Word count: 1500
Content: Erotica, NSFW, m/f
Notes: Originally written in two parts for Wicked Wednesday.
In the fresh Stockholm summer, they stumble from the party through the glass doors onto the deck, him catching her by the arm, both giggling as their wine just manages to avoid sloshing over their nice clothes. The faint evening chill surrounds them. Her brief, berating thought of ‘you’ve just met him’ is shouted down by the ‘but he’s sexy’, and she leans against his shoulder, and they sway towards the thick wooden railing, his hand resting on her hip.
She can’t look back at him, though she wants to see his sweet face again. They’ve been chatting animatedly for hours, but now, shyness flattens her, and all she can do is stare out over the sloping grass towards the inlet. The pines on the opposite shore are stark green, shooting straight up into the evening sky, pale blue, starting to fade.
Nature does not resemble a garden here, she thinks. The land that sits across from them is something you could get lost in, and die, if you didn’t have a guide.
It’s a weekend away, a party where she knows only two people. She’s grateful that it’s Sweden where English is almost guaranteed. Almost; there are some jokes that she misses, and she’s struck by the sudden sense of alienation when she’s the only one not laughing. But she didn’t expect anything less.
When she first saw him, sitting near two fellas with his wine glass, she’d thought him shy. His face was sweet and placid, and he was nodding, rather than joining in. Until she sidled up and started saying whatever came into her head. No, he wasn’t shy, but reserved, and very sweet. And God he was cute too.
She can’t think of nothing to say now, so instead giggles, “You saved my wine.” She waves the glass that didn’t spill in front of her, placing it on the thick wooden plank in front of them. She grips the wood, so glad it’s there to stop her from falling into him too much. She hears a muted clip of glass on wood as he places his own down, and he slides his hand over her other hip, his cheek coming to rest against her ear.
She swallows, eyes wandering from the pines to the grain of the wood near her hand. She sees the head of a nail poking out, just above the surface, one that wasn’t hammered in properly. What she’s really doing is try to gaze backwards without moving. The corner of her eye catches his the grey of his suit jacket, slightly too loose for his frame. She’s leaning back into folds of material and his leanness, not surrounded by his warmth, feeling it only where their bodies make contact.
“Maybe, but you’ve had more than enough.” His voice burs along her skin, the soft, sing-song tones of his accent making her smile.
She wriggles against him. “And you’re sober?”
“No. Not at all.”
And he kisses her cheek, careful and delicate. She sees the tips of his hair as he moves, as his lips press flat to her skin, and oh God she wants more.
She closes her eyes, and he kisses her again, this time on her jaw, a place guaranteed to make her sigh. Of course she does now, and one hand snakes behind her to find the top of his thigh, rubbing down it. She keeps hold of the railing, her eyes on the nail head.
He glides his hand up from her hip, upwards over the silken material of the top of her dress. She’s wearing nothing underneath but a pair of black knickers, so the silky cloth is all the separates his hand from her skin. Her ribs contract and swell as his hand passes over them, until it comes to cup her breast. He exhales as she stiffens, aware suddenly over how exposed they must be, the party-goers behind them treated to a full view of his hands all over her.
He squeezes her breast, a massaging grasp, and he speaks, reading her mind.
“No one will notice, if you’re still.” He rubs the tip of his nose along her jaw bone. “Will you stay still for me?”
Her finger finds the nail head on the wood in front of her, and she circles the edge of it. “Yes,” she breaths.
Another kiss, and he takes her nipple through the silk, and pinches it between his finger and thumb.
The pinch is just sharp enough to catch her breath, but not biting enough to hurt. She clips the nail head in front of her on the rail, and bites her lip. He starts to press, moving his thumb and finger in counter directions. Her nipple hardens – such a contrast to her soft breast below, which the rest of his hand keeps cupping, like his weighing it in the balance.
When his mouth moves, in time with his finger and thumb, to nibble right on the bone where her chin curls down to her throat, her grip on his upper thigh tightens.
“Oh yes…” she breaths.
“Yes indeed…” he murmurs between the caresses of his tongue and teeth. “You’re being very good so far.”
She’s about to say something in agreement, but the words vanish when he begins to roll her nipple around with the pad of his finger. Her finger trips over the nail in front of her, and she stutters forward, and he chuckles.
“I’ll be good. I’ll stay still,” she whispers, hurriedly, insistent.
His teeth tug at her earlobe, nip at her neck. She whimpers, for his finger hasn’t ceased, and she finds her rolling her own finger over the nail head, matching his rhythm and movement. It keeps her still, and the two of them stand like that for what seems a delicious, agonising age, only their finger tips rolling the points of their attention. It lulls her, her gaze over the inlet starting to grow hazy.
And then he flicks his finger around, and starts using the edge of his fingernail to intersect her nipple.
Her palm slams down over the railing, covering the nail. “Oh God!” Her voice sounds tiny, high, and her back arches, her bum rolling back, and she discovers, pressing against her cheeks, his erection.
His nail keeps moving, like its trying to cut through the silk to her skin. It would be sharp and painful without the material between, but the light, sensual feel, coupled with the slicing pressure, makes her start to rock back against him. Sod him and his instructions, sod the need to stay still. He holds her hip, keeping her centred, but certainly not stopping her as she rocks back against him. The only shift he makes is so the length of his cock, beneath his own trousers, slides between her buttocks.
He says nothing. He clings tighter to her at her hip, his mouth drops to her shoulder, and she slides her cheeks up and down his lap. His fingernail doesn’t cease, and she could scream with how fucking amazing it feels, clasped to him, both of them totally clothed, the evening air surrounding them as their bodies burn. The anticipatory tingle sings between her legs and inner thighs, her chest wanting to burst her ribs apart. When she comes, she has to throw her hand over her mouth, arousal laving her, startled from this new sensation of not having had her clit or labia touched even once. Her hips still roll, his cock is still hard, and without thinking she moves faster and faster, listening through her own beating pleasure as he starts to make guttural sounds, finally holding her to him as he too comes, his teeth sinking into her bare neck as he growls.
His fingers stop at her nipple, but he doesn’t let go of her breast. He squeezes it as he sighs, and she shudders with the last tremours of her orgasm.
“Oh wow…” he says.
“Yes.” She swallows, exhales, and clenches the rail one last time. “Yes.” Her voice has returned to normal, and her hands sweeps down his thigh, before she at last, for the first time since they came onto the deck, turns back to him. She steals a look at his lap. His trousers are dark, but she can see the stain of his cum. It makes her smirk, before she turns her gaze to his face.
His eyes are hooded, sweat beads the side of his face, and he’s smiling with quiet pleasure – a hint of cockiness. It’s a shared feeling, and as they move closer, lips connecting for the first time, she hopes.
The Stockholm summer evening cools their skin once more, and while they stand in each others arms, her eyes once more on the stock-still pines in the distance, she wonders what will become of this, if anything. He’ll stay, she’ll go home. She wonders still when they leave the party together, and as he takes her back to his place, the hope still grows. A dangerous thing, but, she thinks, better than none at all.
Image found on flickr, by Nourishing Cook, used under the Creative Commons License.