I lean forward on the couch. “A reminder of what?” I ask, cupping her hips and kissing her stomach.
With a playful smirk, she says, “Of who the boss is here.”
Blood rushes to my groin but I check the heat pulsing through me. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about this more?”
Maybe we’re not a real couple but this feels like a thing that we should discuss.
She runs her fingers through my hair and my eyes fall closed at her touch. “The only thing that’s left to discuss is what I’m going to do with you,” she says, her tone playful.
I throw my arms along the back of the sofa. If she wants to stop being mad at me, I can play along. “By all means, remind me of who’s the boss. In fact, I think I may need to be punished for my earlier insubordination.”
Corrine unbuttons her navy blue silk blouse, revealing black lace beneath. I pull off my tie and start to unbutton my shirt but she stops me with atsk. She unzips her skirt and steps out of it, unclasps her bra, and lets the lace fall away. Hooking her thumbs into her black panties, she pushes them down her legs. Her nipples are peaked and a flush pinks her cheeks.
“I thought you were supposed to be punishing me,” I rasp. “This is the best punishmentever,” I say as she straddles my legs. But she pushes my hands away when I try to grab her hips again.
“No touching,” she says, stern, her voice cool.
I fist my hands in the couch cushions as she unbuttons my pants, staring at the bulge in my boxers but not touching it. She doesn’t even let her hand brush against it.
She transforms before my eyes. She’s not the cold ice queen boss and she’s definitely not the soft liquid Corrine who comes apart beneath me. She’s someone else entirely. Beautiful and powerful and entirely impossible to look away from. There’s nothing ice about her. She is all fire and I burn for her.
Leaning forward, she kisses me, tunneling her hands in my hair and positioning my head however she wants. She pulls my hair, kissing and biting at my neck until I can’t help but lift my hips, seeking some kind of contact or relief for the heat burning through me. But she pulls away.
“No, no,” she says. “Give me your right hand.”
I hold it out in front of me like I’m offering it to her to shake and she laughs once through her nose. She folds down my thumb and ring and pinky fingers. She places my index and middle fingers on her tongue and I have to close my eyes again. Trailing my hand down her neck, her chest, her stomach, she guides my hand between her legs, and I watch with my mouth open, my breathing ragged as she moans, her eyes falling closed and her head falling back.
She’s drenched. She rubs my fingers and her wetness over her petal-soft lips and the wet rise of her clit, then she lifts up on her knees and takes my fingers inside of her.
“Holy shit, Corrine,” I whisper as she starts to fuck my hand, her eyes still closed, and her perfect, pink mouth forming an O. I start to move my hand with her, pressing the heel of my palm into her clit and curling my fingers inside her.
She pulls my hand out of her. Her eyes open but heavy lidded, she lifts my fingers to my mouth, painting them across my lips, pushing them onto my tongue, and I moan around them at the salty taste of her. She replaces my fingers with her tongue, kissing and licking and messy and I don’t realize that I’ve grabbed her breasts, her ass, until she pulls away from me, pushing my hands back. She picks up my hand again, leaves three fingers up this time, and when she pushes them inside of her, I have to grind my teeth, press on my dick with the heel of my other hand, as she moans while she uses me for her pleasure.
“I love your hands,” she gasps.
“You do?” My question comes out as a growl. I can’t keep my eyes off my wrist moving between her legs.
She nods. “I love how long your fingers are, and the blunt nails, and—ah.” She breaks off, starts to move faster. The sound of it is obscene, wet, hot, sex. My whole hand is soaked. And then she’s letting go of my wrist and I steady her with my other hand on her waist. I lean forward and lick and suck her nipples. She holds me in place by my hair.
“I love how kind your hands are,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “I love the hair on your knuckles. I love how strong they look when you touch me.” She gasps. “Wes. I’mcoming.”
My eyes feel too big for my head. I nod. I can feel her: her tight inner muscles, her tense runner’s thighs, her whole body balanced on the sharp edge of a knife. I watch her face, run my hand through her hair, gather all of it back behind her head.
“You’re fucking coming,” I say, wonder in my voice, and she does.
She comes all over my hand, soaking me more; shaking over top of me, she cries out, her hands fisting in my hair as my fingers curl and my hand twists over and over again until she begs, “Stop, stop, please.”
I cup her head in my hand and kiss her, pulling my dick out of my boxers and rubbing the head through her wetness. “Please, Corrine,” I beg against her lips, guiding her hands to me. “Please, touch me now.”
Her touches alone could be enough to end me. But then she levers herself over me and starts to sink down onto my cock. “You have to get a condom,” I grit out.
Her eyes dart back and forth between mine. “Or we could not use one?” she whispers.
I brush her hair back from her face. My heart pounds from the need to be inside her and the weight of this moment. It’s important, this conscious decision to be bare with each other. Maybe I can’t call her my girlfriend but the label feels flimsy in the face of this.
She ismore.
“Are you sure?”
