No Words 12

“Okay!” Fran raced upstairs to the bedroom and then called, “Hey, is that why you brought fondue?”

“No,” he called as he followed her up the steps, “but since it’s here and we didn’t eat much I just figured.” He walked in and shrugged, looking a little lost there in her bedroom, one hand holding a fondue pot, the other scratching his head. Fran giggled suddenly, feeling absurd, like a kid, experimenting. He stood there in her frowzy, girly bedroom, his jeans and blue striped button front shirt a solemn contrast to her cozy white eyelet duvet, her cozy cozy brass bed, and even her own cozy self, curled as she was on the bed.

Oh. Landmine.

“I’m ready,” she said, meaning it.

“Where should I start?”

“Where would you usually start, dumbass?”

“A… pick up line?”

“Look, just kiss me. Forget about the rest of it and just kiss me.”

Mick did as he was told. He put the pot on the bedside table, sat on the bed beside her, and leaned in – but then he stopped, turned away, and came back with a thumbful of chocolate. He smeared a bit on her bottom lip and sucked it off, so quickly and naturally, it took Fran a moment to register that he was kissing her – kissing her, while he put that thumbful of chocolate into her mouth, not stopping the movement of his lips on hers while he swiped the pouty curve of her lip with it, then sucked and bit that curve. She scarcely noticed that both his hands were holding her face as the tangle of his thumb and tongue and lips and teeth overwhelmed her awareness.

“Is it quiet?”

“What?” Fran breathed.

“Good.” And he pressed her down on the bed.

Lying on her back, with Mick on his side, she felt one of his hands in her hair and the other at her jaw and ear while his mouth continued its steady attention. Who knew he could kiss like this? She put a hand on his wrist and whimpered a little.

“You like soft,” he whispered.

“I do?”

“Yeah.” And he showed her, lavishing her throat, her jaw, her ears with soft, warm kisses, mixed with the abrasion of his stubble and the occasional nip of his teeth. His hands were under her shirt, exploring her back, taking their time, their light touch on her skin more intense, more demanding of her attention than the hardest slap or the deepest penetration.

“I do,” she sighed, and his hands were pulling off her shirt, her bra, and then they were gone, and he had moved away from her She was desolate, alone. “Don’t stop.”

“I’m not, I’m taking off my shirt.” He was kneeling on the mattress beside her, fingers working his buttons.

“Let me.” She took control, knelt beside him and felt her way rapidly down the row and then pushing the fabric off his shoulders down his arms. He shrugged, such a characteristic gesture, she had a sudden awareness of how familiar he was to her – and then her attention was pulled to the powerful arms, shoulders, chest, abs. How many times had she seen him without a shirt? How many times had she noticed his beauty? Countless, countless. But this time, she could touch him. Mesmerized, she put a hand on his pectoral muscle, the deltoid, the biceps, the brachialis, each muscle distinct and firm under his skin. And oh, his skin.

She glanced at his face, saw him waiting, watching her. Slowly, she shifted to her hands and knees, put her open mouth on his skin, and swept her tongue in a patient circle. She moved her mouth, still open, to another spot, and made another wet circle. And another. And again. On his nipples, on the ridges of his abs. She bit lightly into his lateral obliques. His hands were on her again, roaming over her back and shoulders and breasts. With pressure under her elbows, he coaxed her up to her knees in front of him, put his hands at the nape of her neck, and kissed her, tongue exploring her mouth, twining with her tongue.

At the feel of her breasts against his chest, her body rejoiced, and she wrapped her arms around his back, felt the muscles around his spine contracting under her hands. She rubbed her nipples against his skin, delighting in his warmth and smoothness.

With a bolt of impatience that sparked across to Fran, he tugged at her yoga pants, pushed them below her hips and ran his hands over her over her ass, over that sensitive patch at the base of her spine, making her rock her hips forward. He tucked his fingers under the bunched fabric of her clothes, and pushed them, pants and panties together, to her knees. Fran felt his jeans against her belly and legs as his hands made their way over her legs, to the sensitive inner curve between her bottom and her thigh. Yes, yes, yes. He laid her back down on the bed and pulled the tangle of clothes from her legs. She was naked now, with her calves dangling at the knee over the edge of the bed, legs separated, with Mick on the floor between her knees. And she knew exactly what she wanted.

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