Zenny stares hazily up at me, languid-limbed, redolent of sex, and in a stunningly lovely sprawl that I wish I could look at for the rest of my life; the way her legs are parted easily now, her well-pleasured cunt available to view. The slowing, sated breaths of a woman coming down from orgasm.

“How did you like being eaten, sweetheart?”

“I like it a lot,” she murmurs. “Will you do it again, please?”

I laugh, pleased by her eagerness. “Any time you want. I believe I once promised you that I would show you how I can eat you from behind.”

Her mouth twitches up in a smile. “You did promise that.”

I’m on my knees at the edge of the sofa still, running soothing hands up and down her legs, trying to ignore my cock, which also wants a soothing hand up and down it. “How often do you masturbate?”

There goes that arm over her face again. “I don’t know if I can talk about this.”

I make a noise that would be called a scoff in a Wakefield novel. “Zenny Iverson, the girl who marched into this same apartment and demanded sex, is too shy to talk about masturbation?”

“It’s different,” she says into the crook of her elbow. “Completely different.”

“It’s all sex. And you might as well tell me about it before I make you do it in front of me.”

The arm moves and she looks at me with a blend of intrigue and alarm. “People do that?”

“People have thirty-person orgies and fuck themselves with dildos shaped like Thor’s hammer. I would think masturbating in front of a lover is one of the mildest things one can do.”

That makes her smile again. “Am I your lover?”

“You’re mine,” I say simply, crawling up onto the couch and over her body.

“For a month,” she corrects.

“For a month,” I repeat. “Until you marry Jesus or whatever.” Details, details.

I settle between her legs, groaning when my clothed erection makes contact with her mound and ducking my head down to nip at the tip of her breast before I slide my arms under her shoulders, prop up on my elbows and stare down at her. “Now. Tell me how you touch yourself when you’re alone and how often you do it.”

She turns her head away, but with me on top of her like this, there’s no escaping my gaze, my words.

“Do you use a vibrator?” I ask her, dropping a kiss on the sharp line of her jaw. “Or your fingers? Or do you put a pillow between your legs and rub against it until you feel better?”

My words have the desired effect, making her redden faintly at the rounds of her cheeks and making her breath quicken. “I’ve never used a vibrator,” she whispers. “But a pillow…”

“Yes?”

“And a stuffed animal…this teddy bear I got for my high school graduation. He’s on my bed in my dorm room. Oh God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

“I can’t either. I’m going to beat myself raw thinking about this for years to come, darling. How do you use the teddy bear? On your side? Do you lay on your belly and grind on him from the top?”

“I straddle him,” she says, closing her eyes, her face still turned away. “I put him between my legs and move on top of him while I’m on my knees.”

“Shit,” I groan, my face dropping to the rose-scented curve of her neck. The image of Zenny in her dorm room rubbing her needy pussy against a teddy bear is almost too much to hold in my mind. And I’m going to hell for imagining her in knee socks, surrounded by girlish posters, a barely matured girl overwhelmed with these big womanly needs…

“What?” she asks uncertainly. “Is that really fucked up?”

“It’s really fucking hot is what it is,” I mumble into her neck. “And I’m having a really hard time keeping it together right now.”

“Really?” she asks, turning her head back to me. “That turns you on?”

I take her hand and guide it down to the indisputable evidence of my being turned on. “Feel for yourself.”

Her slender hand traces my cock through my slacks, any clumsiness outweighed by her eager curiosity. “I’ve never…” she clears her throat. “That time with Isaac, I never really got to see him. I’ve never been able to see this part of a boy.”

I give her a long kiss, parting her lips with my own and chasing the silky feel of her tongue until she’s panting and twisting underneath me. Then I get up onto my knees. “You showed me your pussy,” I say. “Now it’s my turn to show you something.”

She scrambles up to her elbows, excited. “Are you going to have sex with me now?”

Fuck, I wish. “Not yet, baby. We’re still in Sex 101 right now—and intercourse is a senior thesis at the very least. Get on your knees in front of the couch.”

