Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 9

vulnerability had been too much to pass by. I still didn't know why he came to me, or why he'd left me alone for a week. The pace of my run slowed as I turned the last corners. I didn't know much about Matthew at all, it would seem. He surfed. And played basketball. He passed my English class. His mother was moving to Iowa.
    Smooth, Connie. Real smooth.
    I unlocked my door and turned to him for the first time since the scaffolding. I was both thrilled and dismayed to find him behind me, still. I gestured him inside and locked the door behind us. If I was going to go back, that would have been the moment.
    "Shoes." I pointed as I removed my own. "Beanie." I pointed again because I wanted nothing for his eyes to hide behind. So far those were the only window I had into his head, foggy though they were.
    He complied, boots on the rack and beanie on the table. His blonde hair fell about as if he'd just stepped out of the surf. Or from a bed.
    Damn I was gone already. If he backed out of this I'd probably take a sabbatical just to get over him.
    I was staring and I didn't care. He didn't seem to mind. The taut lines of muscle across his shoulders and stomach begged for my tongue. I was rapidly running out of reasons to deny it. Food? Shower? Who needed those? I stepped forward. He stepped back and found the door there. I stepped again, into his immediate space, and his eyes were wide. Not the something is wrong I need to be held wide that I saw on my run. This was very clearly what have I gotten into, I'm not sure I want to play this game . I felt predatory. It was heady.
    I was taller than Matthew by a scant few inches but the distance between my mouth and his felt like miles. I had plenty of time to whisper, "If you tell me to stop, you better be damn sure."
    His wide eyes didn't blink. Then I was there tilting his head back with one hand and opening his mouth with mine. He tasted like wind and the sea. His hair was rough from salt water and just long enough to hold. I gripped his hip with my other hand and pressed him into my door with a primal sound in my throat. I couldn't believe how perfect this felt.
    And then he pressed up against me with sudden decision, hands under my running jacket and shirt; pressing me closer, sliding, touching. I devoured his mouth and a sound poured out of his throat. The surrender was delicious. I pulled him from the door, came up for air, and turned him to the open bedroom. Quick study. His quickstep was nearly a run for the bed, stripping belt and pants to the floor as he went.
    I stalked behind him, dropping clothing and hesitations alike. I prowled right over the footboard as he rolled onto his back and was there to claim his mouth before he could breathe. I took him in hand. Worked him. I left off kissing to suck him down instead, and the gasps he left over my shoulders trying to breathe went straight to my groin. No way I was stopping this to put down a towel. I leaked all over my comforter and just didn't care.
    Judging by the shake in his hips I could bring him like this and I considered it briefly. I could tear his crisis from him with all the sudden, screaming pleasure that went with it.
    I could. But I wouldn't. I wasn't generous enough to bring him without trying to bring myself.
    I broke away, mouth and hands. He cried out, bereft, and grabbed to bring himself instead. I snarled, "On your knees." He scrambled to comply.
    Condom. Lube. I grabbed one thigh and pressed myself forward without warning. He leaned into it. This wasn't his first rodeo. I planted my other hand on the bed in front of his hip and rocked forward again. There wasn't far for him to go. His back arched under my mouth and he took me deeper. His breath groaned. I thrust the final inch. Didn't wait for adjustment. Pulled and thrust. He countered for one or two beats but couldn't hold the rhythm. Jerked hard with another delicious cry. I stroked the length of him in time with my thrusts and he seized around me like a vise. My turn to groan release into the muscles of his back. I leaned into him, into the solid stance of his hands, and breathed.
    For a moment the only thing I could hear was the frantic rush of my heartbeat. Then I discerned his breath between mine and a quiet mantra, "Thank you, thank you, thank you..."
    I stroked his sides and pulled away. "Make yourself at home. Dibs on the shower."
    But when I came out again, rubbing a towel through my wet hair, he was gone from the house. Pants belt and