I do not own The Magic of Ordinary Days.
Cool to see Skeet Ulrich very un-Skeet-ish. Even if I am 20 years late to the party.
The Magic of a Simple Life
Her underwear is gone, his is all that's left.
She has mischievously left on her garter belt and stockings.
Ray is almost beside himself with tension and desire.
His hands are on her breasts, she's helped him not to squeeze quite so hard in his ardent, inexperienced need, to keep a lighter thumb across the point.
Her mouth is moister than he's ever felt it, hard and soft at the same time.
And her tongue, her tongue . . .
He can't go on much longer, he's not well-versed in this type of thing, he doesn't know what to do, only what he vaguely wants to do, what he's about to do, whether either of them are ready for him to do it or not . . .
"Livy, Livy, I can't . . ."
"Yes, you can, Ray. It's okay. Come here."
And she leads him to the bed.
Lays herself down.
"Come here."
And beckons to him.
He didn't want to hurt her.
He didn't know what he was doing.
She had beckoned to him, pulled him down to her.
Spread her legs, pulled him down between them.
"It's okay, Ray. It's not a sin. It's not bad. It's not ugly. It's just us."
And kissed him again.
Kissed him.
Soft and hard and long and deep.
Left him breathless.
Reached down and . . .
"Livy, Livy-"
. . . reached her hand into the front opening of his underwear.
"It's okay, Ray."
Pulled him out.
"Trust me."
And guided him where . . .
"Trust me."
. . . to go.
He doesn't last much longer than a few strokes.
Already overwhelmed with so much more than he's ever experienced before, his release is eager and abrupt.
He squeezes his eyes shut, fails to keep his vocalizations of pleasure entirely confined to his throat, though he tries to keep them as muffled as possible.
He sinks down on her, all his strength gone, head down on her shoulder.
And he feels it all so intensely, almost as if he is going to die.
So much more than when he is by himself.
Dimly he can feel her legs around him, her arms.
Almost like he's being wrapped in a hug, an embrace.
Of her whole body.
At a time when he needs it the most.
And then, because he worries he's hurting her, he raises himself up on his arms.
And seeks out her face.
And she is there.
Livy, his wife, his beautiful wife.
The woman he loves more than anything else in this world.
The woman he would have loved more than anything else in this world, without reservation, even if she had never chosen to give herself to him in this manner.
Livy.
Wavy brown hair. Warm dark eyes.
Unadorned there below him.
Smiling.
"Are . . . are you . . . alright, Livy?"