The kiss continued.
Her mouth against mine, the tentativeness dissolving into something warmer, something that had weight. Her tongue found mine and the shyness was still there but underneath it was hunger, the hunger of a body that had been locked in a glass room for years and was tasting the open air. Her hands pressed harder against my chest. The bandages under her palms. The heat of the yang flowing through the contact, making her fingers tingle, making her lean closer.
I stood. She stepped back, startled, and I caught her waist. Drew her against me. The height difference put her face against my collarbone, and she tilted her head back to find my mouth again and the angle was better, her neck stretched long, her jaw open. I kissed her deeper. She made a sound against my tongue that was barely a whisper.
"Oh."
My hands found the top button of her dress. She felt my fingers there and went still. Not pulling away. Waiting. Her breathing fast and shallow against my mouth.
"I'm going to take this off," I said. "Tell me to stop if you want me to stop."
"I don't want you to stop." Whispered. Her hands came up to cover mine on the button. Then moved away. Permission.
I unbuttoned her dress from the throat. One button at a time. Slow. Each one revealed another inch of skin, and each inch I kissed. The hollow at the base of her throat, where her pulse hammered against my lips. The ridge of her collarbone, the skin so pale I could see the blue veins underneath. The flat of her upper chest, the fine scatter of freckles I hadn't expected. She trembled under my mouth. Not cold. Every kiss landing on a body that had never been kissed and the newness of it making her shake.
The dress opened to her waist. She wasn't wearing a bra. She didn't need one. Her breasts were small, slight curves with pale nipples that hardened in the air the moment the fabric parted. Her ribs were visible beneath them, the illness having taken the softness that should have been there, and the vulnerability of it made my chest ache. She was fragile and beautiful and she was standing in front of me with her dress open and her chin up and her jaw set with the same steel she'd shown last night.
She looked down at herself. At her body, exposed. Something flickered across her face. The awareness that this body was thin and sick and not what bodies were supposed to look like at her age. Her hands twitched toward the open dress. The instinct to close it.
I kissed her sternum. The flat bone between her breasts. She froze. My mouth on her skin, warm, and the yang flowing through the contact made her gasp. Not from the kiss. From the energy. Every nerve in her chest firing at once, the cultivation amplifying sensation in a body that had been starved of stimulation for years.
"Oh. Oh, that's…"
I kissed lower. The curve of her left breast. Small enough to cup in one hand, the skin impossibly soft, and when my lips found her nipple she made a sound like she'd been shocked.
"AH."
Her hand grabbed the back of my head. Not pushing me away. Holding me there. Her fingers tangling in my hair, gripping, and the sound she'd made echoed in the quiet room and she heard it and her flush went from her chest to her ears.
"Again," she whispered. "Do that again."
I circled her nipple with my tongue. Slow. Feeling it harden further under the contact, the tissue tightening, and each pass of my tongue made her body jerk. Hypersensitive. The illness had thinned her skin, made every nerve closer to the surface, and the cultivation energy in my touch was lighting fuses she didn't know she had.
"The nerve endings here are…" she started. Medical vocabulary. The armor going up. My teeth grazed her nipple and the sentence died. "Nnh. I can't… when you do that I can't…"
I sucked. Her back arched. Her hand fisted in my hair. She pressed my face harder against her breast and the sound she made was continuous, a rising "ahh" that she didn't try to stop because she didn't know she was making it.
I guided her backward. Toward the bed. Her knees hit the mattress and she sat, then lay back, and I followed. Over her. My mouth still on her breast, switching to the other nipple, and the first wet contact on the untouched side made her hips lift off the bed.
"Kai. Kai, that's… both of them, you can't do both, I can't process…"
My hand went between her legs. Over her dress, pressed against the fabric between her thighs. She was warm. Warmer than the rest of her, and the fabric was damp. She felt my hand there and looked down at the contact and her eyes went wide.
"Is that… is that normal?"