Together we move, so that I’m standing directly in front of the couch and she’s kneeling in front of me, peering up with these big schoolgirl eyes. She’s sucking on one corner of her mouth, and I can just picture her in a classroom with this same expression—wide-eyed, concentrating, poised to raise her hand at any moment.

“Have you ever unbuckled a man’s belt before?” I ask, already guessing the answer.

She shakes her head slowly. “No.”

“Unbuckle my belt, Zenny. Leave it in the loops when you’ve finished.”

If I thought she looked schoolgirl before, it’s nothing compared to now, when her eyebrows pull together and her forehead wrinkles the tiniest bit in concentration. She reaches for me with the focus of a surgeon, visibly trying to steady her hands as she works at my buckle with precise, careful movements. And then she looks back up at me as she finally manages the glossy leather, as it slides through the metal with a distinct hiss.

It’s the only sound in the room, followed by the muted clack of the buckle piece falling free to the side. It’s such a familiar sound that my dick gives a Pavlovian lurch.

“Now you unzip me,” I instruct. “And you take care with me as you do.”

She does take care, my little honors student, her slender fingers parting the placket of my zipper, the worn gold polish on her nails adding little flashes of color to the show as she finally manages to angle the slider down and tug it over the teeth of the zipper. The noise of it affects us both—it’s a noise of promise, a sound so unmistakably sexual that even a nun recognizes it for what it is.

Then the zipper is down, and the placket parts under the weight of my heavy cock, still clad in the soft jersey of my boxer briefs. Her eyes flicker between my face and the Very Obviously a Penis outlined in my underwear. It throbs visibly under her attention, and her tongue darts out to lick at her lower lip.

I groan.

“Sweetheart, you can’t look at me like that or I won’t make it.”

“Really?” she says, all curiosity and a little flattered smile. “Just from me looking?”

“With you, looking is as dangerous as fucking.” I pause. “Well, nearly. Hands in your lap now.”

“Okay,” she whispers, and her breathless readiness nearly makes me breathless myself as I pull off my shirt in preparation to show her my cock. I toss the shirt onto a nearby chair, and I nearly have a heart attack when I turn back to her.

Little Miss I’m Too Embarrassed to Talk About Masturbating is now slanting sideways on her knees, searching for the right angle to grind her pussy against her heel, her eyes like hunger itself as they trace over the lines of my stomach and chest, over my bare arms and shoulders.

I run a slow hand down the ridges and furrows of my belly, and she whispers, “You’re preening again,” but there’s no heat in it, no judgment, no injunction for me to stop.

“Hell yes, I’m preening,” I tease. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you looking at me like that.” And I mean it; as a young man, I worked for this body because I craved the pride that came with it, I craved the admiration and the petting I earned from women delighted by my shape. But over the years, as with any kind of dopamine hit, the pleasure of being admired faded, and so I kept in shape for duller reasons. I was used to being in shape; staying in shape had become indelibly tangled with my daily routine; it seemed like at this point it would take an effort of its own to stop.

But my God. The way Zenny’s looking at me now, stunned and rapacious, I remember how it felt the first time a girl ever looked at me. The first time I’d ever felt the bolt of lust that came from being wanted. I’m feeling it now like I did then, all this electricity and awareness skittering over my skin, which suddenly feels too tight to contain all the things I’m feeling. Too tight to contain my wanting her, which right now is as big as a prairie storm. Big as the prairie. Big as anything, certainly bigger than what my body can hold.

She reaches up tentatively, and I nod my head, yes, she can, she should, I’ll make her if she doesn’t, because now that she’s reached for me, the thought of not having those curious fingers on me is close to pain.

“Touch me,” I say. “Touch me. Touch me.”

She touches me.

The moment her fingers—slightly cool and delicately shaped—whisper across my stomach, I nearly buckle. The touch zings through me, reverberates like music, up and down every nerve pathway I have.

All from her touching my stomach. God help me when she touches my cock.

“You’re so hard,” she says, a bit wonderingly, her hands sliding up to my chest. She has to lift her ass off her feet to reach my chest, and I can see the wet spot she left on her heel. Jesus.

