Mary Help Her

Hope you enjoyed the Meet-Cute of our romantic couple Maggie & Grey. I have the next time they meet ready to go, but I want to throw this little cutie in there just to spice up your sunday.

Enjoy :)

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Mary help her, but she loved being kissed by him.  She’d never felt anything close to what he made her feel and while she instinctively knew it to be dangerous, that she was falling too fast and too deep, she also couldn’t seem to do anything to halt it, reverse it or even slow it down.  When he looked at her, when he touched her, when he kissed her, she was his.

 She was in love.

He always kissed her softly first.  More gently than she could have imagined such a strong, confident man could manage.  It felt like the lightest brush on her lips and it made them tingle and tickle and flush.  She’d part her lips then, because she wanted more of it, wanted to be kissed more deeply.  And he’d always oblige her.  The next kiss would be stronger, fuller, a touch more hungry and it always made her belly flip.  And she’d return the kiss, unable to help herself.  He made her feel like a wanton.

She liked to reach up and feel his stubble beneath her fingertips as he kissed her.  It felt so masculine, so thoroughly male and the coarse prickles sent thrills down her body and settled somewhere below her belly button.  And he’d always slip his fingers into the hair at her nape and with his fingers wrapped around the back of her neck he’d deepen the kiss further until she was short of breath and proverbial  putty in his hands.

Their bodies would be pressed close without her having any idea of how they’d closed the safe buffer of distance that had been there before he’d kissed her.  And once she was pressed against him, his strong hand splayed wide and firm on her lower back, she would feel overwhelmed by his heat, his sinew, his scent.  This was always when her heart would flutter and the blood would thunder in her ears. 

She’d say silent little prayers but forget the words she knew by rote.  And she would keep kissing him.  She loved the way he made her feel: wanted and needed and adored and beautiful.

His kiss would deepen and become almost bruising in its force and she’d moan or sigh and that was his cue to pull back, to fix her with that intense, hungry green stare and smile sweetly.  Then he’d trail kisses along her jaw line, to her earlobes, down the arch of her neck and to the base of her throat.  She could always feel the insistent thrum of her pulse against the heat of his lips there and it never failed to make her breath catch in her throat.

The first few times they’d kissed like this, their first few dates, he’d kept his hands in the safely romantic regions—that place at the small of her back that made her arch her spine toward him; or possessively caressing her face or running his fingers through her hair.  And he’d kissed her each time for what felt like sweetly agonizing eternities. 

He was damned good kisser.  She’d spend hours in his arms sighing and moaning and arching her back and sliding her legs over one another and writhing and he’d keep his hands where a gentleman ought to keep his hands.  And it made her want him to defile her.

But she was grateful, each time after he’d finally pull away and she’d draw a ragged breath, realizing she was shaky and exhausted and confused, grateful that he’d been a perfect gentleman.  He’d kiss her on the tip of her nose then, or forehead, or cheek, or even again lightly on her puffy, enflamed lips and smile, and say good-night. 

And She’d feel empty when he’d gone.  And cold. And needy.

She’d fallen hard in love with the man.  Despite her best advice to herself, despite her instincts, despite common sense.  She’d fallen for him.

The sixth time they’d gone out it was almost impossible for her to focus on conversation, on dinner, on the movie, on anything other than how it would feel when he finally kissed her again.  She ate very little at dinner and brushed her teeth in the ladies room at the movie theater.  Catching sight of herself in the mirror she felt like she was seeing an estranged friend; it looked like Maggie, but the woman inside her felt like someone else altogether.  Naughty.  Sexy.  Sinful.

And while she felt guilty, was filled with wriggling nerves and shame, she seemed unable to master her self-control.  She wanted him more than she’d ever wanted any physical thing in her life.

She’d sat in the darkened theater, the light from the booth flickering over her head, staring at the screen but not watching.  He was holding her hand.  Her hand felt so small in his long, broad fingers, and their hands together rested on her lap.  The heat of his hand on her thigh drew all her attention.  She’d sneak glances at his profile but he seemed unaware of her level of distraction, he was easy, and smiling at the comedy, and relaxed.  She began to resent the film for holding his attention, resent the other patrons for their presence, resent the squeaky movie theater seats and the implacable armrest between them.

He finally turned to her while she was trying to surreptitiously watch him and she was caught.  She saw a smile crawl across his features and she felt embarrassed and relieved all at once.  He leaned over and gave her one of those oh-so-soft, teasing kisses and she sighed.  She obediently parted her lips and met his next kiss with a hungry little noise in the back of her throat.  She could feel him smile as he kissed her.  The hand on her thigh disentangled itself from hers and she held her breath.

The kiss got fuller, distracting her, pushing everything else far into the white noise of the background.  She loved the way his breathing got heavier too, she loved the way he tasted—he’d had wine at dinner and there was something forbidden and sacred about the way it tasted on his lips—images of communion and medieval artwork mingled together with the scent of his sandalwood cologne and the subtle, secret sound of his lips on hers. 

