Lamentations VII

Slender fingers slipped through soft cream and Bill watched.

She had done it once before, in her bath where the bubbles obscured her actions, but he could see everything this time and watched, mesmerized, as she fondled the petals of her pussy and stroked her clit.

It was the most erotically beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and it grew even more so when he caught sight of his seed seeping from her. It made him want to kiss her and whisper to her of his love. It made him want to crawl up and make love with her, to fill her with more, until she was brimming with him.

It was a vain desire, a primal and prideful one, and yet it humbled him every time she let him put himself inside her, every time she took his seed into her.

Reaching out, he touched her, aligned his fingers with hers then drew them down, murmuring, “Use me.”

She did, boldly gathering the milky fluid then elegantly painting her sex while he watched, his hands moving to brace her inner thighs, his thumbs and forefingers perfectly framing her, a masterpiece that was his and his alone to view.

“So frakking beautiful,” he breathed, his cock stirring at the sight of her, his heart pounding in his chest with the knowledge that she was his.

He wanted to kill the cancer in her breast for daring to endanger her life. She didn’t deserve it. They didn’t deserve it.

Rubbing his thumbs across her, he slid them up and opened her, taking that chore from her as she worked herself, watching and listening to her let out soft sounds of pleasure.

Her skin glistened in the firelight, which played across undulating hills and valleys, exquisite beyond words, a woman in glorious bloom, given over to the moment, fearless in her passion and desires, and in her love for him.

He was falling deeper, was torn, wanting to do what he was and yet needing … more. To kiss her and caress her, to suckle at her breasts, especially the one that bore the renegade cells. Perhaps, he could love it away.

It was a silly thought, but he would try, if for no other reason that it couldn’t hurt and thinking she just might need it, to know he accepted that part of her, too, even if it conspired to take her from him. And he wanted it to know that he wasn’t going to let her go without a fight.

Patiently, though, he waited, his body and heart aching, until she was almost at the brink before catching her hands in his and summoning her to him with a low and deep “Come here, baby.”

She came without protest, moving with that deftness and innate dignity that women possessed in bed, in such contrast to his own lumberings, and smiling the smile of a woman in love.

That smile was what made his life worth living.

Smiling, he reached for her and guided her to straddle him, urging her to settle against his stomach. They both moaned when her hot clit slipped into the notch of his navel in a way neither of them had expected but both wholly approved.

He took her face in his hands, drew his thumbs across her cheekbones in a slow, brushing arc. Then he slid them down, his hands riding the subtle contours of her flesh, from her neck to her breasts. Her skin was so soft, her flesh supple and warm, her nipples hard points that bent to the will of his fingers, that he wanted in his mouth.

His hands moving around to her back, he drew her down to him, watched her eyes fall shut against a welling of tears. He craned his neck to kiss each of her eyelids when she was in reach, then he ducked and gathered the dusky pink cap of her left breast — the one that held the cancer — into his mouth with a loving and longing murmur of her name.

Above him, she shuddered, emitting an emotion-laden moan.

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