her head spin. He kept at it, his head nestled between her thighs, tongue and lips and fingers at work, gentle and steady and constant… She shuddered again, leaned back and cried out and surfed the wave of pleasure, rocking in time with his head movements, with his caressing tongue.
“Mark… Marco Marky Mark…”
Eventually he moved up so they were face to face, and then he was inside her and she sighed and writhed under him. He kissed her and he rode her and she rode him and nothing else mattered. She’d never screamed in bed before; her orgasms had been tiny timid things, when she’d had them at all and not faked them just so they could get it over with and go to sleep. Mark made her scream and call his name and God’s name and just let out every pent-up feeling she’d ever had into a series of pure primal sounds. He kept on; they switched places and postures and he never stopped, he made her scream again and again. When he started approaching his own crescendo, her empathy sent his building pleasure flooding into her and brought her to the most intense climax yet. He shuddered on top of her: the silent but intense release coming from him overwhelmed her and sent her off yet again.
Afterwards, they lay in each other’s arms and he kissed her forehead. “You’re amazing, Armageddon Girl,” he said.
“Armageddon Girl?”
“My little nickname for you. It sure felt like the world ended a minute ago.”
“Hmmm,” she commented wittily.
Mark’s face vanished; he was feeling pretty relaxed. At peace. His emotions now felt like drinking a glass of warm milk. She caressed the smooth head and kissed him where his mouth should be. “I don’t know,” she said. “Armageddon Girl kinda sounds pretentious and all doomy-and-gloomy. And ‘girl’ can be kinda disempowering-like, as a term.”
He smiled inwardly at that, which surprised her. She’d expected some irritation at her deconstructing the nickname. “Just a suggestion,” he said lightly, a hand resting on her side; he leaned his forehead forward until it touched hers, and his feeling of contentment at the touch washed over her, as pleasant in some ways as the orgasms had been. “But that’s not important now.”
“What’s important now?”
“You. How beautiful you are, how your smile melts my heart, and how fucking corny I’m sounding just now.”
Christine snorted. “Corny is okay right now.”
“So you won’t mind if I wax poetic about your alabaster skin, fiery tresses and turquoise eyes? Because I’m about to.”
“Wax on, wax off, turtle-wax me, I don’t care.”
He caressed her hair and made a face again. “Then again, I just thought of something better than poetry.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
He showed her.
* * *
Christine woke up at the crack of dawn; she needed to go to the bathroom. She gently slid from under Mark’s arms and left the bed. He stirred and she felt him opening his notional eyes – he was a light sleeper. He sent a mental smile her way and went back to sleep. She paused at the doorway and looked at him; he was sleeping soundly once again, the most relaxed she had seen him be since she’d met him, a whole three – more like two – days ago.
Pretty fast , her brain commented. Pretty loose, too.
Do shut up.
Jumped into bed with a guy you’ve known a whole forty-eight hours and had unprotected sex with him.
Now her brain was just spouting BS. Okay, she’d had unprotected sex, but during her little foray into the Xanaweb, Christine had done her due diligence about Neos and sex. Neolympians didn’t catch STDs; their immune system pretty much killed any microorganism they encountered, from herpes to Ebola. In other words, she was in no danger of catching cooties or AIDS. That selfsame immune system also made getting pregnant nearly impossible; Neos’ immune systems treated sperm cells like another any other invader and killed them. It seemed that the only way to get pregnant was to
“Mark… Marco Marky Mark…”
Eventually he moved up so they were face to face, and then he was inside her and she sighed and writhed under him. He kissed her and he rode her and she rode him and nothing else mattered. She’d never screamed in bed before; her orgasms had been tiny timid things, when she’d had them at all and not faked them just so they could get it over with and go to sleep. Mark made her scream and call his name and God’s name and just let out every pent-up feeling she’d ever had into a series of pure primal sounds. He kept on; they switched places and postures and he never stopped, he made her scream again and again. When he started approaching his own crescendo, her empathy sent his building pleasure flooding into her and brought her to the most intense climax yet. He shuddered on top of her: the silent but intense release coming from him overwhelmed her and sent her off yet again.
Afterwards, they lay in each other’s arms and he kissed her forehead. “You’re amazing, Armageddon Girl,” he said.
“Armageddon Girl?”
“My little nickname for you. It sure felt like the world ended a minute ago.”
“Hmmm,” she commented wittily.
Mark’s face vanished; he was feeling pretty relaxed. At peace. His emotions now felt like drinking a glass of warm milk. She caressed the smooth head and kissed him where his mouth should be. “I don’t know,” she said. “Armageddon Girl kinda sounds pretentious and all doomy-and-gloomy. And ‘girl’ can be kinda disempowering-like, as a term.”
He smiled inwardly at that, which surprised her. She’d expected some irritation at her deconstructing the nickname. “Just a suggestion,” he said lightly, a hand resting on her side; he leaned his forehead forward until it touched hers, and his feeling of contentment at the touch washed over her, as pleasant in some ways as the orgasms had been. “But that’s not important now.”
“What’s important now?”
“You. How beautiful you are, how your smile melts my heart, and how fucking corny I’m sounding just now.”
Christine snorted. “Corny is okay right now.”
“So you won’t mind if I wax poetic about your alabaster skin, fiery tresses and turquoise eyes? Because I’m about to.”
“Wax on, wax off, turtle-wax me, I don’t care.”
He caressed her hair and made a face again. “Then again, I just thought of something better than poetry.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
He showed her.
* * *
Christine woke up at the crack of dawn; she needed to go to the bathroom. She gently slid from under Mark’s arms and left the bed. He stirred and she felt him opening his notional eyes – he was a light sleeper. He sent a mental smile her way and went back to sleep. She paused at the doorway and looked at him; he was sleeping soundly once again, the most relaxed she had seen him be since she’d met him, a whole three – more like two – days ago.
Pretty fast , her brain commented. Pretty loose, too.
Do shut up.
Jumped into bed with a guy you’ve known a whole forty-eight hours and had unprotected sex with him.
Now her brain was just spouting BS. Okay, she’d had unprotected sex, but during her little foray into the Xanaweb, Christine had done her due diligence about Neos and sex. Neolympians didn’t catch STDs; their immune system pretty much killed any microorganism they encountered, from herpes to Ebola. In other words, she was in no danger of catching cooties or AIDS. That selfsame immune system also made getting pregnant nearly impossible; Neos’ immune systems treated sperm cells like another any other invader and killed them. It seemed that the only way to get pregnant was to
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