He can't get enough of touching and being touched, and I kind of understand that; if I'd been skull-bound for five hundred years, only able to manifest as a spirit with no contact to the world except for sight and hearing, then suddenly became corporeal again, I guess I'd be a little sensation-mad too. But I can't complain, since I'm the main recipient of his attentions.
Take last night. We're snuggled up on the couch when he pulls away and starts undressing me, taking his time, his long-fingered hands gliding over every inch of skin he exposes, delicately mapping out my body's contours. I reach for him, but he grabs my hands. "Must I restrain you?"
The idea sends all the blood racing to my groin, and I want to yell "Gods, yes", but can only manage a nod. Grinning wickedly, he unbuckles my belt and pulls it free, uses it to bind my wrists together with a suspicious expertise, then pushes my arms up over my head. It's not tight; I could easily get loose. But I relax in my feigned helplessness, letting him do what he wants.
He works my pants down, continuing his exploration of me. By the time he reaches my feet I'm tingling with desire, yet feel no urgency to begin, though I murmur a protest when his hands leave me. I hear rustling and open my eyes (when had I closed them?) to see him undressing, the snow-white hair and ivory skin seeming to glow in the candlelight. Pale horse, pale rider. And now he's going to ride me.
Our lovemaking is slow and languorous, and I come in a long, sweet wave that leaves me quivering, panting his name. He holds me through it, stroking my hair and face. When I've quieted, he kisses me, whispering, "Touch me," and I damn near sprain my wrists getting free of the belt.
I no sooner touch him than he surges against me, burying his face in my neck with a moan, his hold tightening. I pet and stroke him until he relaxes, sighing, then close my arms around him, stretching out my legs atop his. Blissfully replete, we lie there until the candles are almost guttered out.
But it's not always quite so mellow.
Take right now. He grabs me as soon as we leave the lab (which is off-limits for obvious reasons), and shoves me up against the wall. His hands plunge under my shirt, down my pants, roving wildly as he nuzzles under my jaw, breathing me in, licking and nipping at the pulse point. To say I'm turned-on is an understatement. With a groan that's just short of a growl, I wrap my arms around him and roughly pull him closer. Unwilling to let go of each other for even a moment, we stumble up to the loft, shedding clothes all the way. I tumble him backwards onto the bed; this time I'm riding my beautiful pale horse.
Later, in the calm after our perfect storm of lovemaking, I move to slide off him, but he grips our interlaced fingers tightly, so I stay. I'm uncomfortable lying on him like this; I'm no lightweight. But he insists it 'anchors' him, even more than the sex. I asked him once what he meant. "Everything still seems a little unreal," he'd told me. "But if I can do this" --he cupped my cheek-- "I don't feel like I'm going to fade away." And I have to admit that when we do this, I feel grounded, and very... relaxed....
"Wake up, Harry," chuckles his dryly amused voice near my ear, followed by a kiss.
"Sorry." I get off him and out of bed, and hold out my hand. "Come on. Let's clean up."
Usually our showering together leads to more, but this time we're too spent for it, so we just quickly wash-up. After I lay a towel over the wet spot (why does it always wind up on my side?), we get back in bed, where he spreads himself atop me like a living blanket and promptly falls asleep. No matter how good the sex, I'd avoided that intimacy from former bed-partners, and shunted them off me when I could. But not him. Never him.
Carefully I reach down and snag the sheet, pulling it up over us. He
stirs a little, stilling when I put my arms around him. No, he never
tires of touching and being touched, and for however long he's with me,
neither will I.