Touch Shannon.
It’s a simple rule.
Her skin is so soft, my fingers scraping against the rolling contour of her inner thigh, from knee to heaven. The whorls of ridges on my fingertips feel like raw sandpaper against her porcelain flesh. My breathing slows, eyes adjusting to the dim light, taking in her body. How did I ever get so lucky?
From Toilet Girl to Mrs. McCormick in eighteen months.
Huh. I guess I count months sometimes, too.
The candlelight makes Shannon look ethereal, like an erotic painting, the red silk of her lingerie highlighting her pale skin. Her shapely hips, wide with the swell of abundance, are like magnets for my touch. The curve of her breasts beckons, begging for my palm. Climbing onto the bed, I prowl over her, enjoying the peace and beauty of this moment, suspended between the time we’ll connect and these seconds before, when she’s all mine to just watch. Observe.
Treasure.
Her feet slide up as she moves in slumber, her toenails painted the same color as her corset, her garters, her lips. For some reason, that attention to detail makes every shred of self-control wash off me like someone aimed a fire hose at me.
My mouth starts where it needs to be, with a taste between her thighs. My hands slip up between those legs and she sits up, gasping my name.
“Dec! You’re home,” she murmurs, her hand sinking into my hair, palm moving down to caress my cheek as I move up to kiss her. She awakens a little more and blinks hard. “And you’re naked.”
“You’re observant.”
“It’s hard to miss that, even in the dim light.” Thankfully, she doesn’t just point. She grasps.
And that’s it. She’s under me and my mouth takes her, hard and hot, needing to sink into her and touch her depths so fully that we turn inside out. The taste of her mouth makes parts of me groan without sound, the sweet embrace of her thighs around my hips an invitation to enter at my own risk. And the risk?
Losing myself in her.
I’m an adventurous guy. I’ll take the plunge.
The second I’m in her it’s like coming home. A cliché, but true. Her fingers dance along my back, tight when she’s clenching, loose and skimming my skin with her palms in between. I can read her body with my eyes closed. She’s like sexual Braille. When her thighs start to quiver I know she’s close. When her back arches, she wants my mouth on her nipple. That little hitched sigh? It means she’s coming again. My name moaned when I’m between her legs?
That just urges me on. Makes me want to give her more.
“Declan,” she whispers, the sound like a verbal orgasm. Our rhythm quickens and our kisses dissipate, the connection now focused on a different kind of energy, a sensual build that’s nearing the summit. I love how her face changes when I’m in her, how she relaxes and turns inward, even as she’s connected to me, infused by our mingled slickness. There’s a scent we create when we’re together that is singular, and it drives me crazy to find a hint of it on the sheets, on a pillow, to catch a whiff on a breeze through my bedroom in times when she’s not here.
There won’t be any more times when she’s not here, though.
Not after I propose.
Her eyes are closed and she is the most ravishing, lovely creature I’ve ever touched, ever been with, ever loved. A man gets so few chances in life to find himself. We all live alone in these bodies, comforted by our own soul, driven by the mind to find meaning in the outside world. The heart drives us, too (and, of course, other muscles in the body with a single mission...).
She’s fragile and strong, determined and insecure, gentle and iron-willed, and as my body fills with a groundswell of urgency, of pleasure at the feel of being in her, of watching her own release pour out of her because of me. I join her, raw and real, our mutual vulnerability the only thing that matters.
(And coming inside her, too. That matters. A lot.)
The room is so quiet. There’s no wind today, and the windows are all closed in the bedroom, the candles generating a sandalwood scent and a hazy heat that charges the air with a kind of private grace. I’m worshipping at the altar of Shannon. My mouth has just taken my version of communion. And once I propose, I shall have no other goddesses before her.
She’s my religion now.
“Mmmm,” she says, pulling me to her for a kiss, that ripe mouth mine to pluck. “I needed that.”
“You needed that? I was about to float off into the air like a weather balloon if I didn’t—”
She curls into a ball, giggling, her pushed-up breasts jiggling like an unseen juggler’s hands toss them into the air. Her nipples rub against the edge of the bustier and I’m entranced. Hypnotized. I could watch this for hours.
Who needs a fish tank for stress reduction? A red corset and a joke book for Shannon to read work just fine.
“All you ever think about is sex.”
My stomach rumbles. My mouth stays shut, though, because she has a point.
“And food,” she adds. “And work.”
“And you.”
“I think I’m filed under sex. Shannon is a subcategory under ‘Places I like to stick things in.’”
“That would be Golf Courses.”
“I’m your sexual golf course.” She doesn’t ask it as a question, but it hangs there, judgmental. I’m in the danger zone here. One wrong answer and it’s into the penalty box for Declan.
“You don’t have eighteen holes.”
“No, I don’t. I only have two.”
“That you’ll let me in,” I mumble. That earns me a smack. I love it when she gets rough. My turn. I grab her and spin her on her belly, gleaming white ass so round and abundant. I’m about to give her a hot spank when—