“What—” I start to question.
Spinning me around, Knight pushes me forward until my chest is pressed against the wood of the door.
“We’re late,” he says, pushing his hands between my legs and finding the waistband of my panties. Tugging them down, he slips two fingers into my pussy, then finds my clit with his other hand, barraging me with sensation.
“Oh my god,” I gasp, pushing my hands between us and bracing them against the door.
My body reacts like a junkie to a hit, and wetness pools between my thighs, as he finger fucks me, finding that spot inside of me like he’s done this a thousand times before.
Rubbing my clit, he stops, removing the pressure, then slaps the tiny bundle of nerves with two fingers, making a sharp burst of pleasure-filled pain spike between my thighs.
“Come for me, Doll,” he whispers against my throat, pressing a gentle kiss against my fluttering pulse point, his soft touch a huge contradiction to the way his fingers are forcing me toward release.
My knees buckle when my orgasm hits, and the only thing keeping me upright is the pressure of Knight’s huge body behind me, holding me against the door. Biting my lip, I stifle the sounds that try to escape from my mouth as Knight’s fingers start to slow. Finally stopping, he slips his fingers out of my body and lifts his hand from my clit to band it around my waist.
“You need to eat,” he informs me, his voice calm and matter-of-fact, not sounding at all like he just gave me an orgasm at my place of work.
“Are you kidding me?” I rasp through strained breaths. “What even was that?”
“Lunch and manual stimulation at 1300 hours,” he states, twisting the lock open as he pulls my panties back into place and scoops me into his arms.
“God, calling it manual stimulation makes it sound like a medical procedure. Are you telling me that you finger fucked me because it’s on your schedule?”
“Yes,” he says simply.
Sitting down on the couch, Knight positions me on his lap, then reaches for the sandwich that I don’t remember him putting down, and offers it to me. “Eat.”
“You can’t just drag me in here to give me an orgasm,” I protest, but I can hear the dreamy post-O softness in my voice that belays most of my indignation.
“Why not?”
“Because the people I have to work with all day were twenty feet from the door.”
“I would not allow them to come in.”
“What if they heard?” I shriek.
“You weren’t loud enough to be heard. Your colleagues are not aware that I was stimulating you in here, but in the future we can go to the car and drive somewhere more secluded.”
“So you want to drive me somewhere so you can finger fuck me in the car because you added making me orgasm to your schedule?” I ask, hearing the shrill quality in my voice getting louder.
“You enjoy orgasming. You requested that we add orgasms to our daily routine. I don’t understand what the issue is.”
“Of course, I enjoy orgasming…” I start, then fall silent, because what can I even say? “I was being sarcastic about it being part of your schedule.”
“We spoke last night about this, and we agreed that encouraging your body to expect multiple orgasms each day will be beneficial to our marriage. I’ve already made the adjustments to our daily schedule to accommodate that.”
Closing my eyes, I inhale slowly, quietly exhaling, until my breathing has settled. I know I should argue, or protest, or tell him how extra it is that he wants to pre-plan my daily orgasm quota. But in the short amount of time I’ve spent with Knight, I feel like I’ve started to understand him a little.
He craves me. He wants to be close to me and be involved in every aspect of my life, and he wants me to feel the same way about him. He wants me to be as obsessed with him as he seems to be with me, and even though I think he knows he can’t orgasm me into falling in love with him, this is his way of conditioning my body to need him.
It’s insane and ridiculous, but just like all the other ways he takes care of me, I love it and him.
SEVENTEEN
KNIGHT
Watching my wife work is fascinating. Despite how tiny and petite she is, when she’s tattooing, her energy seems to fill the entire building. Her eyes never seem to move from whatever masterpiece she’s creating, but she talks with her client, her colleagues, and anyone else who’s near. A tattoo gun is hardly a weapon, but her ability to wield it demands respect.
