Want - Sex Stories

Want

My body aches. It is an ache that reaches from my toes, toes that curled each and every time he made me come, to the follicles of my hair, hair he had wrapped around his thick fingers and pulled with such perfect timing. It hurt to even open my eyes, because opening them would mean that it was time for me to take my behind home. Speaking of my behind… Good Lord, this man and the things he has done to me. I can still feel the proof of where he has entered me, touched and tasted me. Just the thought makes my clit start to tingle, thoughts of specific moments, specific movements—the feeling of it all. Internally, I shake my head in disappointment at myself. I do not love this man. This man does not love me. I am not his lover and he is not mine. We fuck. I fuck; and, I do not get fucked. I have to laugh at that last line though, because right now I feel so full and satisfied as I rest by his side—so full, so satisfied, and so absolutely fucked. I open my eyes slowly, one and then the other. The beauty of the pale skin that stretches across the strength of his forearm, as it rests possessively over the warm chocolate glow of mine, is a contrast that says everything. It is not a commentary on race or even culture. No, it is not that. It is just that he and I are so damned different. So it amazes me to no end when I wake up like this in his bed, in his home, and in his arms. The misty half-light of a new day filters through the large picturesque windows of his bedroom and plays ...

... with my mind. It whispers things that make me hopeful and almost forget that falling for a man like Bartholomew McCullum is dangerous. Falling for a man like him is like being gifted with a shiny new dollar piece, one of the golden ones you have to ask for at the bank. Except this time, you did not request it. Like magic, it found you. That means something right? But like most things that find you, it is deeply flawed. This one has a hole in its center. You can feel the weight of it in the palm of your hand, but it will not buy you anything worth having. You just hang on to it because it’s different, unique, yet still recognizable as something of importance. It found you. You want it and there is no reasonable explanation for the wanting. I want to believe that his warm brown eyes, with their constant sparkle of mischief, could possibly look at me and see a future. I want that thick Scottish brogue of his to say my name in the sunlight and not just whisper it against my skin with the heat that makes me melt in the dark blanket of night. My grandmother used to say, “You old enough for your wants not to hurt you.” That was her way of saying no. I have had my share of hurts from misled wants. That is why I have to get out of here, go home, get in my own bed and sleep. That is why I must tell myself no. I am old enough to not let my wants hurt me. “No,” is actually what I should have said when he ordered for me last night, as if he knows me better than I know myself. He ordered the ...