He looks deeply into my eyes as if trying to decipher some puzzle, some truth which, perhaps, I haven’t admitted to myself yet? I swallow. My stomach flip-flops. To mask my skittishness, I reach for my glass of wine and take a sip.
"You’re staring." I savor the wine and set the glass aside again.
"You’re beautiful."
I flush deeply. "Thank you." I curse myself for feeling like I’m on a first date. Except, this is my husband. And he’s fucked me. And I want more. A lot more.
“And you’re distracting me from our earlier discussion.”
“That’s all you.” I scoff.
“So, you’ll take on the role of CEO?”
I hesitate. It is what I want. But there’s a difference between wanting something and having it handed to you, as I’m finding out. I think I need more experience before I take on that role. Of course, Brody will be there to guide me. But it feels daunting.
When I open my mouth to speak, he must sense what I’m going to say, for he holds up his hand. “At least, think about it.”
Holy stocking stuffers! He’s persistent. It’s one of the things I admire about him. I allow myself a small smile. “Okay.”
Some of the tension fades from his shoulders. “Now that we havethatout of the way.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You should know that you felt incredible around my cock.”
It’s a 360-degree change in topic, but I’m not surprised. Not with that current of electricity simmering between us whenever we're together. Still, hearing him say those words aloud makes me flush.
The need to duck my head and hide from his piercing gaze is almost overwhelming. But damn, if I’m going to give in to it. I’m not going to shy away from my sexuality. Or this hunger he’s provoked in me. Besides, weareon our honeymoon. Which, by its very nature, is meant for exploring carnal desires. So no, I’m not going to turn into a wallflower.
"You felt incredible inside me." I tip up my chin. "I could feel every inch of your hard, ridged shaft."
It feels forbidden to voice how I felt, but also, strangely liberating. And when he drags his hot gaze down to my chest and doesn’t move it from there, my nipples tighten. My breasts seem to swell.
"Not complaining about the orgasms, either." I aim what I hope is a cheeky smile at him.
"Oh?" He looks a little taken aback but also recovers quickly. He drags his knuckles down my cheek, then my throat, until he rests them against the neckline of the sweatshirt.
"What else did you like about what I did to you?" He cups my breast, and I feel his touch all the way to the tips of my toes.
"I liked the way you took control. How you carried me to bed. How you threw me down on it, how you pulled me to the edge with my ankles, and how you ate me out."
I confess that I, too, like being in control—at work—which is why I thrive on to-do lists and schedules. I assumed I'd be that way in all of my personal relationships too, but boy, was I wrong. In the bedroom, I want my husband to take charge. I want him to know exactly what turns me on. I want to trust that he’ll know exactly howfar he can push me without hurting me, so as to draw out my pleasure.
And God, by the way he handles my body, I think he knows exactly what I want.
"Hmm." He pinches my nipple.
I moan, pushing my chest forward, hoping to feel more of his touch.
He clicks his tongue. "Oh, no. You don’t tell me what to do."
"But I want more." I scowl.
"More what?" He rubs his thumb over my nipple, and I swear, it throbs.
"More of your touch. More of your mouth on me. Your fingers and your cock inside me." I sway toward him, unable to resist this draw, which seems to have hooked its claws inside me and will never let go. "Brody, please," I whisper.
"Hmm." He places his other hand on my hip. "What do you want, baby?"
I let my gaze roam over his chest, the sculpted ridges of his abs, brick-like and impossibly defined. Every breath he takes draws my attention lower. “I want you,” I whisper, the words trembling between hunger and surrender.
"You’ll have to be more specific than that."