And then his fingers were moving further to the inside of her thigh.  Her gasp was swallowed in a kiss and when her eyes flew open he was already watching her.  He pulled his head back slightly, broke the kiss just enough to run his tongue over her parted lips.  It tickled and tantalized and she knew her eyes had betrayed how good it felt because his eyes crinkled in a knowing smile.  He slipped his fingers further and she squeezed her knees together.

He nuzzled soft kisses below her ear and she felt insane.  She wanted him to touch her beneath her skirt and yet she was terribly afraid that he might do so. The crowd in the movie theatre erupted in laughter and she startled, unwittingly allowing his hand further access.  She actually gulped.  His hand was so close now, his pinky finger was brushing the cotton of her panties, his fingers were bold and fixed around the supple curve of her inner thigh, her skirt drawn up shamefully high around his wrist.  His thumb slowly slipped back and forth on the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, gently, not in a specifically sexy way, more causal than anything else, and she thought she’d die.  If his pinky moved she knew she’d likely shriek.  No one had ever been that close before and she was feeling hot and panicky and skittish.

The music of the score picked up and there was a crash sound effect and the crowd laughed again.  He nipped her ear and chuckled softly.  He was too close, she thought, alarmed, too close and too powerful.

She was afraid to shift in her seat, afraid that it would result in something she wasn’t prepared for.  She could barely draw breath.  He moved to kiss her and she knew she couldn’t allow him to claim her mouth again right then or she’d be lost.  She turned her head ever so slightly and his kiss landed on her cheek.  She could feel his coarse stubble there and a skittering thrill shot down her spine.  Her eyes darted from side to side—was anyone looking? Had anyone seen his hand up her skirt?  She felt a sudden urge to cry.

He released a soft sigh and whispered sweetly: “Do you want to go?”

Half of her wanted to go, definitely, and the other half was afraid to move.

Slowly she nodded, but couldn’t meet his eyes.

She felt the rough pad of his thumb make three small circles on her thigh and then he withdrew his hand.  Her thighs felt cold and exposed where he’d vacated and her skirt was still bunched up almost at her crotch.

Swiftly she tugged the fabric down and closed her eyes as a furious blush bloomed across her cheeks.  When she reopened her eyes it was to see him adjusting his jeans slightly, a smooth, practiced motion that dried her mouth out.  She wasn’t sure if she was more pleased he’d had a physical reaction to their activities, or more alarmed.

When he stood she had the childish urge to cross her arms and shake her head and remain safely where she was. He didn’t bother to stoop or bend as most people tend to do when they stand in a movie theatre.  He stood straight and tall as though they were the only people in the place and he offered her his hand casually.  The same hand that had just been dangerously close to making her lose her mind.

She swallowed several times but still couldn’t seem to lessen the lump in her throat.  In the end she took his hand more because of her embarrassment at his casual conspicuousness than anything else.  She hurried out down the minimally lighted steps and out through the long carpeted tunnel and into the bright and busy lobby of the Cineplex.  It was a desperate fight to regulate her breathing, to appear unperturbed.  He followed behind her at a slightly increased pace, but he hardly had to hurry to make his long strides equal to her much shorter ones. 

“Hey,” He said when at last she stopped and leaned up against the wall.  Her knees were weak and she didn’t want to stop but worried she might fall down if she didn’t take a moment.  His face was all concern and his voice was soft, velvety and rich.  “Are you alright?  What is it?”

She worried her lower lip and thought about his possessive kisses.  She twisted her small silver saint’s medal between her fingers and stared at him.  God he was gorgeous.  On impulse she let go of her medal and reached up to cup his face in her hand.  He smiled. What was she doing? Ever so gently she used the tips of her fingers to signal that she wanted him closer.  He obliged.  He melted toward her, bent his head and kissed her slowly.

What a shameful whore she was, encouraging a man to kiss her right out in the open.  And enjoying it.  He braced one arm on the wall beside her head and with the other he encircled her waist, pulling her body into his and then leaning them both into the unyielding carpeted wall.  She wanted to devour him, wanted him to devour her but he kept the kisses deep and languid and unhurried.  It made her frantic and antsy and desperate.  She nibbled his lip and he let out a low chuckle.

“Would you like to go for a drive?” He asked her, his voice low and full of promise.

She didn’t know what she’d like, not really.  She was exhilarated and terrified and eager and cautious all at once.  She furrowed her brow and wished he’d just kiss her until she couldn’t think anymore.  Two giggling high-school aged ushers walked by them and Maggie became aware of the hubbub of the movie theater lobby.  The click-clack and beep of the electronic cash registers, the hum and whirr of the slushie machine, the grinding of the ticket printers, the bells and whistles of the arcade and the cacophony of voices in animated conversations.  It was a Friday night and the place was packed.  Anyone might see them. 

“C’mon.”  He said gently but firmly, pushing off from the wall but leaving a possessive, steadying arm around her waist.  “Let’s get out of here.”