Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            “I’m sorry, but—it’s happening. I’m going to fuck you. I’m not going to come in your—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just leans forward to kiss me, and by the time he’s done, I’m nodding, breathless.

            “Do you have condoms?”

            “No. But I’m on the pill. We can do it without anything if you’re not giving me gross STDs. But I trust that you wouldn’t save me from the walruses just to have me die of chlamydia, so—”

            I think he likes the idea of us doing it without anything. I think he loves the idea, because first he kisses me breathless, then he gets to work on taking everything—every last layer—off both of us.

            The truth is, I can’t remember the last time I was fully naked with someone. When I’m having sex—the type of sex I usually go for—there always tends to be the odd irremovable layer. A bra, a tank top. Not-quite-all-the-way-off panties. My partners have been the same, with boxers twisted at their ankles, skirts pulled up, still-cuffed open shirts.

            I’ve never dwelled too much on the thought, but the lack of intimacy behind the encounters is crystal clear now. Now that Ian is draped over me, sucking at my breasts as if they are ripe fruits, his tongue sweet and rough against the pliant underside, alternating between too much and not enough.

            He spreads my legs open with his knee, positions himself right between them, and I expect him to slide in in one smooth move. I’m certainly wet enough, and the way he grips my waist betrays his eagerness. But for long moments he just seems satisfied to nibble on my tits. Even though I can feel his erection, hot and a little wet, rubbing against the inside of my thigh whenever he shifts. It leads to me gasping and him groaning, something deep and rich rising from the pit of his chest.

            “I thought you said you wanted to fuck?” I breathe out.

            “I do,” he rumbles. “But this . . . this is good, too.”

            “You can’t”—a sharp intake of breath—“you can’t like my tits this much, Ian.”

            A soft bite, right around the hard point of my nipple. My spine shoots up from the bed. “Why?”

            “Because—they’re . . . No one ever has.” I don’t want to mention that my breasts are nothing to write home about—he probably already knows, since they have been in his mouth for the better part of the last ten minutes. He seems to get it, anyway.

            “You have the most perfect little tits. I always thought so. Since the first time I met you. Especially the first time I met you.” He sucks on one while pinching the other. He is—precise. Good. Enthusiastic. Filthy. “They’re as pretty as the Columbia Hills.”

            A choked laugh bubbles out of me. It’s stupidly nice to have someone compare my body to a topographical feature of Mars. Or maybe it’s just nice to have someone who knows the Columbia Hills tugging at my nipples and staring at them like they’re the eighth and ninth wonders of the universe.

            “This,” he murmurs into the skin trailing up to my sternum, “this is the Medusae Fossae. It even has these pretty little freckles.” His teeth close around my right collarbone. It would be hot even if the head of his cock weren’t starting to brush against my pussy. It’s wetness meeting wetness, a lot of mutual eagerness, a mess waiting to happen. I band my arms around Ian’s neck and pull his huge shoulders into my body, like he’s the sun of my very own star system.

            “Hannah. I didn’t think I could want you more, but last year, when I saw you at NASA, I . . .” He is slurring his words. Ian Floyd, always calm, levelheaded, articulate. “I thought I’d die if I couldn’t fuck you.”

            “You can fuck me now,” I whine, impatient, pulling his hair as he moves lower. “You can fuck me however and wherever you want.”

            “I know. I know, you’re going to let me do it all.” He exhales a ticklish trail along my rib cage. “But maybe I want to play with the Herschel crater first.” His tongue dips inside my belly button, tasting and probing; but when I begin to squirm and pull him up, he follows meekly, as if aware that I can’t take much more. Maybe he can’t take much more, either: his finger parts my swollen labia to slip around my clit, a slow circle with a little too much pressure. Except that it might be just the right amount. I’m dissolving now, in a pool of coiled muscles and sticky pleasure.

            Okay. So sex can be . . . this. Good to know.