AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Elio braces himself on his elbows, his forearms bracketing my head as he lowers himself, pressing his bare chest to mine. The contrasting hardness of his muscles against the curves of my breasts creates a visceral, primal reaction that makes me clench around him again.
He grunts sharply against my throat in response, dick twitching once inside me before he pulls out.
I hate the whimpering sound I make, but I can’t stop it. A rush of air hits my wet flesh and the lack of him makes me feel cold. I shiver.
Then I jerk in surprise as I’m lifted right out of the bed. I clutch Elio’s neck, suddenly afraid that I’m going to fall even though I know he’d never drop me.
He strides into the bathroom adjoining his bedroom, bumps the light on with his elbow, then plonks me down on the toilet before retreating a couple of steps to stare at me. At some point, I guess right before he picked me up, he put on his underwear, tight and black.
I realize that I’ve never actually seen him wear another colour before. Except for his white pocket square that night at the gala, that is.
“Pee,” he says, a single word of command.
“I can’t… I just… What?” I give my head a shake, trying to come up with something more coherent than that. My brain feels like it’s made of pudding or something. My body is still floating on the wobbly wave of the orgasm he just coaxed out of me.
Or demanded from me.
“Go pee.”
“No, I heard you,” I say, scrubbing the palms of my hands over my eyes. “I just need a second to… recalibrate.”
Recalibrate. That’s a pretty good word. Maybe my brain isn’t fully pudding after all.
“Knocked you off balance, did I?” Elio asks, and I snort, because that’s one heck of a euphemism for what just happened.
The pudding feeling is back. I can’t come up with a retort. So instead I just turn and take some toilet paper from the roll, folding it over and over until it’s a tight rectangle. Then I hold it and stare at it, like it’s going to help me somehow.
“Go pee, Songbird,” Elio says again after a moment of silence.
“I can’t pee when you’re standing there staring at me!” I snap, hot and cold prickles of embarrassment running all over my body. I know he’s right, though, and that somehow makes this situation even more annoying.
I wouldn’t have to be sitting here on the toilet, muscles shaking, blinking like a confused mole rat in the brightness if he hadn’t fucked me again.
But he probably wouldn’t have fucked me again if I didn’t let my arousal take over when I rubbed myself on him before. Caught you, Songbird. He said it so… devilishly. I heard the grin in his voice, like he was reveling in discovering my need, my wantonness. Humiliation makes me want to melt into the floor, and that makes it even harder to relax and pee.
“Can you go away please?” I grit out, tugging the sides of my pyjama top together so the garment covers me up. I can’t do it up properly, though. Most of the buttons have been popped off, and the ones that remain correspond with torn button holes. It’s a shame, and it makes me feel oddly bereft. To see this pretty, cozy, silky thing get ruined.
“Thought I already told you that that isn’t happening tonight.”
“So you’re just going to stand there and stare?”
“Yup. Until you pee. Then I’m going to make sure you wash your hands like a good girl. And then I’m taking you back to bed.”
“I don’t need a supervisor for that. What the hell? I always wash my hands! If anyone needs to wash their hands, it’s you!”
He’s still got his mismatched one glove on, one glove off thing happening. He raises his bare hand up to his face and distinctly avoids looking at it, keeping his eyes on me while he inhales hard.
When his hand falls away, it reveals a crooked smirk.
“Don’t really want to wash them now.”
Jesus Christ.
I guess he’s mostly joking, though, because he does stroll over to the sink, tug off his remaining glove, then give his hands a scrub. After drying them, he opens a drawer beneath the sink and pulls out a new pair of leather gloves, pulling them on in quick, practiced movements. Before he closes the drawer again I see a veritable sea of leather in there. There have to be dozens of pairs in there.
“Have you always worn gloves?” I ask, gripping my toilet paper tightly. “Since… Since then? When you were a kid?”
Without his shirt, I can literally see the muscles in his back tighten up in response to my question. I chew my lip, wondering if he’s going to be pissed or just ignore my question entirely.
