That Summer by Jennifer Weiner (read more books .txt) 📕

“Oh,” she whispered, “oh, please, please, please…”

He brushed his thumb right between her legs. She squeaked, and did it even louder when he repeated the gesture with two fingertips.

“You’re so wet,” he muttered, and hooked his thumbs into the sides of her panties. “Okay?”

“Mmm,” she hummed.

He drew them down slowly, slipping them over her feet, and his warm hands were gently urging her thighs apart. She had a brief moment to wonder how she looked, how she smelled, an instant to think I should have shaved my bikini line, before he dragged the tip of his index finger along the wet seam between her legs, so delicately he was barely touching her. His fingertip landed on her clitoris and flicked it gently, and she forgot how to think. He brought his face between her legs, and just breathed on her, gently, so gently that she could barely tell he was there. She lifted her hips, trying to spread her legs even wider, moaning, “Please, please, please.”

He put his tongue against her, working his finger in and out as he licked, then sucked, then just pressed his tongue flat against her and letting her rub herself against it, like a cat arching its back into a waiting hand, and it was too much, and yet, still not enough. Her breath was coming in pants, and she was gripping the back of his head, holding him against her, feeling his beard, his lips, his teeth, his tongue, until her hips arced off the bed and she forgot everything she’d been thinking and everything she’d meant to say, all of it swept away in a torrent of pleasure.

“That has never happened to me,” she whispered a few minutes later. She was smiling, and Michael was lying right against her. She had her arm underneath his neck. His head was on her shoulder, and she could feel his erection pressing against her thigh.

“With a guy?”

“It’s never happened with a guy. And it hasn’t happened at all since that summer.”

“You don’t, ah…”

“Masturbate? I’ve tried. But nothing works. This was the first time.”

Tears were slipping out of her closed eyes, running down her cheeks, but, at Michael’s look of alarm, she said, “They’re happy tears. I’m okay. I promise.”

He rubbed his thumb against her cheek and then, so gently that at first she could barely feel it, he kissed her tears away, which made her cry harder. Sniffling, she asked, “Where’d you learn to do that?”

He was, she realized, still completely dressed, in jeans and a flannel shirt, everything except his boots, which he’d left by the door. She stroked her hand along his back, then reached for the buttons on his shirt. He took her hand and held it still.

“We don’t have to.”

“What if I want to?”

He looked at her gravely. “Only if you want,” he said.

“I do. I promise.” He let her roll him onto his back, let her straddle him and unbutton his shirt, unbuckle his belt, unzip his pants. He helped her, sitting up when she told him to, lifting his hips so she could get his pants off. Then, finally, for the first time in her life, she was in bed, naked, with a naked man.

Michael was looking rueful. “I, ah, did the Atkins thing over the winter.” He patted his substantial belly. “I don’t know how I was supposed to lose weight eating bacon and eggs.”

“I don’t want you to lose weight,” she said. She couldn’t explain how much she liked his size, like he was solid and substantial enough to shelter her and keep her safe.

Michael was big all over, and hairy, his chest and belly and legs covered in reddish-gold curls. The curls were densest on his chest, and at his groin, a tangly nest from which his penis rose, red and curved and wet at the tip. She took it in her hand and gave it an experimental squeeze. He sucked in a breath, and his nipples puckered to hard points.

“Oh, boy.” His eyelids fluttered shut. She kissed each one, then his cheeks, then his lips, kissing him gently at first before his mouth opened to hers and he put his arms around her shoulders, pulling her close. She breathed him in, smelling herself, and beer and balsamic vinegar and the scent that was his alone. Before she could lose her nerve, she straddled him, gripping his penis and rubbing herself against it, sliding back and forth until she was sure that it was wet, before gripping it, placing its tip at her entrance, and sliding slowly down until he was completely inside her.

They both groaned. Michael sounded ecstatic. Diana just felt full, unpleasantly full at first. She raised herself up, easing off him to lessen the pressure before she slid down again, letting him fill her. That time it felt good. No. Better than good. When she did it again, it felt amazing. Incredible. She raised herself up again, but he stopped her, gripping her hips.

“Wait,” he rasped. “Condom.”

“Oh, shit!” She clambered off him, so fast that there was an embarrassing wet popping noise. Michael reached over her, groping for his pants, removing his wallet from a pocket, opening the packet with his teeth. They rolled the condom over his erection together, his hand warm on hers. He lay back again, but she shook her head, and pressed her naked body against his.

“Come on,” she whispered.

“Are you sure?”

She reached down, gripping his sheathed penis, and pressed her lips against his ear. “I need you to do this right now.”

He groaned, so loudly that she imagined she could feel the cottage vibrating. She had an instant of doubt, a brief few seconds of fear. Then she reminded herself that this was Michael, Michael who knew her, Michael who’d helped her, Michael who maybe even loved her. She tilted her head and, as he kissed her, he put her hand on him and held still, waiting for her to guide him inside. She moved, tentatively