The One Where The Movie Wasn't Exciting Enough

He’s taunting me.

Really, I promise you, he is.

He’s been doing it all week, really.

Who does he think he is, with his sleeves rolled up so his fucking forearms are just so delightfully on display?

I mean.

He probably realizes that it’s the middle of June and that the air conditioning in the office is broken, and he doesn’t want to die of heat stroke.

Okay, so maybe he isn’t doing it on purpose.

But it’s torture.

I know, I know.

I told him that I wanted to take things slow.

And he’s being so good about it.

Really.

Almost a little bit too good.

Is it too much to ask for those big, strong hands to go somewhere other than in my hair or to my back?

It’s been two weeks of making out on the couch, and as much as I savor the taste of his tongue, sometimes, it just isn’t enough.

On my mouth, anyway. 

When he comes over tonight, he’s changed into a pair of basketball shorts and a Phillies t-shirt. I’ve seen this exact outfit a handful of times now, but he looks so sexy that it’s almost pathetic how much I want to be on him right now.

Okay. He’d look sexy in a paper bag. But that’s beside the point.

It’s movie night, and the only reason I know that we’re watching School for Scoundrels is because he’d called me from Blockbuster to ask if that was okay. And I’d only said yes because I knew it would get him here faster.

We’re on my couch now, and he’s sitting in his corner, while I’m laying with my legs sprawled across the rest of the couch and my head against his shoulder. His arm holds me firmly to his side, and his fingers brush my shoulder softly. His eyes are trained on the movie, but mine are all but. I’m tracing his profile with eyes that are atrociously dilated, despite the lack of alcohol.

Although I’m essentially shoved up against him, I can still see the way his hair is beginning to fall at his forehead again, which I am more than grateful for. Karen had no right to tell him to cut it. But she’s out of the picture now, and it’s starting to come back, so I should really stop complaining. He hates that his nose is big and Polish, but I think it’s endearing. And finally, I meet his lips, so full but still, air escaping every few moments as he breathes in and out. Those lips that like to tease me, bring me to the point of crawling desperately across him until his strong hands are pushing me gently away, before we cross that line.

But I want to cross that line.

I’m ready now. Or, at least, ready enough to have more than just his lips on mine.

My hand is on his thigh. I tell myself it’s to brace my body as my lips find his neck, but then I know I’m lying to myself as a little grunt vibrates in his throat against my lips that are lightly sucking already.

“Is the movie not entertaining enough for you, Beesly?” he asks, turning his head slightly to the right. I notice the movement only because I’m now kissing a new patch of skin.

“Oh, I’m sure it is.” I don’t know if I’ve ever heard this tone in my own voice before, but with all of the newness going on with this relationship, I welcome it greatly. “I’m just a bit more entertained by you at the moment.”

And then my kisses aren’t so gentle anymore. I let my tongue snake out to taste his skin, salty and soapy because he went home after work to take a shower first. My tongue swirls along his skin, this new, uncharted territory so thrilling. Eventually, I’m kissing my way towards his pulse, feeling its thump thump quicken under my lips as I draw the skin above between them. His moan reverberates against my lips, so I let my teeth sneak in, only a small bite, barely grazing, but his reaction is completely worth it. I had almost forgotten that I’d been gripping his thigh, but I’m not-so-gently reminded when he involuntarily jerks his leg and his cock brushes my fingers ever so slightly. He isn’t completely hard, but he’s getting there.

In between licks and sucks and kisses along his jaw, I can feel the hand that had been on my shoulder thread its way into my hair, massaging my head with his fingertips. But then, he’s lifting my head away, his delicious skin now farther from my lips than I’d like it to be. He’s staring down at me as if I’ve just woken him in the middle of a REM cycle, his eyes glassy and black and huge and darting from my eyes to my lips that I can feel are swollen from sucking him.

He won’t make a move. I know he won’t. Because he’s waiting for me, just as perfectly and wonderfully as he always has. So it’s my turn to make the move, to give him the grand gesture, and I do as I pull him by the shirt collar so that he’s laying on top of me. My head hasn’t even hit the arm of the couch before his lips are on mine, his tongue wasting no time as it shoves insistently into my mouth, tangling violently with mine as he lays his body atop me. His fingers are curled at my ears, playing with the hair there that he’s already made a mess of.

The kissing is wonderful. But tonight, I want more.

