The Plains of Passage - Jean M. Auel [38]
He pushed her forward slightly, separated her cheeks to expose her moist, female opening, then bent down to taste her warm salt. He reached his tongue forward and found her hard nodule buried deep in her folds. She gasped and moved to give him easier access, while he prodded and nuzzled, then dipped deep into her inviting opening to taste and explore. He always loved to taste of her.
Ayla was moving on a wave of sensations, hardly aware of anything except the hot pulses of feeling coursing through her. She was more than usually sensitive, and every place he touched or kissed burned its way through her to the ultimate spot deep within that tingled with fire and yearning. She didn’t hear her own breath coming faster, or the cries of pleasure she made, but Jondalar did.
He straightened up behind her, moved in closer, and found her deep well with his eager straining manhood. As he started penetrating, she rocked back, pushing herself on him until she took all of him in. He cried out at her unbelievably warm welcome, then, holding her hips, pulled back a ways. He reached around with his hand and found her small hard node of pleasure and stroked it as she pushed back in. His sensation nearly found its peak. He pulled back once more and, sensing her readiness, stroked faster and harder, as he penetrated fully. She cried out her release, and his own voice cried out with hers.
Ayla was lying stretched out, face down in the grass, the pleasant weight of Jondalar on top of her, and felt his breath on the left side of her back. She opened her eyes and, without any desire to move, watched an ant crawling on the ground around a single stem. She felt the man stir and then roll over, keeping his arm around her waist.
“Jondalar, you are an unbelievable man. Do you have any idea how remarkable you are?” Ayla said.
“Haven’t I heard those words before? Seems to me I said them to you,” he said.
“But they’re true for you. How do you know me so well? I get lost inside my own self, just feeling what you do to me.”
“I think you were ready.”
“That’s true. It’s always wonderful, but this time, I don’t know. Maybe it was the mammoths. I’ve been thinking about that pretty red mammoth, and her wonderful big bull—and you—all day.”
“Well, maybe we’ll have to play at being mammoths again,” he said, with a big smile, as he rolled over on his back.
Ayla sat up. “All right, but right now I’m going to go play in the river before it gets dark”—she bent down and kissed him and tasted herself on him—” after I check on the food.”
She ran to the fireplace, turned the bison roast again, took out the cooking stones and added a couple more from the dying fire that were still hot, put a few pieces of wood in the flames, and ran toward the river. It was cold when she splashed in, but she didn’t mind. She was used to cold water. Jondalar soon joined her, carrying a large, soft buckskin hide. He put it down and entered more carefully, finally taking a deep breath and plunging in. He came up pushing his hair out of his eyes.
“That’s cold!” he said.
She came up beside him and, with a mischievous smile, splashed him. He splashed her back, and a noisy water fight ensued. With one last splash, Ayla bounded out of the water, grabbed the soft hide, and began to dry herself. She handed it to Jondalar when he emerged from the river, then hurried back to the campsite and quickly dressed. She was ladling the soup into their personal bowls as Jondalar walked up from the river.
5
The last rays of the summer sun gleamed through the branches of the trees as it dropped over the edge of the high ground to the west. Smiling at Jondalar with contentment, Ayla reached into her bowl for the last ripe raspberry and popped it in her mouth. Then she got up to clean up and arrange things for a quick and easy departure in the morning.
She gave Wolf the leftovers from their bowls and put cracked and parched grains—the wild wheat, barley, and goosefoot seeds that Nezzie had given her when they left—into the warm soup and left it at the edge of the