great pleasure, but he wasn’t at all comfortable that he knew how. He kissed her, and while his lips were on hers, his dark hand cupped a soft pale breast, his fingertips plucked gently at the budding crest.
As unschooled as Mary to the ways of love, he was terrified he would hurt her. At the same time he was so aroused, he felt as if he couldn’t wait another moment to take her completely. Cautioning himself to slow down, to take his time for Mary’s sake, he kept kissing her, caressing her.
Mary Ellen clung to Clay, stirred by his heated kisses, tingling to the gentle touch of his hands, thrilled by the heavy hardness pulsing against her bare belly. She began to undulate against him, and Clay sensed she was as ready as he.
He lifted his dark head, gazed into her passion-bright eyes. “Mary, are you…”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes.”
Clay kissed her again. And as he kissed her his hand swept down over her stomach, raked softly, gently, through the crisp white-blond curls, and went between her legs. Mary Ellen’s eyes closed when, with only his middle finger, he touched her. Clay’s mouth lifted from hers, and he watched her beautiful face as he caressed her, his finger slipping and sliding easily in the silky wetness flowing from her.
Mary Ellen’s back arched. She gasped and squirmed with pleasure, her eyes shut tightly, her face aflame. And she wondered if it would feel as good to him if she touched him the way he was touching her.
Her eyes opened and she looked up at Clay. She said, “I want to touch you, Clay.”
Afraid he would explode in involuntary climax if she touched him, he said, “No, Mary, I—”
“Yes,” she insisted, pushed his hand away, and rolled to a sitting position. “I want to make you feel good.”
Clay gave in, stretched out on his back, and watched with in-held breath as Mary shyly wrapped her fingers around his thrusting masculinity. She held him very gently, as if afraid she would break him. Awed by the feel, the size, of him, she quickly warmed to this new exercise in lovemaking, letting her fingers slide slowly up and down the length of him.
Clay suffered silently in sweet agony.
His heart hammered, and beads of perspiration dotted his lip and hairline and pooled in the hollow of his throat. He wanted to give her ample opportunity to explore and play to her heart’s content, but his body couldn’t stand it. Abruptly he tore her hand away, rolled up from the ground, and pressed her onto her back.
Anxiously he moved between her pale thighs and urged her legs wider apart. Then, murmuring, “I love you, Mary,” he thrust swiftly into her. She winced in shock and pain. He felt the tearing, the tightness, and knew he was hurting her. Yet he couldn’t stop, no matter how badly he wanted to.
It was as if the hard, throbbing flesh he’d buried deep inside her had a mind all its own. It completely ignored the tears spilling from Mary’s eyes and her obvious torture. It ignored his own silent commands to pull out and inflict no more pain on her. It would not listen. Controlling him completely, it kept pounding swiftly, deeply, into her soft wet warmth until a great explosion of heat ended its forceful aggression.
Clay groaned loudly in his ecstasy, and Mary Ellen, watching his dark, contorted face, wondered if she were hurting him.
He collapsed atop her and immediately began telling her how sorry he was he’d hurt her, how he’d make it up to her.
“In time I’ll be a better lover,” he told her. “I’ll learn how to give you the kind of joy you gave to me.
“Lying here in your arms is joy enough,” she said, stroking his damp silky hair, his smooth shoulders, his perspiration-streaked back.
When he calmed they went into the water, and Clay carefully, patiently, bathed Mary Ellen, his dark face a study in loving concern. When both were clean and she assured him that there was no lingering pain, they began to play the way they had when they were
As unschooled as Mary to the ways of love, he was terrified he would hurt her. At the same time he was so aroused, he felt as if he couldn’t wait another moment to take her completely. Cautioning himself to slow down, to take his time for Mary’s sake, he kept kissing her, caressing her.
Mary Ellen clung to Clay, stirred by his heated kisses, tingling to the gentle touch of his hands, thrilled by the heavy hardness pulsing against her bare belly. She began to undulate against him, and Clay sensed she was as ready as he.
He lifted his dark head, gazed into her passion-bright eyes. “Mary, are you…”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes.”
Clay kissed her again. And as he kissed her his hand swept down over her stomach, raked softly, gently, through the crisp white-blond curls, and went between her legs. Mary Ellen’s eyes closed when, with only his middle finger, he touched her. Clay’s mouth lifted from hers, and he watched her beautiful face as he caressed her, his finger slipping and sliding easily in the silky wetness flowing from her.
Mary Ellen’s back arched. She gasped and squirmed with pleasure, her eyes shut tightly, her face aflame. And she wondered if it would feel as good to him if she touched him the way he was touching her.
Her eyes opened and she looked up at Clay. She said, “I want to touch you, Clay.”
Afraid he would explode in involuntary climax if she touched him, he said, “No, Mary, I—”
“Yes,” she insisted, pushed his hand away, and rolled to a sitting position. “I want to make you feel good.”
Clay gave in, stretched out on his back, and watched with in-held breath as Mary shyly wrapped her fingers around his thrusting masculinity. She held him very gently, as if afraid she would break him. Awed by the feel, the size, of him, she quickly warmed to this new exercise in lovemaking, letting her fingers slide slowly up and down the length of him.
Clay suffered silently in sweet agony.
His heart hammered, and beads of perspiration dotted his lip and hairline and pooled in the hollow of his throat. He wanted to give her ample opportunity to explore and play to her heart’s content, but his body couldn’t stand it. Abruptly he tore her hand away, rolled up from the ground, and pressed her onto her back.
Anxiously he moved between her pale thighs and urged her legs wider apart. Then, murmuring, “I love you, Mary,” he thrust swiftly into her. She winced in shock and pain. He felt the tearing, the tightness, and knew he was hurting her. Yet he couldn’t stop, no matter how badly he wanted to.
It was as if the hard, throbbing flesh he’d buried deep inside her had a mind all its own. It completely ignored the tears spilling from Mary’s eyes and her obvious torture. It ignored his own silent commands to pull out and inflict no more pain on her. It would not listen. Controlling him completely, it kept pounding swiftly, deeply, into her soft wet warmth until a great explosion of heat ended its forceful aggression.
Clay groaned loudly in his ecstasy, and Mary Ellen, watching his dark, contorted face, wondered if she were hurting him.
He collapsed atop her and immediately began telling her how sorry he was he’d hurt her, how he’d make it up to her.
“In time I’ll be a better lover,” he told her. “I’ll learn how to give you the kind of joy you gave to me.
“Lying here in your arms is joy enough,” she said, stroking his damp silky hair, his smooth shoulders, his perspiration-streaked back.
When he calmed they went into the water, and Clay carefully, patiently, bathed Mary Ellen, his dark face a study in loving concern. When both were clean and she assured him that there was no lingering pain, they began to play the way they had when they were
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