Love, Theoretically by Ali Hazelwood

            He laughs, strained. “I think you should let me go on my knees and eat you out until tomorrow morning.”

            God. God. I shake my head, dizzy, warm, dazzled. “Let’s just have sex. You—you can’t be enjoying this,” I tell him around a moan. I clearly am. Enjoying it.

            “You sure?” He angles me a little, and there is no mistaking the hot bulge of his cock against my hip.

            “Oh.”

            “Yeah.”

            “I’m not—I’m not even doing anything. If we went to bed, I could—”

            “You make soft little sounds. You shift your hips when I do—ah, yes. This. And these tiny spasms around my finger, which make me think of you clenching around my cock. Given how tight you are, it isn’t happening anytime soon, but—” He closes his eyes and takes a deep, undone breath. “Sorry.”

            His rhythm on my clit is picking up, and I’m fading fast, all shallow breathing and spotty vision. “Sorry?”

            “Just trying to get a grip.”

            “You don’t have to get a grip. You can take me upstairs and—”

            My channel contracts around him and we both groan. “You sure you don’t want two fingers, Elsie?”

            I let my shoulders fall back against the window. It’s wet with my sweat, not cold anymore. “We should try.”

            He watches himself this time. He stares at his index finger disappearing inside me alongside the middle, his other hand drawing calming patterns on my waist. I clench and gasp and twist on him, but he doesn’t let up, keeps pushing in slowly, and after some resistance, I’m taking him, arching involuntarily to make room, letting out a final little noise of gratitude and disbelief.

            “Jesus,” Jack says. “Fuck.”

            I’m getting used to it. This sense of being crammed with something hot and beautiful. I move experimentally. Squeeze around him till we both make sounds that belong to animals.

            “Good?”

            I nod. The edges of my vision are blurry. “Good.”

            His kisses are gentle pecks, almost chaste. Afterthoughts, punctuations to this lurid, soaking thing we’re doing. “So maybe you like to be full,” he says, voice husky.

            I nod. Maybe I do.

            “I will give you anything I have—anything you want, if you let me go down on you right now.”

            I lie back, enjoy the fullness, and try to decide in the mush that is my brain. “I’ve never done it,” I whisper, and Jack must find the situation unacceptable, because he drops to his knees in front of me and inhales deeply against the crease of my abdomen.

            It takes exactly two swipes of his tongue to send me to outer space. One around my opening, where he’s stretching me too wide, and I think I’m going to die of embarrassment, of heat, of the liquid pressure that grows with each of his guttural groans. Then he moves up to my clit, and I know—I know—that nothing has ever felt like this in my life, that good things come sparingly, that I should try to make this last, but it’s over before it starts. My body seizes and snaps and bursts into a bubble of simple, pure, physical pleasure that feels too intense to weather alone. My fingers pull Jack’s hair too tight, dig in his scalp, and he keeps on eating at me, even when I’m coming down. His fingers stay deep inside, as if to give me something to contract around while I ride it out, and it’s perfect, this. It’s explosive, crashing, nuclear. Somewhere in the universe antimatter is being produced, and it’s all because of this.

            Because of us.

            “I think I’m dying,” I say the second I can breathe, completely serious. My heels are digging into his back, and wet noises rise up from where he’s still running his tongue over me.

            “I think I want to do this every day,” he responds, kissing my pussy like he would my mouth. “Every day for the rest of my life.”

            His words barely register, the glow of pleasure scrambling my mind as he pulls out his fingers and stands to press a soft kiss on my jaw. He murmurs soothing praises and nuzzles the top of my head, like he knows how disoriented I feel. I think these are cuddles. They feel as good as the orgasm.