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Get Here
folder
M through R › The Nanny
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
2
Views:
5,608
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
M through R › The Nanny
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
2
Views:
5,608
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own The Nanny, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Get Here
*************
Fran, in her long, red, silk robe and matching nightgown, pads her way down the hall to Max’s door. She’s glad the kids are all out of the house.
<
In spite of her bare feet, which are getting cold on the hardwood floor, Fran pauses outside Max’s door and listens. She hears music playing softly in his room. Other than that, as much as she strains her ears, she detects nothing.
Inside, Max is lying in bed. He’d tossed and turned, trying, in vain, to sleep. Finally getting up and turning on the stereo, he’s tuned it to a soft, jazzy station, but the music isn’t lulling him the way he’d hoped. Instead, he’s in bed and very much awake; silk pajamas between Egyptian cotton sheets – all the luxury money can buy.
<
He thought for certain that he’d have made headway in the direction of *not* being alone in bed tonight. He’d wanted to talk to Fran – no, more than talk – reveal. Tell her how much he needs her; wants her; loves her. He’s ready to say it, and he’d just assumed she’d be ready, as well. She’s always seemed ready to him; at least, since Paris. Now, believing he’d been so very obviously wrong, he doesn’t want to think about why his overtures tonight had sent her running from the room.
Gathering her nerves, Fran knocks softly. At first, Max thinks it’s part of the music.
She knocks again, louder, now feeling determined. She heard no snoring, so she knows he’s not asleep.
“Come in, Niles.” Max assumes it’s Niles, bringing him some warm milk, as he sometimes does, using a mysterious sixth sense to know when his employer can’t sleep.
<
Fran pokes her head inside the room, a wedge of light revealing her identity.
“Miss Fine?” Max doesn’t know what to think of her presence here. He knows what he *hopes,* but believes he’s wrong, considering the way she hadn’t even wanted to spend more than a minute talking with him earlier. Leveraging his body, and scooting up to a sitting position, he stares at her, anxious to know what’s brought her to his door.
“Mr. Sheffield, can I come in?” Fran hates that she sounds nervous; Max hardly notices, only paying attention to the fact that he can’t recall the last time she’d asked permission to enter a room.
“Since when have you asked?”
Pausing and casting her gaze to the side momentarily, Fran sheepishly acknowledges the accusation. “Since now?”
“Come in, Miss Fine.” Max modulates his tone to a warm timbre, enjoying the underlying admission in Fran’s voice.
She steps in and closes the door behind her – plunging them into near total darkness.
“Wait, I’ll turn on the lamp,” Max offers, not wanting her to trip.
“No, don’t. I don’t need it.” Fran’s insistent about staying in the dark, suddenly losing some of her nerve, now that she’s faced with the man himself.
“Know your way around my bedroom in the dark, Miss Fine?”
Fran can’t tell if he’s annoyed or teasing. Though, she knows every nuance in his voice, and she’s pretty sure he’s teasing. In truth, Max *wants* her to know her way around his bedroom; his bed.
And, just like Fran, he’s getting more and more nervous by the moment, thinking that perhaps it was good that she turned down his offer to switch a light on. The boldness he was ready to assert earlier in the evening has fled. Now he feels somewhat exposed and vulnerable here in his silk pajamas, in his bed; sitting down, while Fran’s standing.
A silence falls between them, filling the space just like the darkness; the only sound to be heard is the radio emitting the ending strains of a sultry Etta James recording.
Both Max and Fran wonder how simply talking with someone you care so deeply for can be so horribly nerve wracking. Max chides himself for being frightened to talk to someone in his employ; it’s a little embarrassing. Simultaneously, Fran is scolding herself for the butterflies in her stomach, not remembering a time when she wasn’t able to just jump in and start talking.
“Miss Fine.”
“Mr. Sheffield.”
They speak at once, sniffing short laughs at the coincidence.
“Max.”
“Fran.”
