Urban God of Rebate: Infinite Returns Of Women And Powers

”Very good different,” she said and her hips shifted to meet him and the movement was awkward and unpracticed and entirely genuine.

He found a rhythm and she matched it with the quick adaptability she brought to everything and within minutes she was moving with him like she’d been doing this far longer than she had, her body compensating for inexperience with intelligence.

”Look at me,” he said.

She opened her eyes and looked at him and the expression in them was half-mast now, the evaluating thing fully surrendered to sensation.

”You’re doing well,” he said.

”I’m not doing anything,” she said.

”You’re letting me,” he said. ”That’s not nothing.”

She held his gaze and something passed across her face that he couldn’t read, something that might have been gratitude or might have been the realization that she’d been waiting to do this with someone who would see her while it happened.

”Faster,” she said.

He went faster.

Her breath caught and her legs wrapped around his waist and the sounds she was making now were no longer small, no longer contained, just the unedited evidence of a body processing pleasure it hadn’t been prepared for.

He shifted the angle and she cried out, a real sound, loud and involuntary, and her hand went to her own mouth as if to catch it.

”Sorry,” she said.

”Don’t be,” he said. ”Do it again.”

He pushed deeper and she made the sound again and this time she didn’t try to stop it and her hips met his with increasing urgency.

”I’m close,” she said. ”Is that. Already.”

”Let it happen,” he said.

”I can’t control,” she started and then stopped because he thrust into her at an angle that erased whatever she’d been about to say.

She came with his name in her mouth and her body arched up off the bed and her hands gripped his back hard enough to leave marks and he watched her face as it happened and saw for one unguarded second the exact expression of someone who had been prepared for everything except this.

When she opened her eyes he was still inside her, still hard, still watching her face.

”You didn’t,” she said.

”Not yet.”

She processed that. ”Do you need to.”

”Eventually,” he said.

”How do I,” she started and then stopped and the flush on her cheeks deepened.

”Ask,” he said.

”I want you to finish,” she said. ”But I don’t know what to do.”

He pulled out gently and she made a small sound at the loss of him, a sound she clearly hadn’t meant to make, and then he rolled onto his back and guided her on top of him.

”You set the pace,” he said.

She straddled him and looked down at her own body, at the way she was positioned, at the sight of him beneath her, and her expression cycled through several things too fast to track.

”I don’t know how to,” she said.

”You’ll figure it out,” he said. ”You figure everything out.”

She looked at him with the evaluating eyes and then something in her expression resolved, the decision made, and she positioned herself above him and lowered herself slowly, her hands braced on his chest.

The angle was different. Deeper. She inhaled sharply and her eyes closed and her mouth opened and she didn’t move for a long moment.

”Mia,” he said.

She opened her eyes.

”Find the rhythm,” he said.

She moved experimentally, a small shift of her hips, and the sound she made was surprised and pleased and slightly wondering.

”Like that,” she said.

”Like that,” he agreed.

She found a rhythm, awkward at first and then smoother, her body learning the motion the way it learned everything, through observation and adjustment and careful attention to feedback. He put his hands on her hips and guided her and she let him, the independent streak she carried into every room temporarily surrendered to the physical reality of what they were doing.

”You look,” he started.

”I know,” she said. ”Don’t say it. I’m very aware of how I look right now.”

”Beautiful,” he said.

She looked at him and the flush spread down her neck and across her chest. ”You keep saying that.”

”It keeps being true,” he said.

She moved faster and the rhythm became something less controlled, more urgent, and her breath came in short gasps and her hands pressed harder against his chest.

”I want you to,” she said and stopped.

”Tell me.”

”Finish inside me,” she said. ”If that’s. I’m on the pill. For other reasons. But.”

”Okay,” he said.

She looked at him with surprise. ”You’re not going to ask questions.”

”You’re prepared,” he said. ”You’re always prepared.”

The expression on her face was complicated and then she smiled, the full version she almost never let out, and she leaned forward and kissed him and the rhythm of her hips didn’t stop.

He rolled them over without breaking the kiss and she made a sound of surprise against his mouth and then he was above her again and she was looking up at him with the sharp dark eyes and the flushed cheeks and the hair spread across the pillow.

”Missionary again,” she said.

”Is that okay.”

”It’s good,” she said. ”I can see your face.”

He entered her and she was still tight and still wet and the sound she made was relief and pleasure and something that might have been his name.

He moved faster now, the careful pace of the beginning replaced by something more direct, and she met him with the same urgency, her hips rising to meet his thrusts and her hands gripping his arms and her breath coming in sounds that were almost words.

”Sean,” she said.

He looked at her.

”I’m,” she started and then her eyes went wide and her back arched and she came for the third time with a sound that was broken in the middle, something that started as his name and ended as a gasp.