"That's you wanting me."
"I…" She swallowed. Looked at my hand on her. At the wet spot on her dress. The medical student brain trying to categorize what was happening to her body, the arousal response she'd read about in textbooks hitting her in real time and the theory was nothing like the practice. "I didn't know that happened. I mean, I knew, clinically, but I didn't know it felt…"
I pressed harder. Through the fabric. My palm against her mound, the heel of my hand on her clit. She inhaled sharply.
"Like that. I didn't know it felt like that."
I pushed her dress up her thighs. She helped, lifting her hips, and the dress bunched at her waist. White cotton underwear, plain, damp at the center. I hooked my fingers in the waistband and looked at her face. She nodded. Her lip between her teeth. I pulled them down her legs.
She was bare. A thin patch of blonde hair, the skin beneath it flushed pink, the wetness visible. She closed her legs on instinct and then opened them again with deliberate effort. Her hands fisting the sheets.
My fingers found her. She was soaked. The slickness coating my fingers the moment I touched her, running between her folds, and the heat of her was startling against the cool of her skin. I slid one finger along her slit, from bottom to top, and she arched off the bed.
"Oh. Oh god."
I circled her clit. Small, tight circles. She was swollen, the nub of it standing proud from the hood, and every touch made her thighs quiver. I slipped one finger inside her. She was tight. Tighter than Nami, tighter than anything, the walls gripping my finger like a fist. Virgin muscle, untouched, and the cultivation energy flowing through the contact made her clench harder.
"Nnh. That's… what is…"
I curled my finger. Found the spot. The rougher patch on her front wall. When I pressed it she made a sound she'd never heard from herself.
"AH. What. What was THAT."
"Your g-spot."
"That's not… the textbooks didn't… please, do it again."
I pressed again. Added a second finger, slow, stretching her around both. She was so tight the entry made her gasp and grab my wrist. Not stopping me. Holding on. Her thighs fell open wider, her body making room it hadn't known it needed.
My mouth stayed on her breast. Tongue on her nipple, fingers inside her, thumb circling her clit. Three points of sensation at once and she couldn't hold all of them. Her brain shuttled between them. A gasp when my tongue flicked her nipple, a moan when my fingers curled, a shudder when my thumb hit the right rhythm. Her hips moving on their own, grinding down onto my hand, and she noticed and her flush went incandescent.
"I'm moving. My hips are moving. I'm not…"
"Let them."
She let them. Her hips grinding against my hand in circles she hadn't learned, that no one had taught her, that her body knew from some place deeper than textbooks. The wet sound of my fingers inside her filling the room. Her breathing ragged. The medical vocabulary gone. Just sounds now. Quiet at first. Breathy. Building.
"Ah. Ah, ah, something is… I feel…"
"Let it happen."
"I don't know what's… it's like pressure, it's building, I can't…"
She came.
Her eyes went wide. Her mouth opened into an O she didn't know she could make. Her back arched off the bed, her hands fisting the sheets so hard her knuckles went white, and her whole body convulsed. Her pussy clenched around my fingers in hard rhythmic pulses, the tightness crushing, the wetness flooding over my hand. Her thighs shook. Her stomach muscles locked. And the sound she made was a long shaking exhale that became a moan that she didn't recognize as her own voice.
She came for thirty seconds. The orgasm rolling through her in waves, each one making her body seize and release, her hips jerking against my hand, her eyes wide open the entire time. She didn't know what was happening to her. She'd never felt this. Her body had spent years dying slowly and now it was violently alive and she couldn't control it and she wasn't trying to.
Tears at the corners of her eyes. Not pain. Overwhelm. The sensation cresting and breaking and cresting again, and the cultivation energy amplifying every pulse until she was trembling so hard the bed shook.
She collapsed. Her body going limp against the sheets. Her chest heaving. Her thighs still twitching. My fingers still inside her, the aftershocks squeezing them in diminishing waves.
