Page 44 of The Marriage Blunder

For a while, neither of us spoke.

Then he said, “You okay?”

I laughed, giddy. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

He kissed me, softer now, and we just lay there, tangled in the sheets, the city outside humming its endless song.

I had never felt so wanted. I had never felt so good. I had just started to drift into the kind of brainless afterglow that makes you forget every bill you haven’t paid when I felt his mouth at my neck again.

I was still shaky. I could barely get my breath to come back online. My skin was so hot that the cool of his lips should have felt like a relief, but instead it was just another voltage spike, like someone had found a new layer of nerves to wiretap.

He kissed my jaw, my collarbone, the hollow above my sternum. Each press was careful, almost ceremonial, as if he was mapping the territory for future excavation.

When he got to my nipple, he hesitated. Not for long, just enough that I tensed, bracing for a new kind of trouble. He licked, once, slow and flat. Then again, harder. He drew it in with his lips, sucked, then pulled back with a low, deliberate pressure that made me arch off the mattress.

I tried to clamp down, but my fingers dug into the sheets so hard I lost feeling in the tips.

He made a sound, deep in his throat, that I felt through my chest before I heard it. He did it again, then bit down, gentle but firm, the edge of his teeth just sharp enough to flip a hidden switch somewhere in my wiring.

I jerked, a full-body spasm. “Jesus—”

He looked up, grinned, then sucked the other one, this time flicking the tip with his tongue, soft and maddening.

He alternated, back and forth, until my whole upper body was tingling and I could feel the pulse in both nipples, in sync with my heartbeat.

He drew lazy circles with his tongue, spiraling outward, planting kisses along the path, then spiraling back in.

My cock, which had been done for the night, disagreed. I felt it stiffen, fast, and hard enough to be embarrassing.

He noticed. He always noticed.

He traced a line down my stomach, following the lightest path, as if he was writing a thesis on tactile response. When his mouth got to my belly button, he nuzzled in, inhaling, then laughed. The vibration made everything worse.

He hooked his fingers under my hips, dug in, then dragged me down the mattress half an inch. He lined up, stared at my cock, then looked at me. His eyes were dark, hungry.

He didn’t go straight for it.

He licked the inside of my thigh, right where it joined the groin, a single slow stripe, then did the same on the other side. He kissed the base of my cock, then my balls, one at a time, holding each in his mouth for a second, rolling with his tongue.

I was panting.

“Fuck, Ken—”

He shushed me, a gentle, final warning, and then took me, all of me, in one slow swallow. He went down so far, so smoothly, I thought for a second he might have a second throat hidden somewhere in his architecture.

His hand wrapped around the base, tight, keeping me from pushing too deep, but the control was total. He bobbed, slow, each upstroke a glide, each down a suction that threatened to unravel me right then.

He pulled off, popped his lips, and looked up. He said, “Don’t come yet.”

It was not a question, not even a suggestion.

He went back down, faster this time, hollowing his cheeks and twisting his hand in sync. I felt the heat build, low and inexorable.

I tried to warn him, “Ken, I’m—”

He squeezed at the root, clamped down, and waited for the urge to pass. He watched me, unblinking, until I stopped shaking. Then he backed off, let my cock rest against my stomach, the head slick and throbbing.

He grinned. “Good?”