"It’s the last time," she whispered in the darkness.

I nodded back, although she could not see me, only feel my head moving against her shoulder.  I knew it was the last time; she knew it; the knowledge of it hung heavily over us.  She didn't need to say it.  She had said it because she didn't need to.

What do you do when you know it's the last time?  You take more time, more care.  You leave off the toys, the games, the extras.  You focus on one nipple, tasting it, sucking it, caressing the breast, sucking the nipple again, trying to memorize the taste.  She moves below you, wanting more, and you breathe into her ear, "Slowly, slowly, it's the last time, I want to memorize you..." and you find yourself exploring the ear with the tongue, learning every single crevice, every single bend, learning just how delightful exploring a single ear can be, until she moves against you again, more urgently this time, moving her thighs so that she’s on top of on your thigh, and squeezing it between hers, and beginning to ride your thigh.  You flex it for her, while still focusing on the ear.  She’s going to come already, you can tell, and you let her, knowing that you can do so much more for her, and you will.

You don't sixty-nine.  No, not tonight.  You have to focus tonight, focus entirely on her, on remembering her, on remembering her taste.  You lick her slowly and gently, letting her enjoy the sensations, satiating her, and then licking again, this time harder and faster.  You know her well by now, the way she breathes and tenses, the way her clit actually becomes painful if you over touch her, which means heading elsewhere for awhile.  Which isn't a problem, because you want to memorize that, too, want to impress every single fold and bump and feel on your tongue and fingers.  And her butt.

You have almost forgotten already ­ No.  You won’t forget.  You run your hands and your mouth and your teeth and your tongue over her butt so that you will never forget even as she's starting to moan for you to fuck her, moan for you to let her come, but you have to make this moment last, you have to make this entire thing last and last because it's the last time but oh, god, she's come already, and then only thing you can do is enter her again, make her come a second time, and kiss her and kiss until you think you may be coming with her, but you’re not sure, since your entire focus is on her, and you hardly know what else is happening except that you are coming, coming with her and you're collapsing on her and still trying to taste her and tease her and know her until you realize that your mouth is dry from the tasting and she's holding you tightly, and you think you might both be crying, but you can't distinguish the sweat from the tears, and you don't want to try. And you're shaking a bit, but so is she, and you shake a bit more until her body warmth finally passes through you, and you are relaxing into her, holding her, not willing to let her go.

It was something like that.  Only more, really, much more.  It was the last time ­ it had been the last time.   The last time, I reminded myself, even as I shifted a little, so that I could cradle her and kiss her forehead lightly and play with her ear a little.  She sighed, and took my hand and brought it to her lips.

"You need to sleep," I said gently.

"No," she said.  "Just one more..."  Her lips reached for mine, shutting off the rest of her words and mine.

What could I do?  Only insert more fingers, use more lips, cover more of her body, press harder against her, move above her, below her, beside her, drag her to the edge of the bed, and then back again, kiss her for what seemed like hours, and finally cradle her back to sleep, kissing her neck lightly, and caressing her hair.

I'm not sure I slept.  But I know she did, even as I softly stroked her hair.  I heard her regular breathing, and for right then, it was enough.

Hours later, I was still fussing with her hair.

"It looks beautiful," she said.  "Beautiful. Thank you."

"You always look beautiful," I said.  I could have smacked myself for saying anything that corny, but it was too late. The words were already out of my mouth.

She smiled up at me.  "And you," she said, teasingly.  "I told you those bridesmaid dresses would look great."  She gave a long, deliberate look at the cleavage revealed by the low-cut gown.  Slowly, her finger moved, to rest in the hollow between my breasts, and began to move down, even more slowly.  I put my fingers over her hand.

"Don't," I said, gently.

She shrugged a little, and turned from me towards the mirror, but not before I'd seen that ­ something ­ flash through her eyes.  My heart beat a little faster.

"Help me with this?" she asked, and I moved forward, to place one gentle hand on her shoulder, and another on her hair.  We stared at each other in the mirror.

"Are you sure about this?" I said, finally, unable to bear the silence.  "I mean, absolutely sure?"

She hesitated.  I think I saw her lips move in a smile.  "Yes," she said, and I heard that clearly.  “You see ­ I love him."

My hand clenched on her shoulder.  She didn't react.   "Are you ever going to tell him?"

The face in the mirror was a pure blank, unreadable.  Without changing expressions, she reached for the cloth on the dresser, and began fiddling with it, adjusting it around her face.  Her face remained turned to the mirror, even as one of her hands came up to touch the hand I had resting on her shoulder.

"Tell him what?" she said, stroking my fingers lightly, gently, sending spasms through me.  "Tell him what?" she repeated, in that low voice, the one she uses only at night, only in bed.  "It was," she said, still stroking my fingers, "the last time, after all."

I could have taken her right then, stripped her out of the dress, thrown her up against a wall, and fucked her until she cried, fucked her until she was too tired to think of anything by me.  I could have chained her up against the bed and blindfolded her and screwed her until she couldn’t see anything but me, anything else but me.  I could have filled her until she was unable to have anymore, able to have anything but me.

Her hand pulled mine down. Her thumb stroked my palm, and then brought my hand to her lips.  She kissed my hand through the fragile lace, and I trembled.  I could have fucked her right then.

Instead, I pulled my hand away, and followed her out the door, carrying her bridal bouquet.

Copyright © 2002-2003 Mari Ness. All Rights Reserved. May not be re-printed in any form without express written consent of the author. Do not copy or post.