She swallowed as a warmth in her belly spread lower. “With you,” her voice was barely audible above a whisper.
“Thank you,” he spoke with a sincerity that felt silly because they were talking about butt play, but somehow it still made her feel so appreciated and cared for. No one had ever thanked her for expressing her own desires before.
“I love that you are open to trying it with me. Does that mean youwantto try it?” he asked.
Hearing him ask for verbal consent caused a shock of bliss to explode in Jenna’s core.
“Yes,” she breathed.
Jenna would have thought the conversation would be awkward or even embarrassing, but she found herself getting more and more turned on as she sat on the edge of the bed. It was a form of foreplay.
“Do you have any questions for me?”
“What do you want?”
His eyes darkened. “Control. But only if you want to give it to me.”
“I do.”
He exhaled, but it came out sounding like a growl. “I want to make you feel good, so good you get a break from that noise in your head. I don’t want you to think, I just want you to trust me, and I want you to feel safe and bold to tell me exactly what you want when you want it, and at any point if you want to stop, we stop.”
“Okay, but I don’t foresee that happening.”
He nodded, and she could see by the look in his eyethat the Q&A portion of the evening had finally drawn to an end. He walked towards her again. The anticipation of his touch was so intense that she feared that was all it would take and she might spontaneously climax.
She didn’t find out because, instead of pausing beside her at the bed’s edge, he continued past her, the soft thud of his deliberate footfalls proof, in her mind, of how much he was enjoying making her wait, making her yearn. She listened, every muscle tight, aching for his touch, as he made a detour into the closet.
Jenna tracked the sound of the sliding door and the click of the hanger rod. There was a metallic whoosh as he slid something off a hanger, deliberate, unhurried. When he returned, she could sense his presence, the air shifting, her skin prickling under the weight of his focus. The anticipation was exquisite—a fluttering tension that seemed to drag her heartbeat out into every cell of her body.
She saw the flick of black silk in his hand, a tie, and felt her breath catch. He drew closer, the predatory confidence in his stride making her weak. He didn’t say a word. Instead, he simply ran one large hand up her nape, gathering her hair and tilting her chin up, and with the other, he let the tie slip through his fingers, the fabric whispering a promise against her skin.
Jenna was powerless to move, rooted in place as he lifted the silk to her face. He made quick work of the blindfold, too quick, too skilled. He was master level. The thought sent heat spiraling low in her belly.
She closed her eyes, but the darkness didn’t matter once he’d knotted the tie snugly at the back of her head. She couldn’t see, could only anticipate and feel. The lack of vision was instantly disorienting, but it left her with a raw, receptive attention that vibrated in her bones. She’dnever been blindfolded before, not in her marriages, not even as a joke. She hadn’t realized until just now how much she wanted this, craved it, needed it.
She could sense him as a warm, magnetic field at her side. She could hear his breathing, slow and measured. Smell him, too: cedar, soap, and something darker, something uniquely masculine that filled her lungs and made her want to claw him closer.
The silence built, pressing in on her as she tried to imagine what he was doing. She let her hands graze her thighs, feeling the tremor in her own flesh. She was desperate to know if he was watching her, what he was thinking, what he was going to do next. The not knowing was intoxicating, every second stretching out painfully sweet.
There was a rustle of fabric, and she realized he was undressing. She wanted, so badly, to see him, his chest, his arms, the lines of muscles she’d only caught hints of before. She tried to picture what his body would look like: broad, defined, strong. Imagining him nude, inches away, was building her arousal in a way she never imagined it could. The pressure between her legs was swirling.
Next, she felt him take a step closer to her. His hand cupped her face, and, instinctively, she leaned into his palm. His thumb traced her lips so softly, so feather-light, before it was replaced with his breath.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered before his lips touched hers.
The kiss shocked her in the best way, it wasn’t anything Jenna expected. There was no sudden smash of lips, no bruising claim. He kissed her the way a sculptor finds the shape in marble: soft, slow, reverent. His mouth lingered on hers, teasing the seam, with the curiosity of a man who wanted to memorize every detail. It was cautiousat first—an invitation, not a command—and all the more disarming for its restraint.
She whimpered, unable to help herself, as his thumb swept her cheek while his other hand settled with surprising tenderness behind her neck, tilting her head back to give him even better access. She felt herself melting, her body liquefying under his touch.
When he deepened the kiss, her world went white-hot behind the blindfold. His tongue touched hers—tentative, then urgent, then so demanding her inner walls spasmed in succession. Need spiraled in her core like wire tightening, and she gasped—it was half surrender, half plea—her lips opening to let him in, to take him in, to abandon the last shreds of her practiced distance.
Then the kiss was broken. No warning. Just broken.
He let the silence return, a calculated pause, as if he wanted her to remember what it was like to crave. She did. The darkness behind her eyes, the taste of him on her tongue, the memory of his hand warm against her cheek, his fingers digging into the nape of her neck, she was on fire, burning, every molecule screaming for contact.
Then, with deliberate slowness, she felt his fingers at the shirt collar. He undid the first button of his shirt. Not all of them, just the first, letting her know he could take her apart piece by piece and that he would. She shuddered at the sound of fabric parting, at the sensation of cool air on her skin. He undid the next button, then the next, taking his time, making her wait.
Each time she expected him to touch her, he didn’t. His knuckles grazed along her sternum, traced the outer edge of her breast, and played at the hollow of her throat before drifting away again. She arched, desperate for more.
