Free Inventing Herself by Sommer Marsden

realising – and Jesus, almost saying  – she was pretty sure she’d hang from the ceiling naked if he asked her to. He put his hands on her, big, strong hands that inspired lust inside her, and helped her turn. He groaned softly as he touched her. Her lower back, the backs of her thighs, her calves. His fingers tickled over the arch of her food and then smoothed back up her leg to caress the swell of her ass. He pressed a finger to her back hole and she bristled, both with arousal and a touch of fear.
    He murmured to her and she felt her body relax, go soft again. Not that, he was just touching, exploring. This was him getting to know her body and she realised she did not feel self-conscious or worried or any of that stuff she normally felt with a new lover.
    ‘Magic,’ she said to herself. Not realising at first that she had spoken aloud.
    ‘You are pretty magic.’ She heard the smile in his voice, turned to see him. His face grew serious again, though, as he angled his body to get up close behind her. Tate stroked his cock along her slick split. He teased her until she was humming, pushing back to try and tempt him in.
    ‘I meant you,’ she said, her words a rush of air.
    ‘And I meant you ,’ he argued good-naturedly. The tip of his cock breached her and his fingers dug into the flesh at the flare of her hips. He slipped into her with great patience. So much patience she thought she might scream.
    Instead, Sophie pushed herself back, parted herself a bit more to take him. His cock stretched and filled her, leaving her on the brink of another orgasm. If she touched herself – even briefly – she’d come again. There was no doubt. And Sophie did not want to come yet. She wanted to come with him, wanted them to climax together. For some reason that was so important to her. The realisation was so unnerving she chose to ignore it.
    Tate paused, leant in to kiss the back of her shoulders, the tender brush of his lips a nearly phantom touch. His grip spanned her ribs as he held her tight. When he straightened up a little, rocking into her, warm, heavy pleasure spread through Sophie. Invading her pussy, her pelvis, her womb. She tried so hard to hold on as he traced a finger down the knobs of her spine.
    ‘Go ahead. Let go for me, sweetheart.’
    The “sweetheart” did it: too much, too overwhelming. Sophie came with a loud cry, her hair swinging in her face, her cries floating through the late morning stillness.
    He kept thrusting into her. Kept moving in and out of her so her breath couldn’t return. When Sophie thought she’d simply drop, he came, yanking her back to meet his driving cock. Holding her still so he could empty into her, his fingers stroking along her ribcage, the underswell of her breasts. Her belly.
    His forehead dropped to her back and she felt it – he was shaking. With the force of his orgasm. With the force of their experience.
    They hadn’t come together the way she’d wanted. The importance of it confused her. She pushed the thought away again, quickly. It really wasn’t important. What was important was keeping the light and gorgeous feeling of this moment. She turned to him, stealing a fast and heady kiss before asking him, ‘God, are you starving? I am starving.’
    He looked down at her. A quick flash of soberness before he broke out into an infectious smile. ‘Sophie … I am starving .’
    They went in search of food.
    ‘China!’ Sophie cried, her heart sinking.
    Steak sandwiches and iced tea. Somehow it was the perfect food. Tate took a hearty bite and nodded. ‘Yeah. Weird, right? We meet today, I leave tomorrow.’ His blue eyes grew serious. ‘But only for a week, Sophie Calhoun. Just to see Marcia get married.’
    ‘You like my name, don’t you?’
    He nodded, smiling. ‘I do. It’s refreshing.’
    ‘Who gets married in China?’ Sophie asked, biting into her sandwich. Despite being oddly upset he was travelling tomorrow, the food lulled her. Really good