“Get up here,” he says as he guides me on top of him. Swiftly entering, his hands on my hips press us together, as far as our physical bodies will allow. I can’t help it, I throw my head back and close my eyes in a sharp inhale. All I want to do is to feel him, but my lungs are full. As I hold that breath, it begins to feels as though I’ve drifted too far away, and I want to be closer, already. I NEED to be.
“Breathe,” he reminds me. Opening my eyes and lowering my chin, I release the pressure, the ballon that was carrying me away from him. As I do, I look into his eyes. I see adoration. I see that he sees me. ME. And I see HIM. I see how much he wants this.
A gentle upward push with his hips prompts me to move, and I do. I move, and I keep moving. Lead by his hands on my waist and around my breasts, we move in a rhythm with a slight pause as our bodies meet, and I try to make my breathing match that rhythm. An exhale as we meet, as he reaches my end and reminds me where I begin. With him.
I lean over him and I hold his gaze. I try to concentrate on what his eyes are saying, on what the strength and tenderness in his hands are saying as they caress my skin. On his expression, on his body needing mine. As the pace quickens, I grab the slats in the headboard, again throwing my head back and closing my eyes. But, I feel that pressure in my chest again. My lungs full, my mind drifting away from him. I want to give him what he wants, but I can’t seem to stay grounded, to make my brain stop pulling me away.
“Breathe. Don’t forget to breathe. Are you going to come for me?,” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer, truthfully, trying to express how sorry I am. To tell him how hard I’m trying.
“What’s wrong? Why are you having trouble?”
“There’s not enough following,” I say, propped up on my arms, my curls flopping on either side of my face. And I hoped he’d know what I meant, what I was trying to say. I hoped he wouldn’t be upset with me for saying so.
“This is what I want, okay? I love watching you, you know that.”
I shake my head in agreeance, and I know he does. He tells me all the time.
“I love your wild, fuck me hair when you’re up here,” he says with a smile, his hands gripping my cheeks, cradling my chin, just looking at me as our bodies remain connected.
Moving backward, his hands slide my hair behind my head and he gathers it all into one of his fists. Reaching down, his other hand forcefully grips my hip bone. Again, an upward push with his hips prompts me to move. As I lift my hips, I feel his fist in my hair pulling back, and then further back. His tight grip on my hip bone gets tighter as it lifts and pulls downward, over and over again. Slowly at first, then gradually faster. And harder. And faster and harder. There’s a momentary pause at the end again, as our bodies meet, eliciting a growl from him and an exhale from me. I’m lifted off my arms, pulled backward by that fist in my hair. It tugs me back until my neck is stretched and I am completely upright, totally exposed to him. The tension I hadn’t even realized was there, finally releasing as I breathe. In and out. Up and down.
And instead of drifting away, I melt into him.