The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [285]
His mouth left her nipple and circled her stomach and her navel. When he reached her mound, he looked up at her. She was breathing in mewing gasps, her back arched and tensed with anticipation. She was ready. He kissed the top of her mound, felt crinkly hair, and inched lower. She was quivering, and when his tongue found the top of her narrow slot, she sprang up with a cry, then lay back moaning.
His manhood was throbbing eagerly, impatiently, as he shifted position to slide down between her legs. Then he spread open her folds and took a long, loving taste. She could not hear her own sounds as she lost herself to the flood of exquisite sensations coursing through her as his tongue explored every fold, every ridge.
He concentrated on her to keep his own demanding need in check, found the nodule that was her small but erect center of delight, and moved it firmly and rapidly. He feared he had reached the limit of his self-control when she writhed and sobbed with an ecstasy unknown before. With two long fingers, he entered her moist passage and applied pressure up, from inside.
Suddenly she arched her back and cried out, and he tasted a new wetness. Her hands clenched and unclenched convulsively in unconscious beckoning motions that matched her spasmodic breaths.
“Jondalar,” she cried out to him. “Oh, Jondalar, I need … need you … need something …”
He was on his knees, gritting his teeth in an effort to hold back, trying to enter her carefully. “I’m trying … to be easy,” he said, almost painfully.
“It … won’t hurt me, Jondalar …”
It was true! It wasn’t really her first time. As she arched up to receive him, he let himself enter. There was no blockage. He pressed farther, expecting to find her barrier, but he felt himself drawn in, felt her warm, moist depths opening and enfolding him until, to his wonder, she embraced him fully. He drew back and plunged deeply into her again. She wrapped legs around him to pull him into her. He withdrew again, and, as he penetrated once more, he felt her wondrous throbbing passage caress his full length. It was more than he could bear. He drove in again, and again, with unrestrained abandon, for once giving in entirely to his own need.
“Ayla! … Ayla! … Ayla!” he cried out.
The tension was reaching its peak. He could feel it gathering in his loins. He drew back once more. Ayla raised up to him with every nerve and muscle taut. He surged into her, reveling in the sheer sensual pleasure of burying his full proud manhood completely in her eager warmth. They strained together, Ayla cried his name, and, giving her his final fraction, Jondalar filled her.
For an eternal instant, his deeper, throatier cries rose in harmony with her breathless sobs repeating his name as paroxysms of inexpressible pleasure shuddered through them. Then, with exquisite release, he collapsed on top of her.
For a long moment, only their breathing could be heard. They could not move. They had given all to each other, every fiber to their shared experience. After a time, they didn’t want to move, didn’t want it to end, though they knew it was over. It had been Ayla’s awakening; she had never known the pleasures a man could give her. Jondalar knew his pleasure would be to awaken her, but she had given him an unexpected surprise, adding immeasurably to his excitement.
Only few women had depth enough to take in all of him; he had learned to control his penetration to suit and did it with sensitivity and skill. It would never be quite the same again—but to enjoy the excitement of First Rites, and the rare and glorious release of full penetration at the same time, was unbelievable.
He always did put forth greater efforts for First Rites; there was something about the ceremony that brought out the best in him. His care and concern