Lamentations IV

He was so hard in her hand, so hot, his skin so soft. She watched her hand move over him, watched a steady stream of pearly drops emerge and trickle slowly down over the broad head, incontrovertible evidence of his want of her — even with the cancer in her breast.

She wanted him, too, so very much. She needed him, to lose herself in the purifying heat of passion, in the madness of the flesh, in him.

Breathless, she looked up at him as he held himself over her, found him watching her, his eyes awash with love and desire, and with sober understanding.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice thick with his arousal, as thick as his cock in her palm.

She nodded, cradled him as he shifted down, her hand gliding around to put him where he needed to be.

“Down a little,” he guided, and she did as he commanded, then caressed him as he slid inside her.

Her eyes fluttered shut and she exhaled slowly, in time with his infiltration, arching as pleasure flooded through her body.

“Bill.”

Her hand blindly found his chest, pressed then slid by rote up to his neck, to the back of his head. She drew him down and he came, kissed her as she lifted her head to meet him.

Soft and slow.

Tenderly.

Drowning her in affection, a metaphorical water to hide her tears.

She didn’t even try to stop them, let them flow as he moved in her, languid and deep, with such deliberate purpose, as he kissed her and eased an arm under and around her to hold her close.

She heard their breaths, the rustle of the blankets tangled around their legs and the sleeping bags under them, the soft smacks of wetness where they were joined. She heard her heart beating, the blood pounding through her veins, the occasional clink of his dogtags as they slid back and forth between her breasts.

She felt his weight and warmth, his strength and the smoothness of his skin. She felt his belly rub against hers, loved the way his chest flattened her breasts and rubbed her hardened nipples as he moved. She adored the silky dampness of his sea-soaked hair and curled her fingers into the precious locks with a humming moan.

He felt so good, every part of him, and he made her feel good, the steady push and pull of his cock in her pussy sending waves of pleasure through her, gentle at first then increasing in intensity, the pressure growing deep inside, pushing away thought, away fears, away everything but the love. His love and hers, theirs.

She wanted this so much, needed to purge the irrational fears that he might not want her tainted body, that he would look at her and see only the disease. It hadn’t mattered that she knew that was not him, not how he loved, she’d still been afraid and needed him to help her banish the stupidity of such thoughts.

She needed him to love her and he was, loving and making love to her, his body riding in the cradle of hers the way it always did, a perfect fit, his place.

This.

This was what she needed.

He was what she needed. His kiss, his touch, his unique brand of frakking, intensely passionate even when he was gentle, like now.

She needed his strong arm around her, just as it was, needed him to hold her hand, just as he was, fingers laced and pressed to the hardwood floor above their makeshift bed. She needed the steady flex of his body over hers, the push of his hips and deep probing of his cock.

She needed the connection, to life and him and his all-encompassing love.

She needed to forget for as long as she could what would come in the days ahead.

He helped her do that. He made her do that.

With searing kisses and hard thrusts, with heated words of desire, he made her forget everything but where they were connected, the steady pounding, the fullness and pleasure … so much pleasure.

He took her to that place of white-hot blindness, where thought had no place bigger than the point of a pin to reside, where emotion and flesh reigned and sensation was magnified a thousand-fold.

She cried out to him with unabashed joy at being there.

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