Laughing out loud at their attempts, and the sit-com-ish way the conversation is starting, their frozen awkwardness is thawing. Fran moves to sit on the edge of the bed, the billowy comforter giving way under her weight. Her eyes have adjusted to the dim light; as have his, after the intrusion of the brilliance from the hallway. They can see each other’s eyes now, and they lock gazes in the ambient light from the street lamps that’s leaking in through the cracks in the drapes. Vaguely aware that the radio’s still playing, they’re grateful that the silence isn’t complete.
Simultaneously, they reach out their h, as, as if they can’t resist the completion of a physical connection to match the way they’re holding onto one another with their eyes. Fran’s never been stingy with her physical gestures; she’d freely admit that she’s a “toucher,” and has never been shy about taking his hand, adjusting his tie and then letting the flat of her palm smooth it out over his chest, or simply resting her hand on his back while on the way to one of his premieres. She knows that, in spite of his seemingly standoffish and “professional” demeanor, he’s enjoyed her attentions; staying still longer than necessary as she’s picked lint from his suits, purposely tying his tie in a sloppy fashion, or letting his collar remain bunched under his sweater after he’s tossed it over his head, just so she could straighten it out.
Max plays with her slender fingers, caressing them until they’re maneuvered to rest interwoven between his own. He’s never been overtly demonstrative with anyone; not even his children, or any of the women he’s been involved with. But with Fran’s easy and generous way with her affectionate gestures, he’s found himself inviting her touch, more than necessary; more than an employer should with his children’s nanny. Her attentions flatter and boost his ego; but, more than that, they’ve given him reassurance and confidence. He both loves and hates that they both keep up the charade of casualness around each other. The part that feels like it’s their little secret is appealing; but he’s ready to cast off the façade of not caring – not wanting.
Fingers locked together, they feel the connection more strongly than ever. Unable to keep their hands still, they caress and fondsimpsimple, soft touches. Reassurance and courage are gleaned from the bond; the “rightness” of their attraction is reinforced.
Having lost the momentum to state her love out loud, Fran, a bit uncharacteristically, thinks maybe now isn’t the time to talk. She thinks it might be the wrong time to force the issue.
Max, realizing that he can’t just demand that she be ready to hear his confessions at the snap of his fingers, is now content to just sit her with her. And even that’s a step for him; he knows he won’t back pedal out of any intimacy gained from tonight’s encounter, whatever it may be.
Max and Fran are realizing now that it won’t be a lengthy conversation or blunt declaration that precipitates the next step in their relationship. Rather, the accumulation of a dozen encounters, like this one, will propel them forward. It’s just them being them – content with whatever state their relationship is right now; finally confident that they can take their time, however long it takes.
Breathing in deep and letting it seep from her lungs, Fran’s contentedness warms her a little in the chill of the night. The small smile playing on Max’s lips and the tilt of his head give a clue about the tenderness of his feelings. He’s simply caught up in her eyes; caught up in the moment.
Time stretches between them, and with the sense of love he’s projecting with his eyes, Fran’s suddenly ready – anxious – to hear what he’d tried to tell her earlier.
“Mr. Sheffield – Maxwell – what were you going to tell me?” Fran lifts their joined hands from the bed to emphasize her question.
Max’s eyes dart away. He looks at at their hands, pats their entwined fingers with his free hand, and nervously opens his mouth to speak, not sure what to say. He’s frustrated that, only an hour before, he’d been so confident in his ability to give voice to his feelings.
“Miss Fine. Fran. I… Well, I wanted to tell you that I’d been thinking about us. You…”
“Wait. Don’t say anything – I want to tell you something first.” Hearing the anxiety in his voice, Fran’s idea of revealing her love for him – in no uncertain terms – rushes back at her.
