Page 31 of The Spare

He’s right. He will make me feel good.

But really, I need to get my act together. This isn’t about me. It’s about making him feel good after the evening he’s had, the week, and it’s about impressing him. Convincing him I know my way around a penis well enough that he shouldn’t run for the hills… or into another woman’s bed. Ben’s a sexual creature, that much is clear, and if we’re going to do this, I’m going to prove to him what an accomplished wife I can be. I will not fail at this most basic of human activities. If every idiot out there can fuck, then I can fuck with the best of them.

I squeeze a hand between us, which is difficult given that his wicked fingers still have us glued together, and run my thumb over the silky moisture beading at his tip, smearing it over the velvety-soft skin of his crown. He moans and kisses me harder, his tongue diving urgently into my mouth. But when I attempt to get a proper grip on his dick, he pulls his fingers away and pulls me away.

‘Nope. This is about you.’

‘But I want to,’ I protest. I was about to get on my knees. I’ve never been a massive fan of giving head, but blow jobs aren’t exactly rocket science, and they are a surefire way to please a guy, so they’re something I’ve perfected. And, honestly, giving pleasure is far less stressful than being on the receiving end of someone’s well-meaning efforts and wondering if you should just fake it and get it over with.

‘What I want is to explore my brand-spanking new wife. Do you have a problem with that?’

The way he says it sends goosebumps erupting all over my body, as does the way he’s looking at me. I actually shiver. ‘No.’

‘Good.’ He jerks his head towards the bed where, only a few moments ago, I was innocently reading my book. ‘I want you on your back and holding yourself open for me.’

‘I— What?’

He doesn’t repeat himself. He doesn’t even say, You heard me. He simply raises that dratted eyebrow and waits for me to comply.

I’m not sure what’s going on, but I’m fairly sure he’s using some kind of eyebrow-led hypnosis technique because I turn and walk the few steps towards our bed with as much dignity as I can muster, conscious that his eyes are likely trained on my backside. I get onto my side of the bed and put the Kindle on the bedside table, lowering myself back onto my pillows. He saunters over to the end of the bed and wraps his hand around his dick, stroking it.

Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m in way over my head here.

‘Legs up. Open them,’ he orders me.

Slowly, self-consciously, I draw my knees up, bare soles sliding over cotton sateen, and then let my knees fall open. I squeeze my eyes shut at the mortification of it, equally horrified that all this shame feels, in some perverted way, good.

‘Open your eyes, sweetheart, and hold yourself open for me, too. Use your fingers. I want to see.’

I would far rather keep them squeezed shut (my eyes, not my legs, though that too), because I’m dying of embarrassment, but he puts a knee up on the bed and then another, until he’s kneeling up at the end of the bed, tall and proud, his dick still in his hand. That eyebrow wings up again.

‘Okay, okay,’ I say in a panic. I reach down and part myself with ginger fingers. I don’t love touching myself unless I’m actually touching myself, if you catch my drift. The bedroom is warm, but the air feels cool on my exposed clit.

‘That’s it,’ he says, approval dripping from his voice, and then he’s bending and full-on inspecting me from, like, inches away. Oh my God. Instinctively, I go to close my knees, but he puts a firm hand on one, pushing it back. ‘Don’t. Let me see. Oh, fuck.’

That break in his voice on the last word is just as hypnotic as the eyebrow. I let my legs fall open again as he gets even closer. Shit, he’s going to⁠—

‘I can’t not,’ he says brokenly as he closes the gap, and then there’s the impossible-to-explain delight of his tongue slicing cleanly through my most intimate parts.

‘Most people see with their eyes, not their tongue,’ I say archly, trying to hold myself the hell together, my hands scrabbling uselessly at the sheets.

‘I’m not most people, princess,’ he says, and then he dives in again. The sight of his hungry face, his dark head between my legs, is so much. So confronting. I let my head collapse back on its stack of pillows, his tongue swirling over my clit with perfect precision. I assume he’s let go of his dick, because one hand is still clamped on the inside of my knee, holding it down, while his fingers suddenly appear at my entrance. He gives me no warning before pushing in hard—Jesus, is that two of them?—the stretch, the burn, instant.

My brain instantly, unhelpfully, and unfairly serves up a comparison with my last bedfellow, Rollo, whose attempts in this regard were underwhelming at best. I shake that off, my mind switching instantly to what my current bedfellow must be thinking. Am I clean enough down there? I had a bath a couple of hours ago, but you never know. Do I smell? Do I taste okay? He basically told me I was wet. Am I too wet? Too slutty? Do men enjoy more friction? I don’t⁠—

‘God,’ he groans against my flesh, putting a halt to my spiralling. ‘Jesus, Slinks. I’m fucking addicted.’

Okay, so that sounds not disastrous. He must, somehow, be getting some form of enjoyment or maybe just validation—power, even—out of doing this.

‘Keep your legs open,’ he says. ‘And you can let go. I’ve got you.’

He certainly does. I slide my hand up my body and let my arms fall out to my sides as he releases my leg, palming my stomach with a firm hand. He’s holding me down, I realise. Why the hell does that feel so good?

And then my mind goes silent. There’s not enough space in my brain for chatter when he’s doing this. I focus every bit of my brainpower on processing only the sensation of Ben’s tongue lavishing me with licks and flicks, his fingers driving crudely inside me as he does, pushing me to the edge of my comfort zone, everything he’s doing adding stimulation, and friction, and God knows what else—all I know is that it’s impossible to withstand. Physically impossible. The drag of his tongue, his fingers, has the heat building and building, and I’m spread so wide open for him that I can feel every single touch.

I feel greedy, greedier than I’ve ever felt. My avarice where this impending orgasm is concerned is a monstrous thing compared to all those years of waiting and calculating and fantasising where Xavier was concerned—not about him, not for a moment, but about the rest of it. Belvedere. The title. But who gives a shit about any of it? Nothing outside of this room matters anymore; nothing but the relentless rasp of Benedict’s tongue against my clit and the cruel, glorious pumps of his fingers.

I’m making noises, I realise. I’m thrashing about, only the hand splayed across my stomach tethering me to the bed. I don’t even care. I’m not performing like I usually do in bed: I’m way past worrying about what I look or sound or taste or smell or feel like. All those shoulds, all those tyrannical markers of how I should behave, what I should offer my bed partner to please him, are gone like dandelion seeds in the wind.