Chapter 225 - Fireside Sex Fuels Intense Passionate Lovemaking

There's something about the warm glow cast by a fire, isn't there? That's why it's such a romantic trope: clichés are clichés for a reason. Fire is sėxy because fires burn like ŀust. The warmth it brings to the outside echoes what passion kindles within you. Then there's the look of it: something powerful and beautiful about the light cast by flames on nȧkėd skin, picking out highlights to admire while making you want to explore what's hidden by the corresponding shadows. There are few things in life that beat the sensation of getting fuċkėd while a fire crackles in a nearby grate.

Michael agrees, and didn't even tease me for putting it that way when I first suggested it. The mention of warmth on his skin turned him on as much as the mental image of me stripped nȧkėd: he's such a tactile, sensual person. He craves skin-to-skin contact like a plant craves water and light. That's the thing he longs for most when we're apart—just the feeling of our flesh entwined. Strokes, touches, hugs, and—of course—the sėx it inevitably leads to when we burn too hot for each other.

This will be the last night we spend together for six months. Six months! The sheer impossibility of it almost takes my breath away. We've only just come back together and he has to leave again so soon. Our relationship is a great timeline of yearning, punctuated by these intense evenings when we're actually able to touch. I want to cement the memory of every single detail of his body in my mind. The exact texture of his lips on my neck, the rippling shudder of his fingertips stroking my brėȧsts, the heat of his body between my thɨġhs… He wanted this too, it was like a pact between us: tonight we will spend the night exploring every inch of each other, so on the lonely nights over the coming months, we can picture each other in perfect definition. Conjuring the exact images of his skin on mine—warmed by fire, ŀust and the blood throbbing through our veins. Stripped nȧkėd, wrapped together, we start off with kisses and ċȧrėsses. Gentle touches and strokes, all over each others' bodies. The fire crackles in the grate and I kneel in front of him—back pressed tightly against his ċhėst to feel the silk of his flesh upon me. He circles my nɨppŀės with his fingertips, and that is the first—though far from the last – time I let out a deep sigh of pŀėȧsurė. He knows me so well. Understands that just a light, shivery touch can get my nɨppŀės taut and hard and aching for more attention. Thinking 'pinch them, please' would distract me from the task at hand, so instead I concentrate on where his lips are now—grazing the exposed skin of my shoulders, pressing against me, complementing the soft touch of his hair as he nuzzles at my neck. I cup his hands onto my brėȧsts, intertwining fingers and adding gentle pressure, so I can savour his palms pressed tight against me. My hair falls over my shoulders and tickles my fire-warmed skin so that it's hard to tell where his touches start and my own begin—we're moving as one, in perfect sync. And oh God how I will miss this. How can I live without this?

It's too soon but I don't care, I have to taste him: I turn to face him and he dips in for a deep, passionate kiss. The flavour of this man, the soft-yet-firm texture of his lips as he kisses me so intensely, this is the first thing I'll think of when I'm alone and hungering for him. Just as the real thing does right now, I know even the lingering memory of that kiss will turn me on. He's still playing with my brėȧsts—grabbing and squeezing them with his hands. It makes me ache.

Inside my head I try to push away the urgent voice which tells me I have to have him—now. Right now. I try to counsel myself towards patience. Take your time, there's plenty left. But when he runs his hand down over my crotch through my black lace pȧntɨės, I cannot bear to wait any longer. Neither can he. We're both torn between wanting to make this night last forever and knowing that soon it must end. Before it ends, we want to experience everything.

I straddle his knees, rubbing the throbbing ache of my ċŀɨt against his thɨġh, his crotch. I can feel how the crackling fire has warmed his smooth skin, and how hard his ċȯċk is under those tight black cotton boxers. When he lies me on my back on the soft blanket to kiss my neck, my body and mind are both keening for release—for him to slide that ċȯċk inside me and sate my hunger.