In fact, I’m so distracted by her distraction over me that I forget to make a joke about the word hard, I forget to do anything but stare down at her while she probes and pets at every plane on my stomach, every line and band of muscle on my back. When she touches my back, she does it by sliding her arms around me, and despite my insistent erection, despite my simmering blood, the feeling of being held and embraced by her is almost more potent than anything else. I want her to hold me forever; I already hate the thought of not having her arms around me.

Her curious hands finally find the band of my boxer briefs, shy at first with little strokes along the edge, then braver and braver as she starts sliding her fingers underneath the fabric. I let her find her own way, summon her own courage. Not out of laziness on my part, or even indulgent amusement (though I can’t deny how heady that feeling is on its own, indulgence, the state of wanting this girl to have whatever she wants, of letting her take it; I’m dangerously close to wanting her to take everything). But honestly I’m doing it because I am suddenly just as nervous as she is, as excited, and also as scared of what lies over the horizon of my own nakedness.

Moving is impossible, coaxing her to any other pace is unthinkable. Any faster and my heart will beat itself right out of my chest in terrified lust; any slower and my blood will overheat with desperation and I’ll die.

There’s only going as she moves us, at this uneven virgin’s pace, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Finally, either courage or impatience (so often they are the same thing) takes hold of her, and I’m treated to the sight of her face as she peels down the front of my boxers. She’s rapt, greedy—and then confused.

My erection has sprung free, bobbing down and then bobbing back up, throbbing, urgent, an angry red. I’ve been so hard for so long that the flared tip shines with pre-cum, and I’ve left a sizable smear of slick near my hip. The fresh influx of cool air across it nearly makes me shiver, and then I do shiver at the sight of her hands wrapped around the waistband of my underwear. But I have to laugh at her expression.

“Not what you expected?”

A glance up at me that I can’t interpret, although if I had to, I might say it was somewhere between saucy and rueful—a look only Zenobia Iverson could pull off. “I don’t know what I expected,” she admits. “But it’s so bumpy.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is big.”

She rolls her eyes. I’ve got the prettiest sort-of virgin in the world on her knees in front of me, my dick in her face, and she’s rolling her eyes. My ego wilts a little.

My cock doesn’t mind though.

“No,” she says slowly, “bumpy. Like here.” She runs a gentle finger up the line of one vein on my shaft and I let out a wounded hiss.

She looks alarmed. “Did that hurt?”

“No,” I manage. “Keep going.”

The finger returns and starts tracing a maddening path around all the places I’m ridged and swollen. She draws a map of my veins, she navigates the sensitive shoals of my frenulum. She meanders around the crown and over the leaking slit at the top. Her fingers drop down to my root, circling the base to measure me, and I register a nice swell of masculine pride when I see the tips of her fingers and thumb can’t meet around me—although the pride is still largely secondary to the feeling of her touching my cock because holy fuck, she’s touching my cock.

“I want to see all of you,” she says, oblivious to the effect she’s having on me. Her eyes are on my body, on my abs and my cock and the places where my open pants strain around the muscles of my hips and my ass, and I have to say, her seeing all of me sounds amazing, the best idea anyone’s ever had.

“That can be arranged,” I say, pulling her to her feet and leading her out of the living room and into my bedroom. I don’t bother with lights out of habit, but Zenny flips them on and then gives me a shy smile when I glance back at her. “I need to be able to see,” she says with a little shrug.

“Anything you like, darling.” I wouldn’t miss her exploring my body for the world. For seventy times seven worlds. And I am almost unbearably unworried about how infatuated I am with this girl—I’ve never felt like this about anyone else…but then again, I’ve never met someone like her before, so perhaps it’s not shocking. Perhaps I’d been programmed at birth only to want this one person, and there’s this tiny thing in my mind—not a thought, not even the seed of a thought, but like the frozen root of some dormant plant that might one day years from now drop a seed that can become a full-blown thought—that I can almost remember feeling this way about God once upon a time. That years ago, there used to be a Sean Bell that loved without restraint and reluctance and fear.

