My fingers tug up the hem of his tee shirt, lifting it until he moves his hands to get free of the arms, returning them to his sides.
I grip his waistband on either side of his hips, lifting his sweatpants out before sliding them down, otherwise they would catch on his jutting erection.
The dim light hides any imperfections—if they even exist. When I turn so the limited light from the window falls unobscured across his form, the way it catches on the ridges of his bones, his muscles, his golden hair, his wide flat cheekbones… My throat clutches, nostrils stinging. It’s so unfair to stuff this much glory into a singular human. Even worse to lock him in a cell, away from prying eyes.
What a fucking waste.
The sweatpants slide over his thighs, his calves, bunching at his feet. I kneel beside him, this time in control.
My eyes divvy up the sights on offer. I press my hands against his, making sure they’re still palm down, then I lightly trace the sharp v over his hips and finally grip his cock between both hands, smiling as the air hisses over his teeth.
Licking, he said earlier. At the time I hadn’t been keen but now I bend my head and touch the tip of my tongue against the base of his shaft, giggling as his tight curls there tickle my nose.
My mouth is heavy with spit, drooling over his perfection. For the past two decades at least, I’ve turned my back on the visual pleasure to be had in other people. I’ve allowed my mind to be consumed by my home, my son, my job, and nothing else. Denying myself even the pleasure to be had with my hands.
But this isn’t my life. I’ve been stolen away from it. Nobody would ever dare suggest what happens between us now is my fault.
I can take what I like without consequences. Experience the thrill of desire free from judgement.
My tongue licks him from his base all the way along to the tip of his cock, tasting the drops of liquid beading there, salty and smoky and strong. The groan he emits leads me to do it again, wanting to recapture the aural tingles from a sound he’s not consciously making.
I’m right. There’s no way he’ll fit into my small mouth. My jaw can’t open fully, pinned in place on one side because of an old injury. But I lick him like he’s an ice cream cone, shivering as his hands fist on the covers, my core temperature steadily rising as his hips lift towards me, slowly pumping.
I think about the kid I was when I met my husband. The teenage girl with an attitude, a foul mouth, and a mind like a steel trap. None of them things Rod valued.
What would she have done with this gift? If this glory had been laid out for her to sample at her leisure.
My legs straddle his thigh, just his right side, not wanting to split myself apart by attempting both. As I bow my head to continue massaging him with my tongue, alternating with my hands, still finding it difficult to manage his size even with them both concentrated on the task, I also rock my body back and forth. Finding friction against his enormous quads, feeling him tense them, responding to my movements, making it better for me as I ride him like a hobby horse, leaving my shame at the door. Taking what I want from him, giving him what he needs.
My mouth is open against the base of his cock, hands gripping him higher, when my orgasm hits and everything stops working, my body overwhelmed for the second time today.
The shivers are still trembling through me when he finally disobeys my command, lifting me, turning me so I’m flat on my back on the bed, his mouth pressing against mine as I eagerly open it in full welcome-mat style, despite my earlier bright lines.
Then his hand reaches to take the task over from mine. His fingers clasp tightly around his cock, large and controlling, giving sharp tugs. The movements are so rough, so intense that my eyes are pinned to the sight. They feast greedily, flicking up to see how the motions ripple through the rest of his body.
When they fix on his gaze, I can’t look away. His eyes are laser focused, not shifting to glance at my legs or the curve of my waist or my tits, they lock with mine until the intensity of his gaze spreads new heat through my core.
This big, dangerous man is coming undone for me and my body arches towards his, my nipples straining at the fabric of my shirt, my clit pulsing with new arousal.
I can’t hold his gaze, my eyes seek refuge in the broadness of his chest, the pulse of his biceps as his hand continues to work his length, his tongue straying out to lick his lips.
He rears back as he ejaculates, coating me with ropes of his hot, sticky cum. It lands on my tits, my chin, so near my lips that my fingers dart out to wipe it into my mouth, the taste of him salty and hot on my tongue.
Malakai bunches the front of my shirt, grinding his seed into the cotton fabric as he pulls me up to meet his lips again, his mouth devouring mine as though his hunger has just been awakened instead of slaked.
Then he falls to his side, one broad hand flat against my chest, pinning me to the bed.
“I need to clean up,” I mutter minutes later, swinging my legs around, but he pulls me hard back against him. Permission denied.
“No. You don’t get to clean up,” he whispers, lips curved in a smile against my ear. “You wanted to keep your top on, so your reward is to go to sleep covered in my cum.”
The words sink into my skin, turning my centre liquid as he curls his body around me, arms criss-crossing over my breasts as he hugs me back against his broad chest, head tucked into the curve of my shoulder, nuzzling against my neck.
I extend my arm back over my head, hand sinking into his hair, damp from our exertions, finding a place to rest in the soft curls behind his ear. That’s how I fall asleep, coming awake with a start hours later, the moon now fully risen in the night sky, illuminating the bedroom with its forgiving light.
Malakai is gone, and a knot of loneliness forms in my chest, tag-teamed with worry. Did he escape while I was sleeping? Has he left me alone here for good?
I curl myself into a ball, my shirt still tacky but not uncomfortable enough for me to fully rouse and go change.