"I didn't…" She was staring at the ceiling. Her voice was wrecked. "I didn't know. I had no idea. That's what… that's what it…"
I kissed her stomach. She flinched. Oversensitive. Every nerve still firing from the orgasm. I kissed lower. Past her navel. Along the line of her hip.
She propped herself up on her elbows. Looked down at me. At where I was headed. Her face was flushed red, her hair a mess on the pillow, her dress bunched at her waist.
"What are you…"
My mouth found her.
She didn't know what I was doing until my tongue touched her clit and then she couldn't form words.
The smell of her hit me before the taste did. Clean, warm, the faint musk that her body had never produced before tonight, mixed with the salt of sweat on her inner thighs. New. Everything about her was new, including the way she smelled when she wanted someone.
Post-orgasm sensitivity turning every touch into a jolt. My tongue flat against her, gentle, barely moving, and she bucked so hard her hips came off the bed. I put my hand on her stomach and held her down. She grabbed the sheets.
"Oh. Oh, oh, that's… your mouth is… oh, that's…"
I licked up her slit. Tasted her. The sweetness and the salt, the wetness coating my tongue. She was soaked from the orgasm, slick and swollen, her clit standing proud and pulsing with her heartbeat. I sealed my lips around it and sucked, lighter than I had with Nami, gentler, because this body was new to everything and what Nami needed as pressure Kaya needed as patience.
My tongue circled. Her thighs opened wider. Her hand came to the back of my head, and the hesitation in the touch lasted one second before she pressed me closer. Her fingers in my hair. Holding me there. Not clinical. Desperate.
The sounds she made were different from Nami's. Quieter. A whispered "oh" repeated like a prayer, building in volume without her noticing. "Oh. Oh. Oh." Each one slightly louder, slightly higher, the pitch rising as the sensation built. Her hips lifting against my mouth, pressing her pussy against my tongue, the grinding instinctive and unpracticed.
I slid a finger inside her while my mouth stayed on her clit. Still tight. Still gripping. The single finger was enough, curling against her g-spot while my tongue worked, and the dual sensation made her hands grab my hair hard enough that my eyes watered.
"I'm… it's happening again, the pressure, it's…"
She came on my mouth. Her hips lifting off the bed, pressing against my face, her thighs trembling on either side of my head. The orgasm was quieter than the first. A long shaking moan that started as "oh" and dissolved into breath. Her hand on the back of my head holding me there through every wave, not letting me pull away until the last pulse had run through her and she went boneless on the sheets.
I kissed her inner thigh. She twitched. Kissed the other. She made a sound that was almost a laugh.
"I can't feel my legs," she said to the ceiling. "Is that normal?"
"Normal."
"You keep saying that." She propped herself up again. Her face was something I wanted to remember. Flushed, wrecked, hair everywhere, her eyes bright and wet and wondering. The fragile girl in the glass room broken open, and what was inside wasn't broken. It was blooming. "My turn."
She sat up. Her hands went to my shirt and she pulled it over my head. The bandages, the cuts, the muscle beneath. She looked at my body the way she'd looked at the sea stories. With hunger she was learning the shape of.
Her hands went to my pants. She unbuckled them with fingers that trembled and pushed them down and I was hard. Fully hard, straining, the cultivation energy and the taste of her still on my tongue making restraint a physical effort.
She stared.
Her hand reached for me. Small fingers, delicate, the fingers that turned pages and held handkerchiefs. They wrapped around my cock and didn't close. Couldn't close. The girth too much for her narrow hand.
"I… didn't expect…" The medical student brain surfacing through the flush. Her eyes doing calculations. Length, circumference, the practicalities of anatomy. "The proportions are…" She trailed off. Looked up at me. Looked back down. Blushed so hard I thought she might pass out. "How does this… I mean, anatomically, the accommodation required for…"
"You don't have to calculate it."
"I'm not calculating. I'm concerned."