She reminds me.

I make to ease myself out of my pants, and Zenny helps me. I allow it, because there’s no sweeter feeling than having an eager woman tearing at your clothes, and also the sweet clumsiness of it is both endearing and so fucking hot.

“Okay,” she says matter-of-factly once we’ve finished and I’m naked. “On your back.”

I comply, lacing my hands behind my head after I arrange myself, watching her move around the foot of the bed and take off her bra, which she drapes carefully over the footboard. She looks good here, naked in my room, the city lights moving in gleams and glitters across her skin as she walks past the windows and her hair trailing cascades of corkscrewed shadows across the floor and over my bed.

Then she crawls onto the bed and I forget everything else. There’s only her, only her utter lack of artifice and complete ignorance of seduction as she moves to my side and then sits crisscross like a kid. Just her curious fingers and nervous sucking on the corner of her mouth and her avid gaze roving over me.

She pets my arms and caresses my stomach. She runs her hands along the swells of my thighs and chest. She asks me the names of the muscles hugging my ribs (serratus) and if I’m ticklish (yes, but only on the soles of my feet). She strokes down to the hyper-aware skin near my cock and she fondles my sac—not to stir me, but to weigh and to measure. And then when she sees how my body responds to being touched, she seems to make an experiment of it all. Silently measuring how much I twitch when she brushes up along my underside, how much I moan when she circles me, how much I gasp and seize when she slides that circle up the length of me.

I groan when she moves her attention elsewhere, but I’m grateful—beyond stamina and pride reasons, it feels just as good to have her exploring the rest of me. It’s hot to see how new everything is to her—my feet and hands, for example, so much bigger than hers. Or the hair along my thighs and calves, rough and distinct against her silky legs. She spends what feels like hours running her fingers along my happy trail and I have to fist my hands in the covers to keep my back from arching off the bed; she rakes those chipped gold fingernails over the flat discs of my nipples and I have to grit my teeth and close my eyes to keep from grabbing her.

“Turn over,” she whispers, and I do.

Hands roam up my thighs, over the tight muscles of my calves and down to my feet, where she discovers for herself that I didn’t lie and am indeed ticklish. She finds the furrow of my spine, the broad spread of my shoulders, and the place at my nape where my hair threatens to curl when it’s left too long without a trim.

Then I feel her straddle my thighs, bracing her hands on my hips as she does, and I make a noise into the bed. The extra weight pressing my cock between my body and the mattress is amazing, in the worst way.

Or it’s terrible in the best way. I can’t tell.

She runs both her hands up my back and then back down to the tops of my glutes, plumping them with those measuring, probing touches that seem calculated to drive me mad with lust. She squeezes my ass cheeks, scoots farther back on my thighs, and then does something that makes my toes curl.

She spreads my ass apart and sends a curious finger down the seam.

I make another noise into the bed.

“Are you okay?” she asks. “Should I not…?”

“No, no, you definitely should.”

“Do you like having this part of you touched?” She’s touching me again, this time swirling the pad of her finger along my rim. Sensation flares everywhere, and I feel fucking dirty, so fucking dirty.

“I don’t know,” I manage, my voice muffled by the blankets. I’m so hard I might die, and I’m consumed with the need to fuck. To come. “No one’s ever touched me there before.”

Zenny makes a studious kind of hmm, like she’s my own personal anthropologist, the first person to discover and survey Sean Bell, and I can feel the strain of staying still everywhere in my body. I want to flip over and yank her to my chest, I want to crush my mouth to hers, I want to wrap her legs around my waist and push deep into that wet, sweet well between her legs.

“I can’t believe no one’s touched you here before,” she says, a finger pushing against my entrance while her thumb strokes pensive strokes along my perineum. “You’ve had so much sex—how is that even possible?”

There’s no way to describe to her how it comes to be that way. How the same three or four acts simply get put on a tired merry-go-round, made different only by the person you’re with, and how the journey becomes tainted by the destination. I’m a generous lover by most accounts, but it’s only because pussy gets me hot. It’s a selfish thing, really, and all my sex is selfish. I’ve just justified it to myself by having sex with equally selfish people.