I'm flushed now, I know it. The heat of the fire reflecting off me as well as him. He sucks gently at my rock-hard nɨppŀės before teasing me with retreating kisses—down my ribcage, to my stomach, and further. Each shivery touch of his lips makes me gasp. Each firm stroke of his hands down my skin makes me want to buck and writhe beneath him. I focus on fixing the memory of him in my mind: running my own hands over his back, his big shoulders, and through his hair. Squeezing his upper arms so when I want to remember him later I can picture the exact texture and width of his muscled biceps echoing in my fingertips. When he lifts me up to remove my black knickers, I move with him. It's like a choreographed ballet, except no need for someone to tell me the moves: I need him to take off those pȧntɨės. Need his tongue on my ċŀɨt and his ċȯċk inside me, and it's getting harder for me to cling on to my restraint. I can see the telltale bulge in his own undėrwėȧr and I don't even try to suppress the kick of pride when I know that's all for me. Because of me. He'll remember this fireside fuċk too, when he's far far away and alone and gripping that bulge with firm hands late at night. He'll remember it and summon me to the forefront of his mind, and rub at himself until he lets out strangled mȯȧns of satisfaction. It's this I picture while he's ŀɨċkɨnġ me: gentle kisses and nibbles all down my stomach—his tongue a ruby-red tease. I look down at him, watching this lover's-eye view of the top of his head as he shifts down to pŀėȧsurė me, and there's a flash of victory in my mind—yes, that's it, fuċk yes—as he presses his mouth up against my thudding ċŀɨt.

Hands either side of my hɨps, mouth wet and soft and open, he envelops the whole of the top of my slit—everywhere it's warm and wet and aching for attention. This is one of the things I have always enjoyed most with him. The way he instinctively knows where my pŀėȧsurė lies, and how to draw it out. The way he doesn't just give me some token licks and sucks, but settles down to really concentrate. In front of the fire, this could almost be relaxed, if it weren't for the urgency of the fact that we only have tonight, and the corresponding desperation in my ċunt. I throw my head back and close my eyes, all the better to appreciate what he's doing. Trying to memorise the wetness between my legs, the way his hair felt running through my grasping fingertips, and how each flick of his tongue is like a spark – crackling from the fire that we are fuelling together.

As he licks at my ŀȧbɨȧ and kisses the tops of my thɨġhs, I am trying so hard to bring myself near without tipping over into ȯrġȧsm. I want to remember this pre-orgasmic bliss, this unsated greediness. But it's too much. The fire, the sparks, the way he looks when he's down there. The touch of his lips on my thɨġhs and my own hands squeezing my tɨts and rubbing my ċŀɨt… and I spill over. My hɨps bucking and my own lips letting out loud gasps as the ȯrġȧsm rushes through my body—wave after wave, over and over, pulsing through my muscles as I twitch and writhe and oh God yes, as I come. He crawls back up my body, comes in for a kiss—and I'm trying to absorb the unique taste of myself on his own sweet tongue. I think for a second that I might just devour him.

It's definitely time now, I have to have his ċȯċk. Trembling slightly, I push the fabric of his boxer shorts down so I can get to the delicious, rock-solid flesh of his dɨċk. Legs open wide to welcome him in, knees back to spread myself so he can slide it really good and deep, I grab him and urge him to enter me.

He goes so slowly at first, and I let out a tiny squeal—just a vocalisation of I know not what. Relief? Anguish? Lust? All of the above? The moment when he slides in and relieves the ache in my ċunt is one I won't experience again for so so long, and the knowledge of that makes it all the more bittersweet. The fire crackles and spits as if in sympathy with our agony, and then he starts to really fuċk me. Short, quick strokes—good and hard, exactly how I needed him to.

I wrap my legs around him, drawing him in further, and each stroke of the fuċk knocks the breath from my lungs. It comes out in a series of gasps. One for each time his dɨċk has slipped all the way home—home to the depths of my wet, greedy ċunt. He slows down, trying to savour each one: switches to firm, steady fuċkɨnġ of the kind we do when he's trying not to end things too quickly. In response, I lift my hɨps and place my hands beneath them, clamping myself tighter around him. Doing the same with his dɨċk that I did with his shoulders and biceps and hair and skin earlier: trying to fix the memory of it perfectly in my mind, ready for those nights when he won't be there to remind me. The light casts beautiful shadows on his expression, and in that moment he looks both stern and in agony, almost like he is pained to have started, because he cannot bear for this to stop. I meet his gaze with thirsty longing, willing him onwards, begging with my eyes that he fuċk me harder. More. The rolling wave of pŀėȧsurė that hits me then might be another ȯrġȧsm, or it might just be an early peak before the next crescendo—my mind is scrambled by desperation and emotion and it's hard to really tell. But as we take a pause to change position, I am suddenly aware of the deep flush on my skin and the ragged breaths I'm taking. I've exerted myself on his dɨċk and it is so fuċkɨnġ good.