“Mr. Sheffield,” she begins, with authority in her voice, and continues while waving her hands to draw particular attention to her words . “Enough hinting from me. I’m going to tell you how I feel about you. No overt mentions about marriage, or waiting around for you, or guilt about ‘the thing;’ no stories about my Aunt Freida or Ma and Daddy; no short dresses or crop tops; no comparisons to Barbra movies…”
“Um, Fran.” Max smiles, knowing that, if he doesn’t say something, this could go on for far longer than necessary.
“Yes, Mr. Sheffield?”
“Were you going to tell me how you feel, or just list the things you *aren’t* going to tell me?”
“Oh. Yeah. I love you.” Fran makes sure not to let Max respond. She wants him to know her statement is given freely, without any reciprocal expectations. “I don’t care that you said it and took it back. I’m saying it because that’s how I feel, and, even if you can’t tell me you love me too right now, or even tomorrow, or the next day, I know that, deep down, you do. Though, come to think of it, it wouldn’t kill you to say it maybe next week, or at least by the end of the month.”
“Yes. Well. What *I* was going to say, was that I just wasn’t ready before; wasn’t ready to take the chance. But I’ve realized, perhaps because Nigel was here this week, that taking chances isn’t about being ready. And exploring your feelings of love for someone isn’t really taking a chance at all. The real risk is in *not* acting on your feelings. Deep down, I think I already knew that – it’s why I subconsciously keep encouraging you – us – I wanted you to keep pushing me.”
“I’m glad you did. And I guess I wasn’t really ready, either. I needed to kiss a few frogs; needed to really know for myself that I’m worthy of having. I hate to admit it, but Danny really hurt my self-confidence. I’d never been without a boyfriend; without someone who loved me, except for my parents, and Val, and Yetta, and my sister, Uncle Stanley, and great aunt Mima Fega. But who’s counting? In the end, all loving Danny got me was kicked out in one of those crushing scenes. I needed to learn that I was worth something on my own; without a man to define who I am. And I don’t think I really knew that until tonight.”
Even Fran herself didn’t really realize it’d happened, but through her experience with Nigel, something had clicked inside her. Something within her felt complete.
“I just assumed you’d be willing and ready when I w I was. And that you’d wait when I wasn’t ready. But emotions don’t work that way. They’re hardly ever in synch, are they?” Max sighs at the sometimes sad irony of love.
“I think they are now. Maybe we just needed to be ready on our own first, before we could be ready together.”
Max reaches out with both of his hands, wanting to feel her skin against his as they open up to one another more than they’ve ever been able to before. He thinks she looks so incredibly beautiful in the dim light. For both of them, the time for taking stuttering steps and backwards slides is done. The time for rushing headlong into something they both want so very badly – each other, body and soul – is now.
“Yes,” Max finally affirms, as Fran leans towards him, feeling the draw between them.
He strains to reach her, as well, one hand now reaching up to caress her cheek, his eyes unable to land solidly on her eyes or her lips; he can’t decide which feature is more alluring at the moment.
A small shiver shudders through Fran’s body; a result of the fact that she’s clad only in her thin nightgown and robe, and of the way Max is looking at her, with such love and longing, and hunger. But her chill serves to break the mood and ruin the kiss that was about to transpire.
“Fran, my God, you must be freezing.”
“Me? No, it’s just um, my, um…. Oh, never mind. Yes, I’m freezing.” Fran abandons her attempt to keep his attention on her lips, thinking she might be able to get closer if she goes with the “freezing” story.
Mission accomplished, Max scoots over, folds the covers back, and invites her into the warm bed with him. “Come here, Miss Fine.”
In a quick turn around from her sputtering, Fran utters a short, “Okay.”
She immediately complies and snuggles into the warm spot he’d just been occupying.
“Better?”
“Yeah.”
Again, a comfortable silence falls between them. Though, this time, it doesn’t feel like it’s *between* them, so much as it’s enveloping them, together. They know there’s no need to rush, though the physical proximity is awakening in them a carnal desire to plunge ahead.