Anyway, I can’t describe it because all my words are gone, they’ve been driven out by waves of painful need, and even if I could describe it, I wouldn’t want to. I don’t want Zenny to know how banal sex can be, I only want her to know sex as a revelation. As the kind of epiphany that rivals all religion.

But still I need to answer her, so I say in a joking voice—or as close to joking as I can get with my body on fire, “Oh, you know. People get bored and they just want it to be easy. Get it over with.”

She doesn’t joke back, her fingers trailing down my ass cheeks to rest on my thighs. “How could anyone ever get bored with this?” She’s quietly incredulous. Faintly accusatory.

I assess the quiet wonder I feel at the warmth of her on my legs. I can’t even see her, I’m not touching her with my hands, my cock is nowhere near her body, and yet this is the most profoundly sexual I’ve ever felt.

“I don’t know,” I finally say. “I don’t know.”

We continue in silence for a few more minutes, and I stay there, stretched and straining and still, all so she can pet and explore me, so she can satisfy her curiosity.

“On your back,” she says after a while. “I want to see your…” a shy pause. “Your penis again.”

I don’t tease her for the Latinate language. I’m past teasing. I’m starving, I’m dying. I roll over and expose my aching cock to the cool air, and I know I said I wasn’t going to let her make me come—and I meant it—but I just want her to touch it again. Just once, just a little bit.

“So when you’re not…erect…it’s not this big?” she asks. She’s moved so that she’s perched on her knees between my legs and her hands slide up my thighs to bracket my balls. Her thumbs meet in the tender place right below my testicles and my cock jolts like it’s been hooked up to a car battery.

“No,” I say, my voice so raspy it’s barely a voice any longer.

“And then it gets—”

“Hard,” I supply, trying to nudge her past the textbook terms.

“Then it gets hard,” she soldiers on, “whenever you’re turned on?”

“Yes. That’s when it needs to fuck.”

“And when you don’t have anyone to fuck? What do you do?”

I show her by circling a hand over my cock and tugging upwards. Pleasure spears deep into my groin as I do, and I have to remind myself that I’m showing her, that she’s exploring, that this is part of the plan, and I can’t just jack myself right over the edge like I want to.

I go slowly, so she can see the places that send me squirming, so she can see the steady rhythm I like, the grip. And then there’s the way she looks at me as I do it, her gaze hot on my tensed stomach and bunching biceps, on the swollen tip that emerges from the end of my fist over and over again.

“Can I try?” she asks in a voice both timid and inflamed, and my God, it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard, ever, ever, ever.

“Yes, baby. You can try.”

I release my cock and watch her grip it, a bit uncertainly, stroking up with a hold too loose for any real friction.

But it’s still too much. Her determined face, with its pouty mouth screwed up in concentration, which makes the piercing in her nose wiggle and glint as she wrinkles her nose. Her hair brushing the ends of her shoulders in uncountable dark spirals, her tits with their nipples in tight little beads, her ribs and stomach quivering with breathing she can’t quite control.

I throw my arms over my face so I can’t see her, because even her clumsiness is fucking hot, everything about her is so much, too much, and I should be worried, I should be terrified that she has this power over me, but I’m not, and maybe that’s the scariest part of it all.

I let her experiment with rhythm and pace and tightness, I let her try stroking the lower part of the shaft and squeezing and caressing the head, I let her try whatever she wants and I just do my best to hold on, to keep my promise not to come at her touch.

It’s fucking agony though.

Agony.

Finally she finds the killing zone, that sensitive underside right under my crown, and within seconds she has me arching and panting. When I dare to peek out from under my arms, I see her lower lip tucked into her teeth and her eyes glued to my steel-hard dick, fascinated. And her other hand rubbing idly at one breast, as if she can’t stand not to touch herself as she’s touching me, as if she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.

I’m going to come if she doesn’t stop.

