turned her head and pressed her face hard to her own arm, muffled the sound of her climax against her skin while her body trembled and shook and fell apart beneath him, her cunt clutching at his fingers so hard for a moment he thought they might break, and dind't mind a bit.
She was lost in her own pleasure, and he let her stay there, let her linger in the aftershocks of her delight with his fingers still in her cunt, but he could not hold himself back a moment longer, and stretched out gently over her, and finally, finally sank his mouth over the perfect swell of her breast. He kissed her there, slowly, methodically, charting his way across her skin, nosing at the weight of her, licking her nipple, cataloging her reactions, learning what she liked. She liked it, he found, when he sucked her deeply into his mouth, and he liked it, too, liked the weight of her in his mouth, liked the wetness of her against his hand, liked the sweat slicked warmth of her belly. Liked it, but wanted to feel it, and so he withdrew from her just long enough to peel himself out of his shirt while she watched him with hungry eyes, and when he sank himself back down over her, when he could finally lie with her, belly to belly, skin to skin, breathing together, he took a moment to simply drink in the sensation of it while she watched him, quiet, again, but not nervous this time.
In a tender sort of way she ran her hand over his head, and he wanted to speak but held himself back, stayed quiet, for now, because so far they had been quiet, and the kids were still asleep, and the moment seemed too profound for words, anyway. What words could he give her, to explain how she made him feel, how desperately he loved her, how grateful he was to be here with her?
His body could say what his words could not, and so he used his mouth not to speak, but to touch her, to lay reverent kisses along the smooth curve of her breast, and when he took her nipple between his lips this time he used his teeth, closed them slowly around it and tugged until she whined, but her hands remained gentle on him, did not push him away, and maybe, he thought, maybe she liked the sting of it, maybe she liked to ride the edge between pleasure and pain, and maybe that was something they could explore together. Not right now, though. Right now what he wanted was something simpler, something sweeter than that; right now all he wanted was to love her.
While his mouth worried at her breast his fingers played over her folds, and she let him explore, for a moment, but she'd gotten her breath back and some of her confidence, too, because eventually she pushed at his shoulders, reached between them to tug at his belt.
"Come on," she said. Two words, spoken very quietly, dripping with a playful sort of impatience, and he grinned at her, and together they stripped him bare, and when he rolled back over her she wrapped his hand around his shaft and grinned when his breath caught in his throat, when his hips bucked into her hand like a horse eager to leave the starting gate.
"How do you want-" she started to ask.
"Just like this," he answered, smoothing her hair back from her brow. He wanted her just like this, under him, around him, cradling him.
"Always knew you were a missionary kinda guy," she teased him gently.
Above her he laughed, once, and hiked her left leg high up around his hip, undaunted by the insinuation. He knew what he wanted, and he wasn't ashamed of it.
"I like it," he said, bowing his head low over her, brushing the tip of his nose against hers. He liked it because he could see her, all of her, like this, could see her pretty face, and her pretty tits, and her pretty belly, and her pretty legs, spread for him, and her pretty cunt, beckoning him forward.
"And," he added, "I want to see your face when I do this."
On the word this he thrust himself inside her, one slow, deep plunge, burying himself completely within her, and saw it, just like he wanted to, saw her head snap back, baring her neck to him, saw her breasts heave as the oxygen left her lungs, saw her cunt swallow him whole, felt her nails scratching at his back while her body arched to meet him, and nothing had ever, ever been so perfect as this, as her. The sudden stretching intrusion of him drew a guttural moan of pleasure from her, a beautiful sound but loud, too loud, given their precarious circumstances; he'd give anything to hear her make that sound again, but he could not risk waking her children, not now, when they'd only just gotten started.
So he kissed her, to keep her quiet, kissed her because he wanted to, kissed her because when he pressed his lips to hers she caught his head and his hands and pulled him in closer. It was a messy, fretful kiss, all desperate seeking tongues and clashing teeth while his hips began to rock, thrusting his cock deeper and deeper into the silken heat of her, the movement of his body too powerful to allow their lips to seal together and neither of them caring, anyway. He could feel her, every contour of her, every clench of her pleasure, and he chased the sensation of it, rutting into her harder, and harder, faster and faster until the headboard began to bounce off the wall and she stopped him with a sudden breathless wait.
Wait was not something he wanted to hear mid-fuck, but she kissed him once, sweetly, and then pushed him away, and what is she doing, he wondered, and got his answer in a moment as she rolled onto her belly and looked back at him encouragingly over her shoulder.
Holy Mary mother of God, he thought, his mouth gone dry with longing, because this was Olivia, laid out on her stomach for him, inviting him to take her from behind, Olivia's perfect ass raised up in front of him, Olivia, wanting him, the way he'd always dreamed about, and nothing, nothing, had ever been as erotic to him as Olivia was in that moment.
Though she did not tell him with words he knew what she wanted, and he was on her in a moment; on his knees behind her he caught her ass once more in his hands, spread her open, held her there, watched as he rocked forward, as his cock disappeared inside her. Watched, in rapt and raging hunger, as she took him in, as he drew back, watched, and saw his cock glistening with her, heard her moan muffled in the pillow beneath her head as he surged forward again, and with her ass raised up and her thighs pressed together the clench of her cunt around him was so heavenly tight it made his eyes water, and shattered what remained of his restraint.
He fell upon her, then, laid himself out along her back, and began to rock into her at a furious pace, and as he did her hands flew out to the sides, clawing at the bedsheets, and he covered those hands with his own, held on to her tight, held on to her while he worked his hips with everything he had, while his lips seared a desperate kiss into the curve of her neck. The relentless pounding of his hips matched the fervent kick drum beat of his heart, building into a frenzy, higher and higher, until at last she shattered, crying out her pleasure into a pillow, and him helpless to do anything but follow after, spilling himself inside her with a low and desperate groan.
So titanic was the pleasure they found together that for a time he lost himself completely, floating on a sea of exhausted contentment, but he could not spend the night lying on top of her, and so he rolled to the side, though he did not roll far. He kept himself tucked up close to her, his wet and slowly softening cock pressed against her hip, his hand smoothing gently over her back, and as her breathing slowed she at last turned her head to face him, and when she did he found that she was crying.
"Olivia," he said her name, softly, alarmed, but she smiled, craned her head towards him in a silent plea for a kiss, a kiss he gave her at once.
"I'm all right," she whispered, a bit thickly. "Just…overwhelmed, a little, I guess."
He couldn't blame her for that; he was overwhelmed, too. Overwhelmed not only by the pleasure of what they had just done, but by the profundity of it; after nearly a quarter century of denial, after more heartbreaks and losses than could be counted, after a lifetime of grief and pain, they had, finally, torn down the last of the walls that separated them, and come together. They were, at last, together, him and her, not running, not fighting, not hiding, but joined, in love, in hope. A few days before she was not speaking to him and now he felt as if she had crawled inside his very soul, and everything had changed, forever.
"It's you and me, Liv," he told her. "It always was. It's always gonna be."
In this universe, in every universe, he thought, it will always be you and I.