Max raises his arm to encircle Fran, and they simultaneously lean in for a soft, gentle kiss. They’ve kissed before, but never in such an intimate setting. And never with such openness between them. Lips fuse and bodies react with a freedom never before felt. He draws her closer, she leans into his chest, silk against silk, the heat of their bodies soaking through.
The kiss ends, not with a feeling of finality, but rather with the sense that it’s really just the beginning. Still, they feel no hurry. Perhaps knowing that, when the hurrying begins, there’ll be no stopping it, they want to relish this time before moving ahead.
“It’s not the first time we’ve been in bed together, you know,” Max reminds her in a low, hushed tone.
“I know. You woke up singing Georgie Girl.” Fran can’t resist reminding him of the fact.
“Well, *you* were scratching your ears,” comes Max’s slightly indignant retort. He rather liked harboring the idea of the astronomically remote chance that he’d perhaps shared more than just his bed with her that night.
The rational parts of Fran and Max both know that nothing happened between them. Though, there was no denying that merely the idea of sleeping in the same bed had been enough to convince their sub-conscience minds that, under different circumstances, something *could’ve* happened.
“Well, considering the vivid dreams I had that night, and subconsciously knowing you were beside me, it was almost like the real thing,” Fran defends.
Max feels a rush of sexual energy at the notion that she was having erotic dreams while sleeping right next to him, in the very bed they’re in now. Spurred by the idea that perhaps the dreams weren’t just sexy, but had also featured him, Max has a confession of his own.
Nuzzling his nose in Fran’s hair, near her ear, Max whispers, “I’ll tell you a secret. Not just that night, but on many, many other nights, the sexy dreams I’ve had about you have left me unbelievably desirous and panting for breath.”
For Fran, the revelation has a distinct physical affect. She feels her heart begin to race and a sexual tingle spread through her body. She hadn’t told him that her dreams that night, and on so many other occasions, were about him – them – and the way it would feel to be with him, kissing, touching, and exploring every inch of each other, over and over. But now, she has every intention of informing him just what her dreams have been comprised of.
“Well, Mr. Sheffield, let me tell you… I’ve dreamt about you so many times I’ve lost count. You and me, together – me doing unspeakable things – in your office, me under your desk, while you sit and try to work.”
Max groans his approval of her fantasies, conjuring up the image for himself of Fran’s amazing hands and lips being applied to his most sensuous and sensitive body parts – all while he’s trying to read some asinine new play. It’s a fantasy he’s dreamt of in his waking hours and had to deal with the consequences all on his own.
“Miss Fine…”
Fran stops her description at the sound of her name on his lips – low and rumbling; almost a threat, ordering her to stop her teasing descriptions.
She halts her narration, and he picks up where she left off. “With you doing those things to me, I’d never be able to concentrate. I’d just have to clear my desk and toss you down on top of it, your short top riding up to expose more and more of your sexy mid section. I’ve thought about kissing you there a million times.”
Fran smiles to herself, knowing now for sure that her bare mid-drifts weren’t lost on him.
Between sentences, Max’s hands aren’t still. In fact, as he describes how he’d kiss and nip at her belly, and farther up her chest, his hand begins to trace a slow circular pattern on Fran’s thigh. For better accessibility, Max shifts in bed, propping himself on his elbow and turning his body to face hers.
Fingers circle and caress, running in increasingly higher and higher-reaching strokes up her leg. Fran’s not idle, either; her hand has found it’s way to Max’s chest, one button has been undone, and she’s snaking her hand between the gap to find the bare skin of his chest. Tracing the contours of his well-formed muscles, Fran loves the way his warm skin feels under her touch.
More whispered glimpses into each other’s secret fantasies is ramping up their sexual desire at a fast clip. Not just from hearing what the other has dreamt of, but also in remembering the times they’d privately indulged their bodies’ desires at the creation of those fantasies.
This time, however, they’re together, and it’s all the more stimulating. Mentally – and physically – they know that making love will be the ultimate outcome of the evening. It’s taken this long for them to be ready to move their relationship to the next level; now, there’s nothing holding them back.
