Her Melting Point

Jackie and Alexander in the Bedroom

He was moving, kissing, biting, groping, pulling, jerking; and she simply hadn't gotten a moment to think, to analyse, to worry. It was as if she kept falling a few steps behind: she'd only just gathered enough courage to stroke his shoulders and run her palm on the back of his neck, when it turned out that he'd pretty much undressed her. She stretched her hand to touch his hair, but he slid down her body and placed an open mouth kiss to her stomach below her navel. She gasped, but there was no time for her self-consciousness to kick in - because he was suddenly above her, on all four, and his jean clad knee pressed between her legs. For a second, his eyes were in front of her; and then he picked up her chin between his thumb and his middle finger and turned her face. She felt his hot breath, and then a kiss, nearly a lick, on her throat.

A sweet, almost painful shudder rippled through her lower stomach - and then she stared in the eyes of the cat under the settee.

"Alexander," she choked out.

He hummed; but it was probably a reflex reaction, because she'd made a noise.

"Alexander!"

She weakly slapped her hand to his back; and he shifted and was once again hovering over her.

"Not good?" he asked. He frowned, and his gaze searched her face intently. "How do you want it?"

"Tartufo is watching," Jackie muttered, embarrassed.

"Who?" he asked, and then blinked and glanced towards the settee. "Oh, he is."

"We should go to the bedroom," she said. "And I don't know how I want it. I'm bad at it. It never– works for me, and I don't have any preferences," she blurted out.

He slowly turned his head and met her eyes. Jackie felt a suffocating blush spill onto her face, neck, and cleavage.

"Interesting," he commented.

He got off her; and then bent down and picked her up bridal style, just like on the first day in the ice cream parlour.

"Alexander!"

"This is going to be easier," he said and strode out of the room and to the corridor.

"What do you mean 'easier?"" she shrieked. "I'm heavy, and–"

"Have you been dropped before?" he asked, walked up to the bed, spun, and sat down, arranging her to straddle him.

"What?! What do you–"

He leaned in and kissed the corner of her mouth.

"Sorry," he murmured and rubbed his nose to the underside of her jaw. "You were saying?"

"I– Was I– What?"

"Have you been dropped before?" he repeated. "You keep saying you're heavy. You aren't to me." He brushed the tips of his fingers over her skin, along the strap of her sports bra, and then traced the top line of its cut. "Can we take it off already?"

"No!" She twitched from the loudness of her own voice, and then she whined and dropped her head on his shoulder. "I've lost my bottle."

"What bottle?" he asked, and she felt his lips tenderly dance on her shoulder.

"The figurative one," she whispered. "I'm so nervous..."

"That's why I asked what you wanted."

His scorching palm lay on the side of her neck, controlling her; and he was kissing it again, heating up more and more. She gulped air, overwhelmed; and he nudged her chin with his thumb to gain more access to her throat. His other hand had already made its way into her bottoms, and he squeezed her buttock.