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And I’m enjoying the show immensely.
He gets to the bed and makes a grab for my bare leg, but I’m ready for him. I pull away before he can get halfway up my thigh, which practically guarantees his next move. He kneels on the mattress and aims for something more—maybe a long slow slide over my breast and my side and my hip. It’s a tried and tested maneuver, and usually I’d be helpless to resist.
But this time I have to be strong—and I am. I dart away again, so quick he can’t keep up. He simply falls into the place I just vacated, instead, and then he’s all mine. He doesn’t even flinch when I straddle his thighs. And I get no word of disapproval for the kiss I leave on the curve of his throat…or the clothes I remove, as I do.
It’s only when I start to work my way farther down that he protests—but I’m prepared for that, too. I know what will succeed, where previously I failed. I just have to make him think that’s where I’m going, and then at the last possible second—when he’s almost used to the idea, and perhaps on the verge of acquiescing—I bypass his erection altogether.
I kiss right past it, over the heavy, solid shape of his thigh and down to the insides of his knees. He’s extra sensitive there, but I don’t linger long. I work my way back up, instead, finding all sorts of fun places as I do. He likes feeling the slippery stroke of my tongue on the slant of muscle just above his hip, and a hint of teeth on his sharp little nipples.
There are a million erogenous zones all over his body, and I go for all of them—all of them except one. Oh, that delicious, delectable one, which calls to me each time I curve my way around it. Usually I’d have tried for it a dozen times by now.
But I’m banking on a certain effect, by behaving this way. A certain effect that I know only too well, from a thousand days of being denied it. Force yourself to avoid something, and suddenly it’s all you can see—and he sees it, all right.
I can hear the frustration in his voice before he’s even said a word. He’s now a cacophony of choked cries and desperate murmurs, each one greedier than the last. Any second now and he’s going to try to flip me over, to haul me into a position he likes better than the one we’re in.
But he’s not going to get it, this time—and I think he knows it. The effort he puts into grabbing me is halfhearted. And when I dance away in the middle of his second attempt, then slide completely off the bed…he seems to know he’s beaten.
He eyes me with this half-wounded look on his face, but I brace myself against it. I wait, until he’s blustery and red-faced and ready to do anything, anything at all. Oh, he’d move heaven and earth to get me back on that bed—and he does.
He lies back down for me, without a word. There’s no shrugging me off, or subtle diversions. When it comes to the crunch, he grits his teeth and lets it happen—which seems really unbearable, until I actually do the thing.
I lick him from the base of his beautiful cock, all the way to the tip. And then I glance up, expecting to see him furious and full of discomfort, in a way that I know will make me stop. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? I can lay the trap and play this game, and get him to give in for just a second.
But I can’t push him to the point where he hates me.
So I guess it’s lucky that he doesn’t seem to at all.
There’s still a tightness in his jaw, of course. And he’s balled his hands into fists at his sides. But when I lick a second time, I actually see the strain go out of his body. Those burning eyes turn soft, and warm—as though he never hated the idea of this at all. He was just waiting all this time, for me to break through.
So I do. I lick him again, and again, soft and slow at first but then with more eagerness. I just can’t hold back, after a while. He tastes like the salt-sweet of his skin, and then of that familiar and oh-so-exciting thing.
He’s so aroused that he’s leaking precome, in long, thin trails. And the more I lick…the wetter I make it… The rougher I am…the more he gives me—in every single way. My mouth floods with that taste, and those solid hips of his buck up, seeking more of my heat. In fact, after a second of restrained desire he goes one better than that.
He actually forces himself into my mouth, too rough for me to take. And that hand I can feel in my hair? He’s using it to keep me there. As though it was me who hated doing this, all of this time. He was the one who dreamt of it day and night, day and night.
And finally he’s getting what he’s lusted after, for hours and hours on end.
That hand fists in my hair, nearly painful but not quite. Those hips jerk toward me, over and over and, oh god…the feel of him in my mouth. He’s so thick, now, and so swollen—almost as though he’s going to come. He’s going to just shudder, suddenly, then spurt all over my tongue, and though I know it can’t really be the case, the thought is so exciting.
My body curls in on itself, just thinking about it. That usually tepid place between my legs thrums, and thrums, and is completely unprepared when he actually does just do it. No hours of patient coaxing, or vigorous bouts of glorious sex to help him let go.
He just goes off like a man on the edge of oblivion, mouth working soundlessly around words he can’t express, body flushed from belly to hairline. It’s so crazy and so intense—and most of all so sudden—that I’m almost scared. I almost back away and miss the thing I’ve been longing for.
But it’s him who saves me.
He holds me there, with that hand in my hair. He gives me the words I’ve longed for.
God, please don’t stop, he says, the way I usually do, for him. Please, he says. Please suck my cock.
Who knew sentences as simple as those could mean so much? I feel as though I’ve run a marathon, or otherwise won some sort of race—which is ridiculous, I know. He even finds it so, when I try to explain some time later. It wasn’t that big a deal, honey, he tells me. An old girlfriend once caught me with her teeth—nothing more, nothing less.
And then I feel silly. I feel silly, for thinking that there was something he wouldn’t allow. He’s my husband, my wonderfully warm and witty husband. He likes his toast covered in jam and folds the paper in three when he reads it. He doesn’t like to drive on Sundays but will always take me out if I really need to go somewhere.
All I have to do is ask.
In everything, always, all I have to do is ask.
CHAPTER FIVE
