Slowly, he slides his hand back to my waist, and in a gesture that feels as if it takes far too many minutes, he gently lowers the waistband, stretching it over the skin above my broken body without pressure or pain inflicted. Once the toes have been cleared, the freed pant leg drops towards the remaining limb. He helps it along the edge of the bed preventing it from falling to the floor. I can feel it go its own way once its retreat reveals plainly that I did not wear panties before lying down for my Saturday nap.
I am reminded of the image of his enormous hand that barely fit inside his jeans pocket the day I met him as it now slides just as snugly inside me. I lift my head back up excited to have him back exactly where he belongs.
I take a moment to realize this isn’t where we ought to begin this particular activity.
“Daniel, the bed. Not here.” I attempt to regain my footing, scooting my hands across the comforter to reposition myself, thinking about his call and his insistence on not lying my head here, much less dripping our bodies in these soft, pristine sheets.
He pushes his fingers deeper into me.
“Right here,” he growls.
I admit I don’t want to wait another minute for him to arouse me, and I certainly don’t want to hobble back to our room, so I slide my knee upward, opening myself to his touch.
“You okay,” he finally asks after several thrusts.
“Please, don’t stop,” I pant, realizing that our time apart feels too damn long to have gone untouched by him.
He removes his hand and replaces it with the power of a body restrained for two weeks, out of its circadian rhythm, and desperately wanting to be unleashed. His wet hand slides inside my shirt, bunching it, and wiping sticky warmth along my spine. It feels like he is wrapping his arm back around towards my dangling, delighted breasts, but instead he grabs into the pocket above my collar bone and uses it as a handle to pull my entire body into him. He pumps continuously forcing small breaths from my mouth when my body really wants to howl.
When he finally pulls his arm back around, he presses both hands into the edges of my back and stands upright, using the full extent of his body to press inward yet again. This time enough air escapes to respond.
“Aaaawwwhh!” I’m not even certain the toes of my healthy foot are touching the floor as I am lifted forward with each jarring movement. He is by no means exhausted from his travel.
He reaches out for a fist of hair and my back arches towards him. If I could speak, I would be pleading for my own…
In an instant, I go from wanting my own release to his. Now what my body wants is more, still more of his desire, his initiative to take what he wants, what he has missed, and thoroughly enjoy himself. Harder. And deeper.
“Ye…!” Only half a syllable gets past my lips confirming this is what I want, too.
I love his heart. I love how generous he wants to be to strangers. But I cannot deny this I love above all else: my sexual partner pushing deep inside me, mussing sheets that haven’t been christened as they cushion me repeatedly from his driving, pleasing pressure against me and inside me. This is absolutely what I love most about my husband. Taking advantage of what may have been my earlier wobble reminds me that no matter how clumsy or hobbled or sprawled out I may be, he craves me as much as I desire to be overwhelmed by him.
I want him to spank me playfully. I want him to touch and tease my clit even as he takes me from behind. I want him to speak a handful of words that will remind me how sexy he finds me.
“Do you want more?” I want him to ask me. Even just the last word whispered in my ear, asking me to allow him to ride me like the western woman I have become would push me to orgasm, but he remains my silent Lumberjack.
He won’t cross any line that he thinks might remind me of the horrors of abuse I’ve described to him. Even in this tantalizing stance behind me, in the closest position we ever come to my bad-girl past, he still shows me respect, silence, and gentleness. He isn’t crass. He’s caressing.
And then he tugs my head towards him as he releases inside me and I forget all the words I’ve ever known except one.
“Yeeesssss!”
Something between a grunt and a groan – several somethings – is all the noise he makes in response. No, my toes are definitely not touching the floor.
He finishes and leans much of his weight against my back. He might fall against me, spent, but instead he smooths the hair he just grabbed and finally manages a handful of words.
“You are fucking amazing, Mrs. McClure.” I have no ability to respond. I barely breathe.
He stands up, pulling himself out of me and I know I won’t be able to follow him out of the room for several minutes. I need to allow myself a bit of recovery time before heading to our bed. When I do, I know I can ask him nicely – not too nicely – and he’ll do me again. He will finish what he started.
When I finally do leave the room that has always been so precious to him and closed off to me, I limp slowly, turn out the light, but leave the door open to remind me to wash the sheets in the morning. The room is already changing.
Pam Portland 