“Enough,” I growl, sitting up and grabbing her fast enough to surprise her, to send a cute little squeak out of her mouth.

“But I want to see you come,” she says from the cage of my arms. “You promised I could see you come.”

She’s too perfect not to kiss, so I kiss her. I drop my mouth to hers and I fuck her mouth with my tongue the way I want to fuck her pussy. “You’ll see me come, princess,” I murmur against her lips. “You will.”

She’s dazed by the kiss, melted and boneless in my arms, sharing breath with me, tentatively sliding her tongue against mine, her hands flexing and fisting at my bare chest like a kitten kneading her paws. “I want you to come now,” she finally manages. “Now.”

“One thing first.” And if I enjoyed having this body because of the way Zenny looked at me before, I extra enjoy it now, being able to effortlessly move with her cradled in my arms, being able to drape her over the edge of the bed with her face down and her ass and cunt available for me to eat.

And then I show her the thing I promised on the night of the gala.

She squeaks again at the first lick—right up to the pleated aperture between her cheeks—and I have to band an arm over top of her hips to keep her still. She squirms and gasps, one of her legs kicking up at me in an instinctive move to hide herself.

“Sean,” she pants. I can actually hear the scratches of her fingers against the covers. “It’s…I’m…”

I know what she is. I stop eating her, running the tip of my nose in the divot between her cheeks, very close to that entrance that she’s embarrassed of. “Don’t worry, darling.”

“I know, but you can see everything like this,” she protests, a hand reaching back as if to block me.

“I know, and I can smell and taste everything too. That’s why I like it.” I catch the hand and guide it to my hair instead. “Here. Whenever you think you can’t bear it, you pull my hair instead of trying to pull away.”

She gives my locks a gentle yank. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It would be worth it,” I say and then lean forward again, letting her feel it all—the bump of my nose against her ass as I devour her cunt, the stubble of my jaw as I work, even the light scrapes of my teeth. It’s messy and delicious and she’s all over my lips and my face, she’s on my tongue, she’s the slick combination of sweet and salt and earth. She may be shy, embarrassed, inexperienced from her navel up, but down here, she is all woman. Her cunt knows what it needs, growing wetter and softer, her clit getting plumper like a little needy berry, and even as she still makes noises of flustered, uncertain pleasure, her hips grind back into my face and her legs spread more and more, letting me deeper, lower, letting me suckle on her clit. Her hand still snatches at my hair; like a good student, she’s done as she’s told and pulled on my hair whenever the surge of shame or awkwardness rolls over her. But the yanking has changed from the simple tugs on my hair to practically tearing at it to get me closer to her, to get my mouth on her harder, faster, more—

“More,” she gasps. “Oh my God, more, more, more, more…”

Shit, I want to fuck her right now. Right here, bent over my bed, with her so wet and begging. I’d squeeze into that tight hole and show her how good it feels to come around a cock.

In fact, I even get so far as standing up before I remember myself, before I remember THE PLAN, SEAN, THE FUCKING PLAN, and instead I smooth a gentling hand up her back and press a single finger inside her. I easily find the spot that drove her so wild before, and I press down in massaging caresses that make her moan into the bed. I lean my body over hers, savoring the feel of her smooth legs against my hair-rough ones, the delicate wings of shoulder blades against my chest. The firm plumpness of her ass against my hips as I replace my finger with my thumb and start rubbing at her clit with my middle and pointer fingers together.

She cries out in jumbles and moans, she arches and bucks under my body, and it’s so delicious, so very delicious, especially hearing my name in those jumbled noises, sean oh sean oh God keep going keep going more more more sean more—she’s an ocean whipped into a restless froth, storming and pitching and nothing but a tempest ignic with lightning and electric tension. I kiss everywhere as I coax her over the edge; I bury my face in her curls and smell her hair, I nip at the nape of her neck, I drop my lips on her cheek and the shell of her ear and the edge of her jaw. And then as I kiss and suck on her neck, she comes underneath me, an ocean out of control, a tempest beyond reckoning. A noise tears out of her throat, something like keening, something delirious and violent and helpless all at once.

