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Despite Matthew's coy assurances, I was fairly sure that bundling had never included anything as crude as oral sex, nor had the average historical bundler been gifted with over a millennium of expertise at discovering the ins and outs of a woman’s pleasure.
But the tension between his eagerness to please, and his repeated refusals to go "all the way," made me increasingly nervous at the eventual prospect of satisfying someone who had likely left no stone unturned in this arena.
I thought I'd had good sex, but no one had ever left me in the state that Matthew did. After long, careful minutes between my legs, pressing and touching and licking and sucking, I was nearly blind with pleasure and shaking from head to foot.
When he was done, he crawled up beside me, trying (and failing) to look something other than smug. He always wanted to kiss afterwards, and although he didn’t say it, I knew some part of him liked the idea of sharing my taste with me, answering the question I’d asked him back in my rooms at Oxford with a sly misinterpretation.
Still, for all his smugness and confidence, he looked like any other man when I pushed him back on the pillows and slowly made my way down his body. I could never be as patient or exploratory as he was. My need to taste and touch him was too strong, borne of a deeper desire to know what he’d feel like when he was finally inside me, replacing fingers with the surprisingly hot, hard length I was now exploring. Every now and then I had to squeeze my thighs together to get over the pang of wanting him there, despite the fact that I was still numb and dizzy from my last orgasm.
But after all his efforts, I was happy to make this moment about him.
His breath came out in ragged bursts as I teased him with fingers and light kisses. He gasped slightly as I licked my way along, and he finally gave up any pretense of composure when I dropped my mouth over him and sucked, hard. Soft growls, moans, and the occasional half-concealed curse were all I heard for minutes at a time. He idly ran his hands through my hair – never pulling or pushing, but silently begging me not to stop. I enjoyed timing his release, feeling the control of pulling back to tease down his foreskin and lick and suck along the sensitive flesh for just a few moments longer. Of pressing a flat tongue to the tip and listening to his answering hiss. Of taking him roughly in hand and following with my mouth as he slowly built to orgasm.
He tried not to buck his hips up to meet me, but near the end he gave up. He knew by now that I enjoyed tasting him, but he still issued a trembling warning right before release. In answer, I sucked harder, heard him shout, and felt the welcome pulse of him on my tongue.
He watched me swallow, and I leaned up to kiss him, our scents and tastes mingled together in a way that I knew satisfied him on a deep, primal level.
Later, when the glow began to fade, I could feel my insecurity seep back in. No matter how hard I tried to approach it like a rational query, “Why won’t you make love to me?” always sounded desperate and childish. But I couldn’t understand how someone who had stripped off my clothes, kissed me so fiercely, and then devoured me completely, could resist the urge to move on to what any man considered the main event.
And maybe because I was feeling even more vulnerable than usual, huddling under my childhood quilt, this time I added, “Don’t you want to?”
His eyes were half closed, but he snorted and tipped his head to face me. He considered me for a long moment before licking his lips and pausing, unsure of how to start.
“Diana. I wanted to take you on every surface of the library the first time we met.”
Now it was my turn to snort. “I’m being serious.”
“So am I.”
He flipped over and began running one hand under the quilt and slowly down my stomach. “You looked at me with those big blue eyes and I wanted to…” he trailed off as his fingers passed over my hip bone. “I wanted to know what you sounded like when you came. What you felt like when you were… aroused.” He teased my entrance with a lazy index finger and got his answer. My thighs parted effortlessly for him and he smirked before continuing. “I pictured you, holding onto me, as we fucked across your favorite research table. As your hair started to come loose from your braid. As you screamed.”
He slid two fingers into me, pressing firmly at just the right spot. I held tightly onto his arms as he worked, barely listening as each wave of pleasure coursed through me.
“But.”
He stopped, and I stared up at him in a kind of panic. He bit his lip to hide a smile, affectionately nuzzling my nose with his. Even now, he was an impossible and frustrating flirt.
“The trouble with fantasy is that you always know exactly what to do. What if you liked being touched here,” he inched his fingers upward, and pressed deep into a spot high on the front wall.
My eyes pleaded with him.
“Or here.” He slipped further down, knowing he was still a little ways away.
“Or… here.” He found the spot again and massaged in earnest.
He swallowed my cries with a deep kiss, then pulled back and studied my response hungrily.
“When I’m ready, sometimes we’ll make love. And sometimes I’ll fuck you. And when I fuck you, I’ll be as focused on my pleasure as yours. Which means I need to know exactly where you like to be touched, and for how long. And how hard.”
I was gasping for breath, so he slowed down and made me look at him. “Besides. I’m not the one who kept running away.”
His eyes looked oddly serious, and a little vulnerable, and I resisted the urge to make fun of him. It wasn’t as though he’d approached me to ask me out. He knew he was trying to intimidate me, at least at first.
“You scared me.”
“Was that it?”
I tried not to smile. He rewarded me with another deep rub. “Not entirely, no.”
“No?” he asked mockingly, moving his thumb up to my clit, rubbing in time with the fingers that were still deep within me.
As much as he was enjoying his game of control, I could feel his erection beginning to press against my side, and so while he was distracted with me, I took him in hand.
“Fine. At first, I was scared of you. Which is what you w-wanted," I said, trying to sound stern despite my involuntary whimper as his thumb moved a little faster against me. "But then..."
He raised his eyebrows and I tried to laugh, but it came out in a small huff and I stroked him faster in response.
He buried his face in my neck and trailed his mouth softly along my jawline while I tried to find words between rushes of pleasure.
"But then..." he prompted with a muffled voice, his breath tickling my neck.
"But then, in the cafe. You were so arrogant. And I wanted to know how smug you'd look if I had your cock in my mouth."
I felt his harsh intake of breath and laughed properly this time.
He pulled away and looked at me, eyes dark with lust and just a little longing.
"You sure don't want to just fuck me now?" I teased, taking advantage of how close he was.
Something wild flashed across his face, and he answered me with a low growl.
"The night I invited you to dinner, I made myself cum thinking about you," I pushed on. "Over and over. Wondering how you'd feel inside me."
He shut his eyes tightly and said my name -- half in warning, half in prayer.
I picked up speed and he responded in kind, his ministrations less precise but no less effective.
"I wanted you so badly. And…” I was seconds away, his growl turned to a low moan and then a shout.
I’m not the one who pulled away.
I left the obvious unspoken. There was no time to feel hurt about his initial rejection or anything else as we rocked and shuddered through our first simultaneous release.
He looked apologetic at the mess he’d made, but I took a moment to clean us both up in a way I knew my sweet Catholic still found a little taboo.
We held each other through the lingering thrum, but I could tell there was something else holding him back. Something beyond his need to make sure that he gave me nothing but screaming orgasms, as promising as that sounded.
“What’s wrong?”
And for once, he told me. He told me about them – the other women, the human women.
He held on to his secrets so tightly, so I decided it was time to share one with him: that for a while now, I realized my trust in our relationship was bound every bit as much in the confidence of my growing power as it was in my trust of him. Sometimes more so. He wouldn't hurt me, not unless I let him.
I lay against his chest, taking in his worries and considering my own.
He wasn’t convinced, not completely.
But for now, this was enough. And we were enough.