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“How about one last game of racquetball?” Monica asks, making him so happy, and they come together in a clash of lips and a clinging embrace bordering on desperate.
Richard sweeps her off her feet, this time quite literally, and carries her to the bed. Gosh, his strength should not be such a turn-on. The man is closing in on 50 and the warm muscles flexing beneath his soft shirts are certainly not just for show. Monica feels her mouth go dry just a split-second before she remembers the roses on the duvet.
“Watch the thorns!” she warns, but it’s too late, as evidenced by their tumble into the bed and Richard’s yelp of pain.
“You know, as romantic as roses can be, getting thorns out of each other’s butt cheeks sounds less so” he grumbles, and Monica can’t help bursting into a fit of giggles, which Richard joins in on after a few seconds of stunned silence.
Once their chuckles subside, Richard’s expression turns forlorn.
“Oh, honey—”
“No, please, just…” Monica cuts her off with a finger gently placed on his lips. On his very naked, very soft lips.
And the next moment, they are kissing again. Richard pushes the rose-covered duvet off the bed with impatient movements, while gently guiding Monica to lay down with a huge palm running down her side, fingers brushing against the side of her boobs through the black satin, making her gasp.
Their hands collide as they try to rid Richard of all his layers of clothes as quickly as possible, tearing at buttons and pulling on sleeves. When Monica’s fingers find their way into his pants, a hungry noise escapes Richard’s mouth. Oh, he is ready. Monica has to bite her lip to keep from sighing dreamily.
Shucking off the rest of his clothes in a way very uncharacteristic of his usual tidiness – one of the many reasons Monica fell in love with him –, Richard leaves them in a messy pile by the foot of the bed – which makes Monica fall just a tiny bit deeper, because he is this eager for her, for more of her.
“Come here, sweetie” she calls, smiling, and Richard complies with a slight smile of his own.
Oh, how he’d missed Monica’s playful energy, the youthful vulnerability she usually hides behind thick walls of self-discipline and maturity well beyond her years. With her, Richard feels young and light, always has. Young and foolish, more like. What are they even doing, being ‘friends’ again?
As he sobers up and starts pulling back, Monica’s lips chase his own. Her beautiful eyes open to look at him questioningly, drunk on kisses, pupils blown.
“I’m not sure this is such a good idea, honey” he whispers. “It’s just going to hurt us both.”
He rests his forehead against hers, closing his eyes to avoid seeing her disappointment. It hurts either way, if the pain in his chest is any indication. A small, cold palm brushes against his cheek.
“Richard, look at me” she pleads, and he does. There is a conviction in her eyes but he is unsure of what she’s determined. “I can’t not have you when I am already this close. At this point, it will hurt even if we stop. Maybe especially if we stop. Pretty please” she pouts, and Richard’s willpower, not very strong to start with, crumbles.
“Okay, one last game of racquetball” he agrees softly, because there really is no other option. He wants to have her too; he needs to have her. At any cost.
This time, he kisses her more slowly, his touch more deliberate. He will savour every moment of this, every second of their coming together in perfect union, every gasp and moan and caress and… all thoughts flee his head as Monica strokes his cock. His breath catches in his throat and there is pure pleasure between his legs. It takes a lot of effort, but he grabs her delicate hands and places them above her head, holding them down. If she keeps touching him there, he won’t last long.
Richard presses small kisses alongside Monica’s graceful neck, from behind her ear to her collarbone, taking her scent deep into his lungs. He’s always been addicted to her scent – warmth and trust and home. It pushes the knife deeper into his chest, so he brushes the strap of Monica’s dress from her shoulder and tugs the material lower to free her pert breasts. God, she is gorgeous.
Devoting his full attention to first one, then the other nipple, he makes Monica moan with pleasure. At the sound, his abandoned cock twitches, but he ignores it and trails more kisses down her chest. Freeing her of the silky black dress completely, he notices she not only skipped bras but also panties that evening. Come prepared for a great night she has, evidently, and he will be damned if she doesn’t get it.
As his mouth finally finds its way between her thighs, Monica has a sliver of doubt. It just feels weird, his bare lips on her bare mound not what she’s used to.
“I think I kinda miss the mustache” she jokes awkwardly.
“You won’t miss the beard burn” murmurs Richard in a deep rumble, his breath on her very private parts making her tingle pleasantly, and he settles right back into it. At his first, confident lick across her clit, Monica throws her head back and whimpers, hands flying to Richard’s head, grabbing his hair, pulling lightly. Guiding his rhythm, not that he needs any coaching.
Within minutes, Monica’s hips are undulating against Richard’s wide, wonderful tongue, on the verge of a particularly good orgasm. For a moment, she thinks he might deny her pleasure and make her work for it, but Richard had always been a generous lover. A loud moan escapes her throat as the waves crash over her, making her toes curl and her hips jump erratically.
She is still a bit light-headed as Richard lies next to her and draws small patterns on her stomach and thighs, patiently waiting for her to come back down.
“That was really good” she sighs, opening her eyes to find Richard watching her closely, carefully. As if he’s committing it all to memory. He probably is.
“I know” nods Richard assuredly, and it’s just so him, so sexy, that Monica has to launch herself onto him and kiss him silly.
Feeling his erection prod at her stomach, hot and hard and already clad in condom, she takes it into hand, shimmies a bit lower, and glides down onto it. It’s a bit of a stretch, but oh, so delicious.
“Hi, honey” breathes Richard as their eyes meet. His are full of love and wonder, and Monica feels the corners of her own eyes prickle with unshed tears.
“Oh, sweetie” she mutters, and to chase the haunted look on his face away, starts moving. It’s just as good as it was a few days ago, if a bit more bittersweet.
How can it feel like coming home and saying goodbye at the same time, wonders Richard, and grabs Monica’s shoulders, pulling her in, holding her even closer. Trying to find purchase on the sheets with his heels, he pushes up into her core, but the angle is not quite right, so he flips them over with one smooth motion you’d think only exists in romance novels. Well, steamy romance novels.
As she stares up at Richard above her, hair a mess from the clutch of her fingers, eyes lost to passion, lips pressed together in concentration, wide chest sweaty and hairy and delicious, Monica almost swoons. The press and pull of his heavy cock, the drag of it against her inner walls, his balls gently slapping against her on every stroke, it takes her high very fast. She is panting, close, but not quite there yet, and the pressure just keeps building without any release.
“Ah, Richard” she gasps, fingers desperately massaging his shoulders, nails digging in. “Please, love, I am so close.”
“I know, honey, I know” he soothes, gently stroking Monica’s sweaty hair from her face, not loosing his rhythm. “Just a bit more. I’ll take you with me” he promises, and she nods helplessly. He leans down to kiss her, panting into her mouth, full of tongue, and that almost does it for her, but not quite.
When Richard breaks away to catch his breath, she lets out a frustrated whine, which turns into a very satisfied scream as Richard pinches one nipple while he bites into her collarbone, and hips pistoning, comes deep inside of her. Her core grabs hungrily at him, craving the seed that he’ll never give her; the kids he’ll never give her.
Sweaty and hot and out of breath, they are a tangle of limbs and emotions in the middle of the wrinkled sheets. A stray rosebud is tickling Monica’s calf but there is just no way she will move in this century.
“I love you” mumbles Richard quietly, and keeps stroking her upper arm with feather-light touches.
“I love you too” replies Monica in a whisper, throat closing up. One second, an audible gulp from Richard, and she is so not going to regret this, she really won’t. Okay, she might. But only the hurting Richard and herself part, not the sex part. “Can you just hold me close for now?” she asks in a small voice.
“Anything, honey” he says, and he does.