Two Different Roads

Touch Me With My Clothes On

The next night The Beatles would be visiting with Elvis, so Ellen had an entirely free evening. It was decided that she would take Vicky's earlier suggestion and cook Mike a complete English meal at his apartment.
It was small and spare but scrupulously clean as she'd known it would be. They cooked together taking frequent breaks for quick kisses the radio playing once again continually in the background.
They sang along whenever a particular favorite came on even doing a few dance moves occasionally. The meal almost seemed anticlimactic. Still Mike tucked in enthusiastically.
"Wow, she's a great cook too," he remarked as he scooped up a generous fork full.
"You really like it?"
"I do. Pass me more of those potatoes."
II
Afterward they sat together comfortably on his couch in front of the television, her head on his shoulder.
"Somehow I didn't see you as a fan of old movie musicals," she remarked.
"Oh I love Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers."
He stood, drew her into his arms when "Cheek to Cheek" began, sang softly in her ear as he twirled her around the small room.
"I do believe you have a bit of a romantic in you, Mr. Nesmith."
"I just might."
"Thank you for the dance Sir," she said as they sat back down. Wordlessly they reached for each other, kissed.
"I could get used to this," he told her. "It's addicting.
"So is this," she breathed, running her fingers through his hair.
"You like my hair?"
"I love your hair."
"Yours is pretty great too. I've never dated a red-head."
"Is that what we're doing?"
"Oh, I'd say so, or a reasonable facsimile-unless you have any objections."
"None at all," she answered, her tongue chasing his now.
The stretched out on the couch, Mike half beside her, half on top of her.
"God Ellen, you get me so worked up so fast."
She propped her leg over his hip, his erection centered on her now. He moved against her in pure instinct, the friction of the cotton of his pants against the linen of her dress both an exquisite pleasure and a pain of frustration.
"Oh shit," he groaned.
His hand drifted uncertainly to her breast. She didn't stop him. A long finger circled her nipple over the fabric.
"Touch me, he begged.
She lowered his zipper obediently and reached inside his pants. She loved the gratified moan he uttered.
His hand stroked her thigh, slow, sensuously. She removed her leg from his hip, bent it beside her, opening herself to him. He was almost fully on top of her now.
"Michael, I need..."
"What do you need, Baby."
She took his hand, placed it between her legs.
"Michael, please."
"You want me to make you cum?"
She could only moan now.
"Just a minute. I'll be right back."
He brought a soft hand towel from the bathroom, lay her back down on the couch, this time in front of him, her back against his chest. She'd already removed her knickers. He opened her legs and cupped her sex in a squeezing motion that had her aroused desperately right away. He touched her, stroked her with his fingers. She took him out of his pants, pleasured him as he pleasured her.
"So good Michael. Don't stop."
It would have been easy to simply turn on top of her and take this to its logical conclusion, but he stuck to the boundaries they had somehow set for each other even though they seemed to be constantly moving further away.
He made her tremble against his fingers with the intensity of the orgasm he gave her, caught his with the towel he'd brung. They lay together breathless.
"God damn Ellen, we haven't even technically had sex yet but I think you've already gotten me off better than I ever have before."
But it was more than that, and he suddenly knew it. The words 'I love you' sprang to his lips, and he bit them back with an effort. It wasn't just post orgasmic bliss. He did love her, was certain of it. He'd only known her for a few days, but he was totally enraptured, captivated with her. Hell, if he didn't know she'd run from him in horror, he'd ask her to marry him right now. He wanted her, not just for tonight or a few MORE nights. He wanted her forever.
He didn't trust himself to speak. He just continued to hold her, wishing he could do it for always.
"Tonight has been wonderful, Michael," she finally whispered, "all of it-dinner, the movie, the dancing. ..you definitely do know how to romance a girl."
"Well, I can't take any credit for dinner. That was all you. And I can only take half the credit for 'dessert.' That was definitely fifty/fifty."
He nuzzled her neck affectionately, raised his arm to get a look at his watch. "It's getting late. I probably should get you back."
"I suppose so," she agreed reluctantly.
"You wanna take my bike?"
"Definitely."

A rare version of Mike singing his song "My Share Of The Sidewalk" comes to mind here as well as the lovely "Cheek to Cheek" by the great Fred Astaire.