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I swallow, my fingers rubbing the sensitive bud. My toes already curl in anticipation, and the wetness creates easier friction.
I want him. In and out…in and out.
I buck my hips once and then freeze. The silence solidifies me. If he’s not speaking, then he’s watching. Is this a bad thing?
It’s partially unsettling, partially arousing, partially I-don’t-fucking-know-what.
I have to see what he’s doing. I can’t let my mind draw irrational conclusions, so I slowly turn my head. He’s in the same sitting position against the headboard, arm resting on his bent knee, and yes, his gaze is locked on me.
I glare on instinct, fire returning to my hellish eyes. Look away, Richard, I speak through them.
“No.” His singular word holds more weight than anyone else’s could.
I have three options.
1.) Go to bed horny.
2.) Continue masturbating with Connor watching.
3.) Succumb to my husband’s wants too easily and let him fuck me.
The second option is the best one, even if it’s difficult. I stare at the chandelier above our bed, and I quicken my fingers. I want to come so fucking hard. I try to remain still, but my legs quiver at the overwhelming sensations, my skin heating with sweat.
In and out…in and out, I imagine Connor pumping between my legs, spreading them wider—
The comforter tosses off my body, revealing my source of pleasure, hand beneath my panties, chemise rolled to my breasts, my nipples exposed as the straps have fallen off my shoulders. I’m so close to coming.
“Richard,” I half-pant in want of him, right inside of me, and I half-warn in threat of him right inside of me. I sit on two polar ends of yes and no. Too complicated for an ordinary man.
Thank God I have Connor, an intelligent one, who can handle my bipolar desires.
He cups my heat, right where my hand resides, and my eyes drill into him. He’s quick. He slides behind me, his legs extending on either side of my body, and then he lifts me against him, my back to his chest.
His assured movements, every one of them, knocks the breath out of me. I tuck my knees together, silently not cooperating.
He grasps my leg and pulls it open again, stretching to meet his leg that seems too far away. I fit between him, every limb touching his limbs. I can feel the shape of his hard cock against my back. I tremble.
“You’re cheating.” My raspy voice scratches my throat.
His lips graze my ear. “Ignore me, darling.” The words sound full of sex. He nips my ear, bites my neck, his fingers pinching my nipple…
“Play…by the…rules…Richard,” I breathe.
“Stop speaking to me, and I am.” He slides my panties off and then guides my hands to his thighs, dictating my movements.
I hesitate, my brain not functioning properly to understand.
He notices, his hand encasing my face while his lips touch my cheek, my jaw, then to my ear, “I see an alternate path.” I’m listening. “I see us abiding by the rules.” Yes. “And me fucking you how we both want. So ignore me. Be silent. Stay still. Do nothing.”
Do nothing.
He found a loophole by being technical with each word to our rules. I ignore him for twenty-four hours, a silent treatment. It doesn’t mean that he has to ignore me, and if we can’t stimulate each other mentally, at least we can physically.
He’s going to get what he wants.
And I am too, I realize.
We both win.
Just as I think it, he lifts me by the hips. One hand on his shaft, he lowers me onto his dick, the fullness blinding my mind. I’m going to come. His low breath warms my ear. “Don’t move, darling.”
And then he bucks up—oh Connor. The deep rhythm never ceases, the friction winding into a giant ball….and I combust.
A cry breaches my lips, a moan that causes him to increase his vigorous pace. My body tightens, and I clench around him, bursting again and again. I can’t see Connor behind me, but I can feel the sweat of his skin, the ripple of his muscle, his strong hand encasing my face as my head begins to loll.
He whispers husky French, sex dripping off each syllable, and my brain is too fried to translate a single word. I glance down, his cock driving into me, fast. In and out. My nerves prick again, ready for another heady, mind-numbing experience with Connor at the helm.
I do nothing.
And in doing nothing, I feel everything.
Minutes fly and his fingers brush my clit. I gasp, constrict, and my lips part, a pleasured noise strangled in my throat.
He spanks the side of my ass.
My back curves, and when he rams up into me, he hits his peak too, his low grunt vibrating my whole body.
He just came inside of me…and part of me wants to take a shower and maybe even change the sheets, a neurotic impulse. But I’m too physically tired to enact that plan.
As we both catch our breaths, he carefully lifts me off him and rests me on my side. My eyes fluttering closed and I can’t will them open. His body is much closer to mine now, his arm affectionately draped across my waist. His lips press on my neck—the last sensation I feel before I fall quickly into sleep.
* * *
I wake to fullness, to Connor thrusting into me. I moan softly into the sheets, still on my side. My body rocks each time he pounds, his cock driving deeper, his hand on the crook of my hip.
I love these impromptu sessions, spurned by his arousal. My knees are slightly bent, which must have allowed him access into me, even on my side with my thighs pressed together.
My eyes graze the clock. 9:59 a.m.
He let me sleep in, and I want to ask about Jane—if he took care of her earlier this morning, even though I’m sure he did. But his punishment still has one minute left—
His hand suddenly envelops my chin, jaw and mouth, pulling my neck back until I meet his gaze. He’s tangled in my damp hair, and the intensity of his blue eyes drills me as much as his erection. His hand lowers from my hip to my ass, squeezing my flesh.
I moan into his palm, the noise tickling my lips.
“First word that comes to you,” he tests me, probably right at 10 a.m.—not a minute too late. He shifts his hand off my mouth, his body and mind meeting mine at once. “Rose.”
“Love,” I say in one breath.
He kisses me, upside-down, while thrusting, and I break
away first as my body reaches its tipping point. I clutch the sheets and practically scream into the mattress, my orgasm electric and more powerful. I can feel him milking his own climax, slowly pumping inside of me one last time.
When he pulls out, he rolls me onto my back. He’s half-sitting, his hand beside my shoulder as he stares down. “Good morning, darling.”
I’ve had so many thoughts that I wanted to share with him in the past twenty-four hours, and they all traitorously flit away, leaving me with the present. I throb like he’s still inside of me, even when he’s gone.
I need a shower, wetness oozing down my inner thigh. “It’s like you’re trying to impregnate me.” My yellow-green eyes pierce him. His sperm already defeated my birth control once. Part of me wants him to say: I am.
His eyes sweep my features. “I get off on toying with science—”
“Fate,” I clarify. He gets off playing Russian roulette with my ovaries.
“When my sperm works hard to reach your egg, it’s called reproduction. Science.”
“The possibility of your sperm reaching my egg right now is a chance happening. Fate.”
“Probabilities are also scientific.”
Ugh. I growl in irritation, about to push him away from my face, but he clasps my wrist. Seriousness pulls between us for a moment. I have to ask, “Do you see an alternate path to have more kids?”
His body solidifies, his features blanketing in a hard resolution I don’t want to meet. And he says, “No.”
It hurts. That one word. I recognize how much I want more. How much we both want them.
“Ça ne peut pas être comment ça se termine.” This can’t be how it ends. It feels like a closing of our future. All I see is a massive door trying to swing shut on our dreams. The ones we’ve built together. Raising eight children together.
“C’est vrai.” It is.
Two more gut-wrenching words.
“Then maybe you should wear a condom next time.”
His thumb brushes my bottom lip, but I notice his jaw tightening. He’s not happy with this verdict. I expect he’s going to say, not yet. I predict that he’s not ready to accept this outcome.