My whole being sings with the need for his ċȯċk. I kiss down his body, drinking in every individual kiss like it will slake my thirst for him, using my tongue to trace lines on his firm stomach, then right down his gorgeous thick ċȯċk to the base of his smooth balls. Teasing him by running it from base to tip before taking that tip in my mouth. I like to get it nice and wet with my lips before working the shaft with firm hands. God, the taste of him. And the smell of myself lingers from where I ground against him—it is so very, uniquely, beautifully us.

What's more, his throbbing flesh is as eager for me as I am for him. He is hard like granite and I look up at him while I suck so I can see the sparks in his eyes when my wet lips catch the ridge at the head of his dɨċk. But he's gone—laid back with eyes closed to more fully enjoy the sensations. Occasionally he glances at me, and I imagine he's noting the exact way my hair falls across my face while I swallow him, and the taut look of my mouth enveloping him. He reaches down and grips the shaft, squeezing his already-solid erection until—impossibly—it gets even harder and tighter in my mouth. That's what does it for me—that extra squeeze. His dɨċk so straight and fat and hard and tempting. I can't wait any longer, I need to have him inside me. Right fuċkɨnġ now.

I climb on top of him and rub the thick, fat meat of his ċȯċk against my dripping slit, the better to lube him up so when I perch on it he can slide in, one smooth, satisfying motion. Yes. That's it. One swift dip and he's plunged inside me, all the way to the base. As I ride him I look down and watch the head popping in and out while we fuċk. Letting out mȯȧns and gasps and planting my feet either side of his hɨps to allow me to really crush myself down onto it. Angling his dɨċk so it perfectly nudges against my g-spot, kicking off those waves of twitching clenches in my ċunt which I know he'll be enjoying too. I adore bouncing on him like this—the power of it! Knowing that I am using his ċȯċk as a tool, and he is only too happy to let me. He fuċks up into me, using his hɨps to thrust deeper inside and his hands cupping my bum to support me as I plunge up and down. Up and down. Over and over until I'm almost meditating with it—dreamlike. Powered only by my ŀust for him and the in-the-moment thrill of his dɨċk stretching out my ċunt. I lean forward to kiss him, and as he mȯȧns at the shift in angle I wonder if he's close.

Should I pause? Should I wait? The fire smouldering in the hearth is a reminder that this is the last time… for a long time. Perhaps I should hold back, draw it out. But my body rebels against my mind, urging me onwards, and that command is impossible to resist. I kiss him more and deeper, continuing to ride like I'm racing for the finish, even though the end will break my heart. He holds me more firmly—like he too cannot bear to let me go—and I grab one of my cheeks to spread myself just a little wider, to slide him in deeper. Like if I take enough of him inside me he just might stay forever.

But he can't—he won't. This night will have to end sometime. It's getting closer now, I can feel it. The fire is fading to embers and he needs his own release—something to sate him that will shine bright enough in his mind to last him through the aeons we're apart. I lie on my side on the blankets, and spread myself for him to enter me from behind. He grips the back of my neck to hold me still, and uses his other hand to support my thɨġh so I remain spread wide and easy to fuċk. In this position I have access to my ċŀɨt, and if I had the words I would thank him for that, because I need more. Want more.

Rubbing at my ċŀɨt and closing my eyes to better enjoy the feeling of him slamming into me, I buck and mȯȧn and writhe and reach crescendo just as he builds pace to match. We're going to come together, he and I. I can feel it. The slight shift in his angle and rhythm that tells me he's almost there, almost ready to let go and allow himself those ecstatic waves of pŀėȧsurė. I try to fix my mind on this but now it's entirely blank—washed out to sea on those waves, blind and fumbling and drenched in pure satisfaction. Just like his.

He kisses me and grips me tight, and in that moment he might be in control—nurturing and ċȧrėssing me through my own climax—or he might be clinging on to me to stay grounded through his own. I can feel the pulsing twitch of his ċȯċk inside me, and the corresponding spasms in my ċunt.

In that moment we are one person, moving together. Kissing and touching and holding and leading each other so gently down from that ecstatic high. We breathe together. We lie together. Together we return from our plateau to reality—with the fire smouldering and the soft blankets hugging our slippery, nȧkėd skin.

And the clock which ticks away the minutes until he has to go.

I step over to the other side of the room, making sure to show him my nȧkėd, sated body as I fetch the wine to pour it. We'll spend the rest of our time together like this: sipping wine and talking about what we just did. Whispered memories of the way his hands felt on my skin, and the way his ċȯċk felt inside me, and the look in his eyes when he glanced up from tonguing my ċŀɨt. And when it comes time to part, we'll hold each other for a long long time. Willing tonight to never end, while desperately hoping time will speed us through to the next one.

Ends