“It’s quite good,” I replied, still chewing, but even so, I took another huge bite of the scrumptious doughy, spicy, cheesy miracle in my hand.
“Quite good,” he muttered, shaking his head and reaching toward the box on the bed between us.
At his alarming movements, I darted out a hand and grabbed his wrist.
Swallowing, I cried, “Noc, that’s the last of it!”
He looked up at me. “Yeah. And you hoovered through your half. That slice is the last of my half.”
This was unfortunate because it was true.
Fair was fair, and apparently, along with generous, outgoing and social, the Franka I was seemed to be fair.
This meant I let him go, requesting, “Can we order another?”
At this, Noc’s eyes grew big. “Frannie, this one was a large. Usually, three, four people eat this amount.”
I stared down at the sad, now empty box before again turning my attention to Noc.
“Can we have more tomorrow?”
He grinned at me, reached out, hooked me behind the neck (again, something he seemed fond of doing, something I was fond of him doing) and pulled me to him for a peck on the lips before he let me go.
And promptly denied me.
“We’re havin’ étouffée for dinner tomorrow.”
“I want this,” I announced, lifting up the remains of my slice.
Amusement unhidden, he stated, “Trust me. You have étouffée, you’ll want that.”
I had no choice but to trust him. He had this world’s coin. I did not. I couldn’t pay for my own pizza even if I figured out how to order it as he’d done this one.
On this thought, I shared, “I want my next lesson to be about the telephone. And along with that, the ordering of food.”
Noc chewed, swallowed, crinkled his eyes at me with his humor and said, “After beignets, first order of business is gettin’ you and Josette your own cells. So tomorrow, we’ll get on that.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, taking one of the last bites of my pizza. Deciding to turn my mind from the dismal fact there may be only two bites left, I looked to Noc and queried, “How many sheaths did you procure?”
“Box of ten.”
I blinked.
Rapidly.
And my voice was pitched higher when I inquired, “Can you perform that often in one night?”
Noc’s body moved, the bed moved with it, and I recognized the laughter as his voice vibrated when he replied, “They come in boxes of ten, sweetheart.”
I sounded somewhat strangled when I pressed, “That doesn’t answer the question, my dearest.”
“How the fuck you can make ‘my dearest’ sweet and hot, I do not know,” Noc muttered.
“Noc!” I snapped, beginning to panic, for I was a skilled lover but the way Noc made love I was relatively certain I couldn’t perform ten times in one night.
His eyes glinted as he asked, “You not up for ten times?”
Was he jesting?
He had to be jesting.
“I, well…that would…that is, I’ve never—”
I stopped speaking (or, blast it all, stammering) when Noc reached out, took the last of my pizza from my hand and tossed it into the box.
I glared at it, turned my glare to him, but the remains of his pizza had joined it and he was shoving the box off the bed.
This accomplished, before I could protest his cavalier treatment of our pizza, he pulled me into his arms and rolled me over him so I was again on my back and he was on me.
“No, baby,” he admitted quietly, “I can’t perform ten times in one night.”
“Oh,” I said quietly in return, not certain if I should be relieved or disappointed. Just knowing a certain area in my body probably would not stand up to that challenge, even if I wanted it to.
He swept his mouth against mine.
“But you’re gonna come ten times in one night,” he declared.
My breath caught.
“One down,” he whispered, his hands beginning to move on me, “Nine to go.”
“No—”
I didn’t finish saying his name.
Noc kissed me.
* * * * *
“I want you inside me,” I begged.
Noc, naked on his knees behind me, me naked on my knees in front of him, his arms around me, one hand at my breast doing delicious things, one hand between my legs doing scrumptious things, his mouth at my neck suckling, nipping, kissing, he lifted it to my ear and nibbled my earlobe.
Oh my.
I made my position clear.
“Please,” I gasped, hips grinding into his hand, feeling his hardness press into my bottom, wanting that for my own.
“Next go,” he whispered into my ear.
I almost didn’t hear him. My climax was gathering powerfully, preparing to overwhelm me.
“Noc, hurry, take me. I’m about—”
His finger at my clitoris circled faster and harder.
“Come, Frannie,” he growled in my ear.
He didn’t have to make the demand. At the workings of his finger I acquiesced, my head flying back and colliding with his shoulder, my body trembling violently in his hold, my hands shooting to his to grasp them in order to stop their machinations because I was learning there was such a thing as too much pleasure. I was experiencing it at that very moment, and it was going to devour me.
At my climax’s end, tenderly, Noc lay me on my back, covered me with his big, warm body, his hands trailing soothingly along my skin, his mouth again at my neck.
When I had control of my breath, I put my hands on him, loving how he felt, his warmth, the power at my fingertips that was a part of Noc and yet seemed a contradiction with all his understanding, thoughtful, humorous, teasing gentleness.