The trading of whispers has stopped. All that’s filling the room now is the soft strains from the radio and their breathing, which has become louder and shallower with each touch bestowed. Max’s hand has moved from Fran’s thigh up to her hip, and across her mid section. The tie to her robe is an easily dispensed with obstacle, and, when he gets the robe open, it’s one less layer between them. Fran feels the heat of his hand on her stomach, and the electric sensation shoots through the core of her. She’s disposed of one of his layers as well. His pajama top is completely open, and Fran leans towards him to kiss his chest, right over his heart.
“Come here,” Max whispers, looking down at her to encourage her gaze to look up to his.
“Yes?” Fran’s inquiry is answered with a kiss. A deep, sensual kiss.
They open their mouths to each other, seeking, wanting. Fran emits a moan of pure pleasure at the feel of Max’s tongue sliding over hers, licking and caressing. Years of suppressed desire, let out only here and there, has finally been allowed free rein, and they intend to take full advantage.
He reaches down farther and farther, struggling to find the end to the material of her nightgown, and anxious to touch her bare skin, as he is finally able to bunch it up higher and higher. The smooth skin on her leg slides under the soft palm of his hand, a sensation that doesn’t go unnoticed by Fran. She coos her delight when he pauses at her kneecap and grips it, fingers trailing to the underside to circle maddeningly erotic caresses at the back of her knee.
Still kissing, now with a fervor of nips and nibbles, Max’s explorations continue higher, though, for now, he avoids the juncture of her legs, and aims for her torso. Fran’s own investigations lead to the discovery that Max is incredibly ticklish if you touch him anywhere in the area between his belly button and what lies below. She feels his muscles constrict and his kissing becomes erratic; finally, he’s has to turn his head and beg her to stop.
“Fran, please. Please.”
“Please, what, Mr. Sheffield?”
Instead of saying “stop” which Fran was expecting and actually had a retort prepared for, Max directs her attention elsewhere. Lower.
“Touch me.”
The seriousness of his tone details for her, in no uncertain terms, exactly where he wants her to touch him. And she has no trouble complying. Her hand abandons its tickling torture, and, with the flat of her palm, she fans out her fingers and aims south. Not far to go, her fingertips are soon nestled in the tightly curled hair. When she rotates her hand, palm up, she’s suly sly stroking the length of his erection.
“There?”
“*Right* there, Miss Fine.”
As she continues her attentions to his cock, Max reaches with a more intense purpose towards her breasts. Maneuvering under the fairly tight material of her nightgown, he’s still able to grasp the swell of her breast and tease at her nipple with his fingers. Caressing the peak, he feels the skin grow even tauter as he rolls and teases her nipple into a hard pebble.
A flood of wetness sears hot and ready between her legs, and, in a sudden shuffle of clothing and bedding, Max and Fran help each other out of the last of the barriers between them. Tossing the covers back, to gain him full view of his lover, Max gently pushes her to lie flat on top of the luxurious sheet covering the pillow top of his mattress.
Kneeling beside her, he stares unabashedly at her beauty. Dark hair spread out on the rich green of his sheets, her legs slightly bent, and slightly more than open. For him. His erection surges at the notion, and, when she reaches up to run her fingers up his inner thigh, stroking her way to grasp his cock, he moans her name.
“Ohhhh, Miss Fine.”
“Mr. Sheffield?” Fran teases. She doesn’t mind the inconsistency of the way he addresses her, but at the moment, the formality of “Miss Fine” is striking her as humorous.
“I love you.”
“I know.” She doesn’t want to make a big “to-do” about him saying it. She really does know he loves her, regardless of the words he uses to express it, or not.
“I want to make love to you.”
“I know that, too.” Now, she’s just being cocky.
“Is there anything you don’t know?” Max is beginning to feel sheepish for being so honest about his need for her.
“Yeah – when you’re going to start, because I’m getting lonely down here.”
