Serious Moonlight - Sex Stories

Serious Moonlight

... his cum as he had marked her neck with his hand and belt, and her nipple with his teeth.

She was his; he was hers, marking him as he marked her. Marking each other’s hearts, each other’s minds, marking their lives and their futures, their losses and loves.

She came like a storm and spilled forward, bouncing down upon the carpet and flipping. He fell back onto the floor in the opposite direction, his chest pounding, his lungs gasping, his leg settling over hers. The moon watched from beyond the windows, hid behind a spill of cirrus, and reappeared, a voyeur to the small majesty of two people connecting in some ancient way.

“Fuck,” she said.

“Fuck,” he agreed.

They talked and fucked and drowsed and slept betwixt the shadows and the moonlight, and fell into chiaroscuro dreams.

*

The silence in the car as they drove to the airport was not uncomfortable. They took surface streets, allowing them to drive slowly and leisurely. The radio was off, the windows open, sun shining through the bright glass of the windshield. They were not so much lost in their own thoughts as they were silently comfortable in each other’s presence.

“So I wonder what the maids will think?” he asked as they eased to a stop at a traffic light.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know, we came into the room, it smelled of some fake flowery smell. They probably keep it in forty-gallon drums in the basement. It was everywhere.”

“Yeah.”

“And then we show up and leave twenty hours ...

... later, and the room smells crazy like sex. Like, soaked in sex. The sheets, the floor. The carpet. The fucking drapes. They have to notice.”

“They’re probably used to it,” she said. The light turned green. She added, “I think someone is bragging a little.” She smiled.

“Okay. Busted. I’m bragging.”

“It’s endearing.”

“It’s hot. When we come in, the room smells like something fake. Fake flowers. And we leave, like, what, twenty hours later? And it smells like something real. It smells like sex. Real sex.”

“Our sex,” she added.

He kept driving. The airport loomed in the distance. An arrowed sign led him toward the Departures lot.

She said, “So, I gotta ask. That was pretty crazy, right?

“Right.”

“The belt. You ripping off my clothes. Fuck.Fuck.”

“Hottest fuck ever, my love.”

She paused in brief reverie. “Yeah.” Then, “But why? I mean, we've been fucking for months. A weekend here, a weekend there. Why last night? What changed?”

“I dunno.”

“Trust. Maybe we trust each other more.”

“We do,” he said. He added, “That’s kind of the Oprah answer, though. I don’t buy it.”

“That’s how you dismiss it? Say it sounds like Oprah?”

The tone of her voice was not disapproving, but he felt a need to say something romantic in atonement. “Love. Maybe it’s love.”

“We've loved each other for a while now.”

“Yes, we have,” he affirmed. They stopped at another light. She reached out to his hand; he tenderly took it.

“Maybe it was the moon,” he said. ...