I close my eyes, clearing my throat as his hand strokes my back, sliding up to cup my head.
My lips buzz with curiosity. Eager for a taste of his mouth. The same mouth I’ve already kissed ten times over in my head.
“Yes,” I finally whisper, tilting forward until our foreheads touch so he can find me more easily, feeling his hot breath against my cheek.
He raises his other hand, using it to steady my jaw, his thumb stroking lightly across my chin then higher, skating across my lips a second before he presses his against mine.
The kiss is tentative, soft. So tender it makes me want to weep.
My hands remain still at first, but as he deepens the kiss, they move, one moving lower to map out the curves and hollows of his torso, the other shifting from his neck to tangle in his hair, pulling at the curls he has in back.
My legs are spread so wide, so open, that I try to shift, to feel less exposed. He takes the movement as a signal to break his lips away, resting his forehead against mine again, his strained inhalations filling the room.
“Lie back,” I tell him, but he lifts me instead, laying me on top of the covers, then sweeping his long legs onto the bed to rest beside me. His arm curves around my body like a cage, the palm holding me against him as his cock hardens against my thigh.
A warm pulse throbs inside my body. In my clit, yes, but also in my lips, my nipples, my skin wherever it touches against his, even through two layers of fabric.
I force my fingers down until they’re fumbling with his waistband, sliding under the dual rows of elastic and bunched fabric to find his skin, the pulsating satin skin of his cock.
He sighs, the air rushing from his mouth and continuing for so long it’s like he’s deflating. His shoulders curl towards me, curving over mine, so his torso turns into a meltingly hot cave, sheltering me underneath.
My fingers continue to explore him, impossible to wrap around his girth so they play along his length, rubbing the heel of my palm against him in an experiment and being rewarded with a long groan.
The sound fills me with power. Not like before when I was tethered by strings and muzzled by his hand.
Now it feels like I’m the one in the driver’s seat, deciding what he will and won’t get, seeing what he does and doesn’t like.
The thrill of causing his moans, shaping the next ones, is as pleasurable as the soft pulse of his increasing desire growing under my hand.
Then his hand fists in my hair, tipping my head back, opening me up for his devouring kiss, tongue thrusting into me until I forget how to operate my limbs and melt against his touch, putty to mould however he wants.
His hand slips into my shorts, the fabric so loose around me he easily slides them down, tosses them away while he keeps my mouth occupied so I don’t have the comprehension to react.
Then he reaches under my shirt, pulling it up and the moment snaps apart. I shove myself away, scurrying backward across the width of the bed until no part of me is touching him.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, out of breath. His arm sweeps out, and I push it away when his fingers brush against me. “Where’d you go?”
It’s dark, but it’s notthatdark. I’m afraid for him to fully undress me. I don’t want him to see.
“No kissing,” I say, voice cracking. “And my clothes stay on.” What’s left of them, although the top is so long on me it easily passes as a dress.
He stops reaching for me, settling back against the covers. When he answers, his voice is confused, “Okay. I just… I want to touch you.”
“And I want to be reading in bed at home, alone,” I snap back, my mixed emotions causing chaos. “Put your hands flat on the covers and don’t move them.”
There’s a shuffling sound as he obeys. The surge of power recurs, stripping away my reactive fear.
A man has never obeyed my instructions before.
I ease myself closer to him, still alert but also wanting to see what more he’ll do. “I’m going to take your clothes off but that’s not a licence to touch me, understand?”
“Okay, I understand.” There’s a moment of hesitation, then he adds, “Your safe word could be red?”
As red as my face, luckily hidden in the darkness. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he parrots back to me. He still sounds breathless, and I wonder what he’s thinking. In any other circumstances, I’d be invisible to this man.
He’s gorgeous. His body is magnificent. I can’t imagine how many hours of work were poured into the development of his wide musculature. The sort of beauty that belongs in a magazine with staple marks stabbing into his torso, on a podium being ogled by crowds, not lying in a bed, seemingly grateful to be ordered about by tiny old me.
