This Is The Way
They had dispensed with the formalities. Dinner was behind them, hours earlier; he had barely tasted a thing his mind was so preoccupied, but he distinctly remembered watching her eat, the way her full red lips opened, the glimpse of wet pink tongue, the slow closing of her mouth. After dinner, a walk, hand in hand, through the evening, but he knew, and knew that she knew, that they were just killing time until her roommate was gone.
In the elevator up, she had pushed him lightly against the wall and leaned in close, so close he could smell the strawberries on her breath and see the outline of himself, upside down and black, in her eye. Her breasts, beneath her blouse, kissed his chest and she looked up at him wordlessly, the elevator juddering upward. He could feel it in his knees, slowly rising, and when the carriage finally stopped, a wave roiled through his lower abdomen and she stumbled slightly against him as the doors slid open.
The place was quiet and dark as she slipped the key back into her purse and shut the door behind him. She called the roommate's name; no answer. She led him through the hallway and flicked on a light, turned and smiled at him. They moved against one another, she whispered into his ear words he already knew by heart, and then they were kissing, his body humming, skin alive to one another, as his hands slid down her sides to find the hem of her skirt.
Lips and tongues crash and hands and fingers slither and caress as they move, she forward he back, until she turns and backs into the kitchen table, and before she can regain her balance, his hands are on her waist, lifting her up and onto it as he sinks to the floor. His lips kiss up her inner thigh as he inhales deeply of her, huffing the scent of her. His nerves have boiled up to the surface of his skin as he drags her skirt up and she lifts herself slightly to let it slip over her ass. Electricity ravages his body, he fumbles at every button and snap and belt loop, sparks nipping his fingertips.
Her panties are red, and he can see the wet soaking through. He kisses the wet and her hands are in his hair and her hips push her against his mouth. He bites her through the lace and her body shudders; his own body screams and pulses like molten gold.
Fingers pull aside lace, fingers slip up and down the wet cleft slowly, then inward, even more slowly. Lips warm on her, upward to her navel, upward to her breasts, her neck, her own lips. She wants more than fingers and lips, the hunger like banked fire simmers just behind her navel; he just kissed it, just then, and she had clenched herself on his fingers.
Now his hand is in her long, shining black hair, he has kissed up her body and he stands now between her knees, the heat of her making him sweat. The blouse is open, peeled off; his shirt. He is still knuckle-deep in her, but even he knows this is not what she is needing. He is aware of himself, heavy and long and ready. She knows she is aware of him; when her fingers brush his chest, when she lays her palms flat on him and slowly slides them downward, he feels tremors throughout his body, shivers of cold fire.
Her fingertips spider into his silk black hairs and find him. Ravenous, she lunges to kiss him; their lips meet, mouths open, tongues thrash. He wraps her hair around his hand and says, Is this what-
-and before he can finish she draws him close, closer, and in.