My hands, at the back of his head, tug at his hair, that luscious hair that I never want him to cut again, because if he does, I can’t pull on it like I am now, doing so as I cock my head to the side so he gets the hint. His smile is devilish, and no sooner are his lips wet on my cheeks then they are nibbling at my neck, and I’m almost positive that the euphoria coursing through me is going to stretch my lips to ripping. I mimic the way his fingers had been playing at my scalp, holding his lips to my skin as he kisses and sucks and licks and bites and sends my beating heart into overdrive.

As he explores my skin, finding spots that make me squirm and moan and sigh, I realize that his hands have stilled at the sides of my head. He’s waiting, still; I can feel it in the way that his fingers twitch when he finds that spot where my neck meets my shoulder and his name, Jim, rips through my lips. My body, at that same moment, jerks beneath his, where I can feel him hardening and growing against the top of my thigh--he’s so careful not to get any closer, which I both love and hate. I reach up and take his hands in mine and his head pops up to find my eyes. The way his lips are swollen, still formed in that “O” from when he’d been suckling my skin, is driving me wild, and I have to pull him to me, have to suck those lips and kiss them and run my tongue across them before I give him the permission he’s been waiting for.

“Baby...touch me. Please.”

And I’m guiding his hands to my abdomen, pushing a little insistently so that he knows, This is okay. This is what I want. Still, he’s tentative. He isn’t kissing me anymore, but instead, with his lips still open in that “O,” he lets his hooded eyes meet mine, as if seeking double permission. I nod, pushing against the back of his hand so that his thumb hooks the bottom of my t-shirt up a little, and I’m almost embarrassed by the little moan I give out when he is finally touching my skin.

Luckily, he takes that as a good sign, and he’s back to kissing my neck while his fingers explore my abdomen, my t-shirt exposing more and more skin as he creeps upward. Though the fan is spinning above us and I’m less than covered, my skin is red hot where his fingers have been. He’s stroking my skin softly, and it takes his fingers no time at all to find the bottom of my bra. He pauses, but not for long, because I’m thrusting not so subtly into his touch at the same moment that his teeth graze the side of my throat.

His touch is gone, but then it’s there, fingers drumming against my breast so lightly that I sigh in complaint. I feel him chuckle into my neck before finally, finally his thumb is grazing with more pressure while the rest of his fingers are cupping me wholly. I bite my lip and whimper when he squeezes harder and his thumb brushes my budding nipple through the satiny fabric, but don’t hold back when he’s deliberately pinching my nipple.

“Mmm,” is all he hears for the next several minutes, his wonderful, beautiful hands squeezing and pinching, and I’m so proud of him when he actually pulls down the cup on his own, freeing my breast to his skin. I’ve just about lost control of my body when his hands are warm and on me, teasing me by tracing around my nipple before actually squeezing more firmly, and my hips betray me as they start grinding against him. I was wet when he came into work this morning, but now, I’m surprised he hasn’t said something.

I’m in just the right position where his thigh pushes into the seam of my jeans, and if I move just so, my clit is positively humming. But it’s only a few jerks of my hips before he sees what I’m up to. I’m afraid he’ll stop me, and so suddenly, when I was just starting to really get to know the feel of his fingers on me, when he's surprising me still, and the hand that isn’t massaging my breasts is suddenly cupping me between my thighs.

I don’t usually curse. My parents raised me so. But when his strong hand is kneading my clit through my soaking jeans, I don’t even think about biting back the, “Fuck, Jim,” that snuck its way to my throat. With his lips kissing the top of my chest, his fingers on my breast, and his hand playing with my clit through my jeans, I begin to wonder if actual sex with Jim is going to land me in the hospital.

But then, he’s painting his way back down my stomach with the hand that held my breast, and he’s kissing back up to my lips, and he’s steadying the grinding of my hips with his other hand. He’s up on his knees, though through his basketball shorts, his erection actually hangs down, resting on my thigh. Well, he certainly tried to break the contact between us. With his hands braced on either side of my head, he lowers his lips to mine. This kiss is slow, tender, and full of love. The love he has for me. The love that promised to take things slow. And then he’s kissing my forehead, and grinning at me with that cute little grin that he saves for me.

“I think I’d better go.”

I know he’s right, but that doesn’t mean I have to agree.

He’s careful, tonight, as he kisses me goodbye, to keep it short and sweet.

I know he’ll be taking another shower when he gets home, and tonight, I do too. Once I’m toweled dry and lotioned up, I go to bed naked, my skin still burning from where his hands have newly been tonight. I let my hands wander to the skin he had hovered above, and pretend, as I touch myself, that it’s his hands making me come.