"Don't be."
She held me. Both hands now, one over the other, and the tips of her fingers still didn't meet. The warmth of her palms, the tentative grip, the way she held me like she was holding something valuable and breakable. Which, from her perspective, she might have been.
She leaned forward. Her breath on the tip. Warm. Unsteady. She looked up at me. The amber eyes through her lashes, her lips parted, her face inches from my cock. Asking without asking.
"You don't have to," I said.
"I want to understand." She licked her lips. The medical framing crumbling at the edges. "I want to know what makes you sound the way you sounded when I gripped you."
She took the tip in her mouth.
Just the head. Her lips stretching around it, careful, learning the shape. Her tongue pressed against the underside and I groaned, and she pulled back and looked up at me and the expression on her face was pure discovery. She'd made a sound come out of me. She could do it again.
She went back in. Deeper this time. An inch past the head, her tongue exploring the ridge, finding the sensitive spot on the underside and pressing there. My hand came to her hair. Not pushing. Resting. She felt my fingers there and her eyes closed and she took me deeper.
She couldn't go far. Her mouth was small, her throat untrained, and she gagged at the midpoint and pulled off coughing. Her face red. Embarrassed.
"Sorry. The gag reflex is…"
"Take your time."
She went back. Slower. Her tongue doing the work her depth couldn't, circling the head, tracing the ridge, pressing against the frenulum with a precision that was all medical student. She was studying me. Cataloguing which touches produced which sounds. When I groaned she repeated the motion. When my hips shifted she noted the angle. She was learning my body the way she'd learn a text, systematic and thorough and genuine in a way that performance never was.
Her hand worked the shaft while her mouth stayed on the head. The grip uncertain but finding confidence, her thumb pressing the vein on the underside because she'd felt it pulse and wanted to feel it again. The wet sounds of her mouth, quiet, the careful suction of someone who'd never done this before and was paying attention to every detail.
She watched my face the entire time. Her eyes open, looking up at me through her lashes while her tongue worked. Not performing. Studying. The clinical curiosity that made her ask about galvanic response and energy transfer, applied to the ridge of my cock and the sounds I made and the way my hand tightened in her hair when she hit the right spot.
"Like that?" she whispered, pulling off. A string of spit connecting her lip to the tip. "When I press there, you…"
"Yes. Like that."
She smiled. Small. Pleased. And took me back in her mouth with the quiet determination of someone who'd found a subject she intended to master.
I stopped her before I came. My hand on her jaw, lifting her face. She looked up at me. Her lips wet, her chin wet, her eyes bright.
"Was that… did I do it right?"
"You did it right."
"I want to do more." She lay back on the bed. The dress still bunched at her waist. She pulled it over her head and dropped it on the floor and she was naked. Thin and pale and flushed pink everywhere I'd touched and bare on the white sheets with her blonde hair spread on the pillow and her legs slightly parted and her eyes on mine.
"I want to know," she said. "Everything. I want to know what it feels like."
I moved over her. Between her legs. She felt my cock against her entrance. The head pressing against the slick heat of her, the folds parting around the tip, not inside, just there. The proximity of it. The anticipation.
Her breath stopped. Her hands found my arms. Her eyes were wide, the amber almost gone behind dilated pupils, and her thighs trembled on either side of my hips.
"Oh," she whispered. Just the heat of me against her, the promise of what was coming, and her body was already responding. Her wetness coating the tip. Her hips making a micro-movement toward me, involuntary, the want overriding the fear.
"Are you sure?"
She looked at me. The girl who'd read about the sea in books and never smelled it. The girl who'd watched from a glass room while life happened on the other side. The girl whose body had been dying for years and had just discovered it could do things the textbooks never prepared her for.
"I'm sure," she said.
The fire crackled. The lamp threw soft light on the sheets, on her skin, on the place where our bodies almost met. Her hand found mine and laced her fingers through and held on.