Chuckling, and loving her all the more for not losing one bit of her strong personality, even in the bedroom, Max slides down next to her, running his hands over her body. He relishes being allowed to explore and feel her curves without the hindrances of clothing, or repressed feelings. He’s imagined these curves, and now, mapping them out for himself, he absorbs the knowledge of how she feels; how the plane of her stomach gives way to the curves of her breasts, and, with the other hand, he finds the flare of her hips alluring and it draws his attention downward.
Fran feels him slide down on the bed, and, as he does, she moves her hands up his back to play in the dark locks of his hair. She loves his hair; prefers it shorter to long, and adores the gray streak. She’s touched his hair before, but has never been given the opportunity to really luxuriate in it. The silky strands slip between her fingers and, in her state of arousal, she finds her skin ultra sensitive to the feel.
Max begins a trail of kisses that halts when he gets distracted with nibbling on her hipbone. Fran ruffles her hand in his hair, mussing it up even further. Max stops his gentle biting, and picks up with more-tender kissing. As he does, he briefly gives way to an underlying nervousness he’s not wanted to think about: Fran’s the first woman he’s been with since Sara. While confident that he’ll remember “how it’s done,” he hopes he’s able to please. And he prays that he can last long enough to give her the pleasure he so badly wants her to have.
At the same time, Fran’s marveling at how different a lover Max is already proving to be from Danny. Attention to every part of her body is being paid; not just to what Danny would consider “the important parts.” It dawns on her that Max may well also be thinking of his last lover, whom she suspects was his wife. Sympathy for any trepidation he may have, prompts her to want to reassure him in a tangible way.
“Max, come back here.”
Hoisting himself to be even again with her, he hovers his face above hers, worrying a little at the cause of her beckoning. She reaches both her hands up to cup his face, holding it even closer. Whispering, she bends his head to hers, “Maxwell Sheffield, I love you. I want to make love with you so badly, it hurts. I want you; all of you.”
“God, Fran.” His words are breathed out just as their lips fuse, and he lets the whole weight of his body press down on hers.
Their hips instinctively flex towards one another and their groins come into firm contact. Grinding his erection into her, Fran swivels her hips underneath him, and in this simulated love making position, they kiss and grope, frantic for more.
Max rolls to the side, still angling his hips to achieve the most friction possible, but he wants at least one hand to be free. And, with that hand, he reaches down to the softest spot on her that he’s found so far – *so far* – the inside of her thigh, about mid way up. From there, he caresses his way higher, and he can feel Fran’s legs falling farther apart, giving him better access.
Finally at the juncture of her legs, he tentatively explores her folds, and is more flattered and more turned on than he can ever remember, when he finds how wet she is. For him. When he slides a finger into her passage, the slick, heady scent of her moisture hits his senses, and it’s then that he has to stop kissing her. He can’t pbly bly concentrate. It’s overwhelming, and the nervous part of him is afraid he’ll come right then and there.
Panting out her pleasure at his attentions, Fran begins soft moans with each breath, which quickly increase in volume and frequency. Adjusting his position so that he’s able to continue filling her core with now two fingers, Max turns his wrist to position his thumb over her clit. With just a few circles around the swollen bundle, coordinated with thrusts of his fingers, he can feel her orgasm begin.
Gasping his name over and over, “Max, Max, Max…” Fran lets go, and tumbles over the edge. Her climax begins where Max’s thumb is so well massaging her, and she feels it travel to her core, muscles spasming, and out to the very tips of each of her well manicured fingers and toes.
Coming down from hig high, Fran opens her eyes to find Max hovering again over her, his hand now resting softly on her chest, right between her breasts. She can feel his groin still rhythmically moving against her hip; but, for the moment, he seems content to let her catch her breath.
A wide smile graces her mouth, and there’s a flash of relief that washes quickly across Max’s face, too fast for Fran to notice.
“Say it again,” Max quietly requests, his voice, a whisper of a breath against her cheek.
“What?”
