A New Beginning

Erotica

*Chapter contains explicit sexual conent*

Wearing nothing but a gossamer-thin chemise that barely covers the alluring Y-shape, you sit astride him anew. Leaning forward, you snake your hand at the back of his head with the intent of coaxing his lips to where you want them the most. A sweet shudder courses through you at the touch of his hands on your thighs, sliding upward, underneath the chemise, then he halts – and pushes you away.

You retract, stumped. A pang of disappointment flares through you with the ferocity of an improved arrow. Arthur's thumb gingerly brushes your arm. A budding frown deepens the crevice between his brows. A shadow forms in his gaze. You come to realize; what has caught his eye is an unveiled red blotch of skin, frail as the diaphanous film beneath the shell of a chicken egg, where the bullet had grazed your arm. A bullet from your own gun, in the hands of–

Not about to have that particular memory ruin the mood, you place your hand atop his. "I'm all right. I am." You brush your thumb across his knuckles. "It doesn't even hurt anymore."

The furrow deepens.

"It's nothing worth talking of. I promise."

Though he does not look convinced, there is a slight dwindling to his frown. You guide his hand away from the freshly healed scar, back to your thigh, hoping that action speaks louder than words, all while holding his eye to a smile transforming, from tender and assuring, to playful and alluring.

"Now, where were we?"

You lean over to plant a string of kisses along his collarbone, then up his pulse to his jaw, you trail the contour of his mandible to his mouth, whereupon you nibble at his Cupid's bow. Tasting him. Inhaling him. His breath deepens. Further encouragement is hardly needed. With your tongue you coax his lips apart, compelling him to open his mouth for you. He does, to a groan as your tongue finds his – and so begins a sensual, languid dance of attuning to his rhythm, as he does to you.

Even with stale air and want of rejuvenating sun, Arthur resists the urge to ask you to reopen the window. Though the risk of passersby being close enough to overhear is as good as nil, the thought alone is enough to make him go limp. Want of privacy is yet a peril from his days past, which he surely does not miss. Over the years he has, to his lament, had the misfortune of overhearing or walking in on more than his share of debaucheries, shared pleasure and solos alike, even more mortifying, – being the one caught, begetting a week of snickering, side-glares, and 'clever' commentary. Extricated from that particular straight jacket, he is free to vocally savor your warmth behind enclosed walls, which promise of privacy culls the foregoing mood-slaying dread and, as your fingers begin their tantalizing dance down his chest, his stomach, circling his navel, lower and lower –

Arthur sinks into the mattress, allowing you to free him from the confinement of his trousers and undergarment. Lost in warmth, in lust, he submits to the magic of your delicate hands.

You take your sweet time untangling the buckle prong, unbuckling his (your) gun belt, his trousers, every movement making him feel so good, his long johns, exposing – freeing him, button by button, your thumb, swiping over the tip of his – his manhood, stroking – deep breath – his pecker, dammit.

Being so used to mortify his wanton needs, the sensation building and now bursting so indescribably sweet is engrossing and all-consuming. His eyes wander, in search of distraction. The minute, dimly lit room, you – and that cursed, wickedly self-satisfying smile of yours, the glowing embers inside the fireplace (he ought to chop some wood later), a one-winged angel smelling of pine pitch, you – untied locks swirling around naked shoulders, his journal in the armchair you spent many a night in, you – warm, smug luster exuding from the loveliest face he has ever beheld enflamed by coos and hums of gusto and delight as you gratify him with words and hand as deftly and agonizingly slow as you had that day in the bath house, rousing him on with flattery and praise, of want, in a voice sweeter than honey and mulled milk, and for Arthur Morgan, there is no more powerful aphrodisiac.