All her bucking and rocking under me has me in agony, not only because it’s insanely hot, but because her ass is grinding hard against my cock. I can still smell and taste her, and her pussy is all flutters and clutches in that addictive way that pussies flutter and clutch when they’re happy. And it takes a superhuman act of strength to keep from pressing harder against her ass and coming right then and there—screw chasing snakes out of Ireland and stigmata, this is an actual miracle, that I’m able to keep myself sewn together while Zenny rides out her joy on my hand.

By the time she’s finished, she’s utterly limp, goose bumps everywhere and a faint sparkle of sweat misting her forehead. Her eyes are closed and her breathing slowly evens out, and I take the opportunity to scoop her into my arms and crawl back onto the bed so that I’m sitting with my back against the headboard with her nestled snugly against my chest.

I kiss her head and leave my lips there because it feels nice, because I want to kiss her forever, and she reaches up to trace idle shapes on my chest, eyes still shut. The lashes are long and thick and curved against her cheeks.

“It’s your turn,” she says sleepily.

“I’m fine, Zenny-bug.” It’s a lie, I’m dying, but I also feel like I might die if I have to stop holding her, so maybe it’s not too much of a lie. I’d be content to stay here forever too.

She wrinkles her nose at the childhood nickname. “I’m not a kid anymore, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware.”

She opens her eyes, her hand sliding over the bevel of my collarbone and up the corded length of my neck, and curving to fit the cut of my jaw. With her peering up at me with those copper-ringed eyes and her hand so warm and lovely-feeling against my face, I can’t help but to want to taste her mouth again, and we kiss for a long moment before she sits up in my arms.

“Seriously, though,” she says impatiently. “Your turn.”

There’s a moment when I almost feel guilty, but it dies as soon as it’s born. Or rather, it dies the moment Zenny arranges herself at my left side and puts my right hand on my cock. I wrap an arm around her and snug her close, and she rests her head on my chest as she watches me fuck my own fist. There’s something strangely erotic about having her cuddling me as she watches me beat off; it’s different than the normal performance these acts usually turn into. It’s intimate and real. Nothing but itself—which is frenzied, near-painful release.

Her fingers wander over my happy trail as I pull on my cock, she makes maddening little circles around the base and then down to my balls, which are drawn up so tight that it almost hurts.

“When you orgasm—”

“Say come,” I say breathlessly, roughly.

“When you come,” she corrects herself, looking up at me. “Where will it go? On your stomach? Your hand?”

My head falls back against the headboard in sheer defeat. She’s too much, far too fucking much, sexy and innocent and daring—

“Watch,” I say and with a grunt, several hours of need finally, finally erupts. My body breaks in half, every part of me from my toes to my chest to my thoughts twist into a knot and then snaps, and I’m there. There. Plummeting right into the abyss, static creeping at the edges of my vision and heat hooking deep into my groin and spilling out of me in thick, big ropes.

They shoot onto my stomach—hot, white splatters like paint, all across my abs and into my navel, catching like thick pearls in the hair leading down to my cock and finally spilling out onto my hand, and I keep beating myself through it all, a long groan tearing out of my chest as my balls drain and I’m blissfully wrung out to the last drop.

Until I’m empty and panting and completely, completely spent.

Zenny absentmindedly drags a finger through the mess on my stomach and lifts it to her mouth. My softening cock gives a painful throb as I watch her suck the finger clean.

She makes a cute little face. “It’s bitter.”

I laugh. “Yes, I think the general consensus is that cum tastes terrible. Usually people go to great lengths not to taste it.”

A little shrug against my chest. “I don’t want to miss any parts of you,” she says. “Even the parts other women haven’t wanted.”

I don’t answer that. I can’t, because there’s this sudden and unfamiliar tangle in my throat that keeps the words down. Instead, I pull her tight to my chest, and we stay there for a long time, quiet and sticky, all while I register the fact that I’m feeling things an old man like me has no right to feel about a young woman like her, and I’m not sure at all what to do about it.