“My name. Say it again.” It was intoxicating to hear his name from her in her height of passion, and he wants to hear it from her lips again.
“Mr. Sheffield?”
“Not that one.”
Fran knows what he wants, and turns the three letter name into a sultry whispered prayer. “Max.”
His eyes close at the sound, and his hips still against her, tightening the pressure against his cock. Fran picks up his hand from her chest, places a kiss in the middle of his palm, and at the tip of each digit. Returning to his index finger, she envelops it in her mouth and begins a seductive mimicry on it. Her tongue slides over and around, swirling and sucking, nipping lightly now and then.
“Hmmmm,” is all Max’s brain can manage. Though, in the more sensible part of his mind, he knows that this kind of stimulation could end this love making session all too quickly for his tastes.
Pulling his finger from her grasp, he prompts her to open her eyes. Between them flashes an understanding of what’s about to happen.
“Fran, should we… I mean, do we need to talk about…”
“No. It’s okay. We’re good.”
Swinging his leg over one of hers, and nestling his body between her legs, he gently nudges his cock at her entrance and slowly enters her. Neither one of them can look away from the eyes of the other. Fully seated, Max stills his motions; and, for a few moments, they adjust to the feeling. It’s been years since either one of them has been with anyone, and, now, neither Max nor Fran can even recall what it felt like to be with someone else.
The way he’s filling her produces a feeling that she simply might explode from the sheer pleasure that’s tingling through her, yet is concentrated where she’s squeezing him as tightly as she can with her inner muscles. For Max, it’s more than physical gratification and more than an emotional connection; he believes he’s found ecstasy.
Gradually beginning to move, they pivot their hips in tandem, and, with each pull and push, each thrust, the feeling gets impossibly better and better. As he bends down to kiss her, Max knows he won’t last long, but so badly wants to make her come again – wants to feel the power of her orgasm clench all around his cock; he wants that to be what sends him over the edge to his own petit morte.
Putting his weight on one elbow, Max throws all his passion into the way he’s kissing her, the way his cock is passing back and forth along her passage, and how he can now reach between them to stimulate her all the more. A surprised mew gets caught in her throat as a hard climax hits her just as he puts a pinching pressure on her clit.
Needing both arms to balance again, Max places his paflatflat on the bed, on either side of Fran’s fan of hair, and, as her muscles contract over and over, he lets himself go completely. He’s never felt this wild or this free with anyone, and, in that freedom, Max cries out his pleasure as he comes, giving a name to the feeling, “Ohhhh, God, Fraaaaan.”
Collapsing on top of her for only a moment, Max is quick to rise.
“Hey, where ya’ goin’?”
“To wash up. Don’t you want to?”
“Wash up? What do you want to do that for? I thought we’d cuddle for a bit first.” Fran pats the now empty place in the bed next to her.
“Well, I’m English. We cuddle *after* we’ve washed.”
“Okay, I can live with that.”
Taking turns in the bathroom, Fran joins Max back in bed after a few minutes. Opening his arms to her, Max gathers her still-naked form next to his.
“Still naked, Mr. Sheffield? I’m surprised.”
“Good. I hope to surprise you with a few more of my bedroom secrets.”
“Oh! Mr. Sheffield!”
“Now, if I could get you to say *that* while in the throes of passion… No, I think I actually prefer ‘Max’ for that situation.”
“Maybe I should keep calling you Mr. Sheffield around the house; and reserve ‘Max’ for in here.”
As she puts a sexy emphasis on his first name, Max knows that if she were to ever use his name like that anywhere else in the house, the children would have to be in the room to get him to stop from taking her, right then and there.
Smiling, because she’s pretty sure she’s achieved success with the way she’s branded his first and last names, Fran snuggles closer to his form, feeling safe, secure, and very sexy.
“I love you, Fran. I’m not sorry it took us this long to find our way into bed with each other; but I want you to know, I intend on making up for lost time all the same.”
“Oooh, I like the way you think, Maaaax.”
END