There is a reason why I wouldn’t want those particular photos to come out, and it’s not entirely due to the fact that I’m naked in them. It’s not so much the absence of something that should be there as it is the presence of some things I’d rather not think about.
“Yeah,” he says, “sorry. I guess I’m a little nervous.”
Well, that’s going to be a well of self-confidence for a while to come.
“So Dutch wanted us to start by making out,” I say. “Did he have any insights or was that just a general thought?”
“I think the making out was the general thought,” he says. “The rest, well, he put me in charge of the rest.”
“I thought you said it was kiss, missionary, cowgirl, done,” I say.
“I was just thinking out loud,” he says.
To answer the question whether celebrities say the same corny shit to each other that the rest of the world does before, during, and after sex, yes, yes they do.
“Come here,” I tell him, and he climbs onto the bed.
“This is pretty fast,” Damian says. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I think we’ve gotten to know each other enough for me to tell you that I’d really just like to stop answering questions and start familiarizing myself with what your cock feels like inside of me,” I tell him.
That gets his attention.
He’s moving over me, kissing me, and he’s saying, “You are just full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“I guess I am,” I tell him, and he kisses me again.
We’re both under the covers now, and he’s positioning himself between my legs and I can hardly breathe from the anticipation.
In a moment, the world goes silent and he slides himself inside. I let out a long, pleasant sigh and I smile as I look up at him.
He works himself into me a bit more and unconsciously, I’m pulling all the covers on the bed toward me.
I put my hand at the back of his neck and pull him toward me, and I’m just marveling that the difference between a night of acting rehearsal where we pretend like we’re having sex and actually having him inside of me seems to be an unspecified number of blueberry vodka shots. Apparently, that loosens me right up.
“How do you feel?” I ask him while I play with the hair on the back of his head and he presses himself again and again into me.
“Pretty good,” he says, and he takes a look down at our bodies writhing together. “Really good, actually.”
I chortle a little. “Well, I’m glad you’re having a good time,” I tell him. “Maybe afterward we can have coffee cake and various other desserts over brandy and a cigar.”
All right, I’m a little drunk.
He laughs and we kiss, but I’m tired of being on the bottom so I wrap my legs and arms around him as tight as I can and roll as best I can with him inside me.
It’s not the most graceful maneuver, but he gets the idea well enough.
Looking down at him now, stretching my arms back to rest with my hands on his thighs, I don’t feel drunk. I feel like I’m dreaming.
I work my hips over him, leaning back so his tip nudges my G-spot in regular rhythm, and I’m breathing it in; the scent of us.
With the dominant position now, I close my eyes, riding him as that feeling begins to stir.
“Keep doing that,” I tell Damian. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. I don’t, either.
Sensuality grips me, and I lean forward, moving my hands from his legs to his chest and I flip my hips, grinding into him as my legs begin to shake.