you don’t need one. You’re doing just fine, right now. What excites you excites me.”
“I just want to know who you are, I guess. By yourself.”
“I can’t give you some simple answer. It all depends on the company. I love wine,” he said, “but I won’t drink it with ice cream. I love coffee but I do not want it with mussels, you see? I may adore two things, coffee and mussels, a certain sex act and a particular woman, but all are ruined when they don’t go together.”
“Fine, I submit to your logic. What am I then? What would you pair with me?”
Didier offered me a mysterious smirk and laced his fingers between mine, a gesture that triggered a rush I cannot adequately describe. “I do not know all of your flavors just yet.”
I squeezed his hand. “Guess, then.”
“Because you’re cautious, I think we should keep everything equal, no one the aggressor or the passive one. Slow explorations, to start. And when I get a better feel for you, I’ll know what beyond that to offer.” Another smirk. “But I suspect you are like shellfish, meant to be coaxed open and savored. I would pair you with a dry white wine. Something sharp, not dark.”
It may not be the most likely poetry, comparing a woman to shellfish, but I felt warmth burst in my cheeks and chest, outrageously flattered to be reduced to food and drink to this man. Something to be consumed.
“But again,” he said, “I have so much yet to learn about you.”
I gazed down at his fingers twined with mine. I had much to learn too, but perhaps that evening I’d find another lesson or two to check off my list.
A finger crooked under my chin, brought my face up, a tender bit of pushiness I adored. I let Didier kiss me and what had felt romantic before turned carnal, deep and insistent. I let his hand go to stroke his neck, his shoulder. I felt his hard arm through his shirt, touched the bare skin and soft hair at his open collar. He didn’t touch me back beyond my face and neck, and I wasn’t yet sure if this was a relief or a disappointment. But my own hands were bold, running down and over his front to feel his abdomen. As I traced the waist of his pants with my fingertips, he freed his mouth to sigh.
I leaned close to open his buttons, one, two, three, until I spread his shirt open and feasted my eyes on his body.
He slid his fingers from my hair, bringing them lower not to touch me, but himself. As I roamed his chest and stomach, he cupped a hand between his legs.
“Are you hard?”
“Yes.” He traced his erection with his thumb and forefinger, pulling the fabric tighter to show me. I know if he’d asked me to touch him, I’d have clammed up. He didn’t. He made no requests, only fondled himself, illustrating what I was missing out on, what I could have.
“I want to touch you,” I whispered.
“You can do whatever you like with me.”
“I know. I’m just afraid I’ll be lousy at it.”
“You’ve never done this to a man, no?”
I shook my head.
“Caroly.” My name on his breath short-circuited my brain. “Tonight, with you… Your cautious hands on me, unsure what they are doing, will be more exciting than the touch of the most masterful woman on earth. I don’t need to be served, only explored.”
“Oh,” was all I could think to say.
“I want mine to be the first cock you ever know.”
His words hit me hard, making my light head lighter, my pussy hot. “I want that too.”
“Here.” Gently, impossibly slowly, he took my hand, sliding it from his belly and over his belt to cover his erection. He held it there for a long time before guiding me, coaxing my palm up and down, a faint graze over his hard, hidden arousal.
“That is not so bad?”
“No,” I mumbled. “That’s very nice.”
His hand abandoned mine to its clumsy devices. I measured him with light caresses, loving how tense the rest of his body had grown.
“You feel harder than I expected.”
“This is how I felt when I thought of
“I just want to know who you are, I guess. By yourself.”
“I can’t give you some simple answer. It all depends on the company. I love wine,” he said, “but I won’t drink it with ice cream. I love coffee but I do not want it with mussels, you see? I may adore two things, coffee and mussels, a certain sex act and a particular woman, but all are ruined when they don’t go together.”
“Fine, I submit to your logic. What am I then? What would you pair with me?”
Didier offered me a mysterious smirk and laced his fingers between mine, a gesture that triggered a rush I cannot adequately describe. “I do not know all of your flavors just yet.”
I squeezed his hand. “Guess, then.”
“Because you’re cautious, I think we should keep everything equal, no one the aggressor or the passive one. Slow explorations, to start. And when I get a better feel for you, I’ll know what beyond that to offer.” Another smirk. “But I suspect you are like shellfish, meant to be coaxed open and savored. I would pair you with a dry white wine. Something sharp, not dark.”
It may not be the most likely poetry, comparing a woman to shellfish, but I felt warmth burst in my cheeks and chest, outrageously flattered to be reduced to food and drink to this man. Something to be consumed.
“But again,” he said, “I have so much yet to learn about you.”
I gazed down at his fingers twined with mine. I had much to learn too, but perhaps that evening I’d find another lesson or two to check off my list.
A finger crooked under my chin, brought my face up, a tender bit of pushiness I adored. I let Didier kiss me and what had felt romantic before turned carnal, deep and insistent. I let his hand go to stroke his neck, his shoulder. I felt his hard arm through his shirt, touched the bare skin and soft hair at his open collar. He didn’t touch me back beyond my face and neck, and I wasn’t yet sure if this was a relief or a disappointment. But my own hands were bold, running down and over his front to feel his abdomen. As I traced the waist of his pants with my fingertips, he freed his mouth to sigh.
I leaned close to open his buttons, one, two, three, until I spread his shirt open and feasted my eyes on his body.
He slid his fingers from my hair, bringing them lower not to touch me, but himself. As I roamed his chest and stomach, he cupped a hand between his legs.
“Are you hard?”
“Yes.” He traced his erection with his thumb and forefinger, pulling the fabric tighter to show me. I know if he’d asked me to touch him, I’d have clammed up. He didn’t. He made no requests, only fondled himself, illustrating what I was missing out on, what I could have.
“I want to touch you,” I whispered.
“You can do whatever you like with me.”
“I know. I’m just afraid I’ll be lousy at it.”
“You’ve never done this to a man, no?”
I shook my head.
“Caroly.” My name on his breath short-circuited my brain. “Tonight, with you… Your cautious hands on me, unsure what they are doing, will be more exciting than the touch of the most masterful woman on earth. I don’t need to be served, only explored.”
“Oh,” was all I could think to say.
“I want mine to be the first cock you ever know.”
His words hit me hard, making my light head lighter, my pussy hot. “I want that too.”
“Here.” Gently, impossibly slowly, he took my hand, sliding it from his belly and over his belt to cover his erection. He held it there for a long time before guiding me, coaxing my palm up and down, a faint graze over his hard, hidden arousal.
“That is not so bad?”
“No,” I mumbled. “That’s very nice.”
His hand abandoned mine to its clumsy devices. I measured him with light caresses, loving how tense the rest of his body had grown.
“You feel harder than I expected.”
“This is how I felt when I thought of
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