Elen

Oh my God, don’t tell me he’s changed his mind. I look up into his eyes, and feel my insides burning up at the heat within them.

“Please,” I whisper, more desperate to have him inside me than I’ve ever been for a man before. “Please, don’t stop.”

His lips curve up a little, and then he guides the tip of his erection into me, and pushes forward.

I close my eyes and arch my back, giving a long moan at the sensation of him filling me, stretching me. It’s blissful, and for a moment I just revel in the joy of being with a man, of doing what comes naturally.

“Ah, Elen,” he says, and he lowers on top of me and starts kissing me again as he moves inside me.

I sigh and stretch out beneath him, loving the fact that we couldn’t even wait to undress properly. Part of me wants to feel his body against me, to touch my lips to his naked skin, but equally there’s something so erotic about this. It’s like he’s desperate for me, and I’m burning for him.

His hair falls across his forehead, and his brow creases with a frown of pleasure as he pulls back, then sinks into me. He’s hardly taken his eyes from me all night. I feel as if it was inevitable that we’d end up here. From the moment he walked into the church and sat beside me, I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist him.

His gaze is still fixed on me, intense and hot, and I stare helplessly into his gorgeous blue eyes as he makes love to me. He kisses me, kisses my face--my cheeks and my nose, up my cheekbone to my ear, and down my neck, making me shiver. His thrusts are long and slow, and I wrap my legs around his waist and lock my ankles, tilting my hips up to encourage him to move faster. He mumbles something and obliges, speeding up, and I roll my head to the side and let him place kisses down my neck, feeling myself spiral out of control.

It can only have taken us five minutes to get from the elevator to this moment, but my muscles are starting to tighten, and as he obviously senses the approach of my orgasm, he lifts onto his hands and thrusts with purpose, grinding against me. I can’t believe I’m going to come with hardly any foreplay and barely a brush of his hand on my breast, but my muscles tighten, and I cry out as I clench around him, pulse after pulse of exquisite pleasure.

Thrusting faster and harder, he practically shoves me across the bed with every move of his hips, and soon my head is hanging just over the edge, my hair dangling toward the floor. Still he thrusts, and I open my thighs wide to him, cry out his name, and dig my nails into his back as he stops and shudders, his muscles hardening to rock as he swells inside me.

“Wow,” I say when he finally breaths out and lowers down. “Holy fuck. I thought you were going to thrust me off the bed.”

He laughs and kisses me. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I need to return the blood to my head.”

He chuckles and nibbles my bottom lip, and then we exchange a long, lingering kiss.

Finally, he withdraws and moves across to give me room. I roll onto my side and close my knees together, waiting for him to rise, go into the kitchen, and get a drink or something. Dan would have grabbed his iPad to check his emails.

But Kane takes my hand and pulls me to my knees, and then he lifts my dress and peels it from me.

“Sorry for the creases,” he says, leaning over to lay it across a chair before coming back to me.

“It was worth the dry-cleaning bill.”

He smiles and slides his hands around my back, unclips my bra, and draws the straps down. Then he tosses that onto the chair too.

Leaving me in just my thigh highs, he slides off his pants and boxers, and pulls me back onto the bed, half on top of him. We kiss for a while, hot skin sticking to hot skin. It’s a lazy, just-fucked kiss, and yet it still feels erotic, my skin hypersensitive from my orgasm, so much so that as he strokes me, I feel the first stirrings of pleasure once again.

His fingers trail up and down my back, and then he brings his hands forward to cup my breasts. He murmurs his approval, brushing his fingers over my nipples, but soon he’s skating over my back and hips again. He touches me as if I’m something precious. It makes me want to cry.

I refuse to, though. I lift my head and look into his eyes and try a sassy joke. “Want me to leave?”

He gives me a wry look and presses his already growing erection against my thigh. “Does it look as if I do?” He brushes my cheek with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry that was so fast.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m embarrassed. I wanted to take it slow, but it’s been a while, and you’re sexy enough to make a man self-combust.”

“I came, didn’t I? You pleased your woman. Doesn’t that make it a success?”

“Well, there’s more to sex than an orgasm.”

Now I’m baffled. “What?”

He laughs and kisses me. “My woman?”

“It was a turn of phrase.”

“I’m not complaining.” He cups my breasts again, and teases the nipples gently with his fingers.

“You want to see me again?” I whisper, my eyelids lowering to half-mast.

Now he looks amused. “Of course I want to see you again. You thought I’d bring you home for the night and then look the other way at the office on Monday?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t really discuss it.”

“I want to see you again, Elen. When I first saw your picture in the Hearktech brochure, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. When I saw you in the bar, and you told me you were single, I knew it was only a matter of time before you were mine.”

“Yours?” Now it’s my turn to be amused. “We’ve had sex once.”

“So far, and I intend to remedy that very soon.” He kisses me, deep and lingering, while his hands continue to skate over my skin.

I let him, drifting into a netherworld where all that exists are Kane and his hot mouth and his gentle hands. My head is spinning though, like the leaves outside caught in the autumn breeze.

I honestly hadn’t thought further than getting him into bed. Do I want another relationship yet?

I went out with Dan for three years, on and off. He was, on the whole, a good guy, upfront and honest, maybe a little too so, not afraid to speak his mind, and with a blunt, almost cruel dislike of pretentiousness that meant he was dismissive of anyone who claimed an interest in anything he saw as ‘artsy fartsy’. He disliked religion with a passion, hated paintings that were more metaphor than pictures, laughed at literary fiction, scorned any music that didn’t have a pounding beat and a guy screaming down the mike, and wasn’t interested in travelling anywhere that didn’t have a five-star hotel and ice-cold beer. He was organized and efficient, and he abhorred lateness.

He would hate Kane, who loves fantasy stories and folk music, who enjoys discussing philosophy, and who believes that ideas exist separate from the mind, like artifacts waiting to be uncovered in an archeological dig. He’s often late for meetings because he’s gotten caught up in his work, and he believes that planning kills creativity. He’s the strong, silent type, unlike the loud, opinionated Dan. How odd that I’ve picked two such different guys.

I can’t decide right now whether there’s any future in this relationship. Maybe I should have thought about it before I went to bed with him, but I didn’t, and I’m not going to think about it now, with his hands on me and his erection pressing eagerly against my leg. I’ve spent my whole life being responsible and practical, and for once I’m going to live by the seat of my pants and enjoy just being.