“Such as?” He perches on the bed and smiles at me.
“Could I talk you into averygentle fuck?” He gives a scoff of amusement. “No?”
“Do you ever think of anything else? I bet you were having sex dreams in that coma.”
“Definitely not sex dreams. There was something, but…” Just like it always does, the sense that there’s something I can’t quite remember tugs at the edge of my conscious mind. But I have more important things to worry about right now. “It’s no fun having such a hot husband when I can’tdoanything to him. But if you won’t let me touch you, then why not give me a show, angel?”
A wicked look crosses his face. “A show, huh? I guess I could do that. Let me shower, first.”
I wait in horny impatience. One of my most vivid memories of Finch is from our honeymoon, while we were on theMaddalenayacht, sailing the islands; of him waving his ass at me while he was bent over in the bathtub, spreading his cheeks and playing with his hole. Sometimes in the middle of important Commission meetings, I find myself thinking about that moment; I see Finch’s round, perky butt instead of Joe Alessi’s face—which, it must be said, is a vast improvement. Or Rossi will ask my opinion on something and I’ll have to pretend to think about it—when what I’m really doing is trying to remember the conversation we’re having instead of Finch’s fingers knuckle-deep in his own ass.
Finch reappears in the bathroom doorway, leaning up against it, one arm high up on the frame and the other on his cocked hip. He’s wearing a towel and nothing else, and smirks as I let my eyes travel over him, head to toe and back again.
I smile. “You were right, what you said at our wedding.”
“What did I say?” He shifts, one hand toying with the towel at his waist, the other running over his chest.
“That I am one lucky motherfucker to have you.”
He chuckles at that. “You better believe it. Nowwatch.”
I obey, helpless not because of my injuries but because it would be impossible for me not to be mesmerized by the sight of my husband as he performs a slow striptease, hips swiveling, ass shaking, dick swelling. Finch loves to be the center of attention—especiallymyattention. And when he’s in this mood, it’s impossible not to give it to him.
He turns to the wall, puts his hands on it and arches his back, spreading his legs. With a swoop, he bends lower, lets his asscheeks flare open, and then reaches between his legs to run his fingers down his crack. I have to swallow the flood of spit in my mouth as I think about eating him, about opening up that tasty, trembling knot of his with my tongue, making him squeal and beg for more.
I shove the bedding down impatiently, ignoring Finch’s over-the-shoulder frown at my sudden movement, and ignoring the sting of pain in my side, too. I want him to see the effect he has on me, the way he makes me ache for him. But he’s over by my side in a flash when I try to fish my dick out, swatting my hands away.
“Cut it out. Ireallydon’t need to be explaining to Darla how you opened up all your incisions again via vigorous masturbation.”
I compromise and reach for him instead of my cock, but he evades my hands, eyes sparkling. “You wanted ashow,” he says. “And I’m not done giving you a show.”
“You’re a gorgeous tease, baby bird, but I wantmore. Take pity on an invalid, eh?”
“Ah, now you’re getting it,” he smirks. “You need to milk that invalid status while you can, babe. Won’t be long before you’re back to full strength.”
I hope so. God, I hope so. But Finch is already distracting me from any dark thoughts by mounting the bed, swinging one leg slowly and carefully over my lap so that he’s kneeling over me, his perfectly proportioned, pink-tipped cock and neat little nuts in line with my chest until he settles back on his heels, his ass balancing on my thighs.
“Is that okay?” he asks, anxiety twisting his brows. “I’m not hurting you?”
“I’m in agony,” I say, and then grab his hips when he tries to move off me. “My dick needs yourimmediateattention.”
His worried face falls into deadpan. “Scare me like that again and I’ll shove a catheter back in it.”
I cup his face. “I’ll be good. So very good, angel, I promise, if you’ll just—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he sighs, sliding his fingers around my shaft. A slight smile breaks through as I hum in contentment. “I know exactly whatyouwant.”
He leans in to kiss me while he works my cock, his tongue lashing at mine while his hand is leisurely, exploratory, fingers sliding up my length in a long, twisting grip, or traveling down to pet my ballsack, tugging at the hairs on it, reminding me who’s in charge. But I’m already so aroused, so ready, that even the unhurried pace can’t keep me on edge for long; I buck up into his fist with a long, quiet moan around his tongue in my mouth, and the blast of pain in my side at my sudden movement is overtaken by pleasure as I spill out my frustrations in pulse after pulse, my balls squeezing themselves dry over what feels like hours, but can only be seconds.
It’s one of those relieving orgasms that feels great while it lasts, but leaves the base of my skull throbbing out a dull headache in time with my heartbeat. But I shake it off, focus on Finch using my cum as lubricant to jack off over me, his lips parted and wet, eyes glazed… He comes, whispering to me about how much he loves me, and I watch every movement of his face, of his hand, of his clenching abs as he works out the last drops. He’s been careful to shoot his load over my lap, avoiding my bandages, and I watch with dirty pleasure as the gleaming strands turn pearly. There’s one last long string stretching from the tip of his dick to my upper thigh, and he lets me wind my finger around it, break it, and suck his taste while he breathes heavily, sitting back on his heels.
Afterward, Finch insists on wiping me down and I stretch my arms up behind my head with only mild discomfort now as I watch him with a sense of almost-satisfaction. Things are always good between us in bed, and in the afterglow. For me, sex is a vital part of our relationship, because it’s where I can really bare my soul to Finch, when I fall so deep inside him that we almost become one person.
But that’s the problem. Ihaven’tbeen deep inside him, not physically, not for so long.
I can’t help missing that connection.
* * *
