“Because I want to know what it feels like to have that kind of control over your life. To push my body past panic. To find the silence you’re describing. I want to understand why you find solace in it.”
“And?”
I think through the various excuses I could give him, but that won’t work. I have to be honest with him. If I want my husband to bed me, I need to show him I am his true student.
Not just in the kitchen, but in the bedroom.
I need him to understand that I can match him, go toe to toe with him, keep pace with him, not just while cooking, but also when he fucks me. So, I go with the truth.
“Because hearing you talk about the pressure, the darkness, the moment when your lungs scream and you have to decide whether to surface or stay under, does something to me in a way I don't want to examine too closely.”
Something shifts in his eyes. Dark. Hungry. My nipples harden. My thighs quiver.
It gives me the courage to tip up my chin and say, "I want to understand what you feel down there. I want to feel it too.”
The hunger in his eyes catches fire. His nostrils flare. When I look down at his speedos, I find it’s stretched tighter around the column at his crotch.
"It's not a game, Harper. It's dangerous if you don't know what you're doing."
I raise my lust-filled eyes to his.
"But you know what you’re doing.”
“Oh?”
I nod. My heartbeat spikes. My pulse thuds at my throat. Say it aloud. Tell him everything you’re thinking. “And I think I’ll enjoy learning from you.”
He inclines his head, the movement predatory, his animal instincts showing on his face. I’m not talking about free-diving, and he knows it.
“You’re talking about breath play?” he drawls.
His words take my breath away. Pun intended. He understands what I am alluding to. He’s too switched on. He doesn’t miss anything.
A dull flush filters into his face, making that scar on his cheekbone stand out in relief.
He’s excited by the possibility of mentoring me in a completely different way outside the kitchen. Finally… I know what’s going to make my husband consummate our wedding.
"You'd trust me to control when you breathe?” His voice drops. "To cut off your air until the very last millisecond of your climax to heighten your pleasure?”
He peers into my eyes. “Would you trust me to give you an orgasm which will change your perception of pain and pleasure forever?”
Yes.
God, help me, yes.
My entire body responds to the promise in his. My pulse races, myskin hypersensitive, every cell in my body aware of him. His proximity. His voice. The way he's looking at me like he's deciding whether to devour me or make me wait.
I'm trembling. Actually trembling. From words. From the promise in his eyes.
I've never been this turned on without being touched. We're just talking, and I'm already this close to falling apart.
What happens when he actually touches me? When he finally fucks me. I can’t wait to find out.
"I trust you," I whisper. “And it’d mean I don’t have to dive. It looked cold down there.”
I shiver.
In a flash, his expression changes to one of concern. "Let’s get out of here before you catch a cold."
