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“I don’t know. It didn’t go well the first time.”
“I thought it went pretty well.” He had to reach down to adjust himself. His jeans weren’t the most comfortable vessel for containing a hard-on of this magnitude.
“You looked like you wanted to assassinate it.”
“I promise. That’s not what I was thinking.”
“Like I spoiled your favorite toy.”
Closer to the mark.
“It’s not spoiled.”
“It’s not a toy, either, Steve.”
He met her eyes. She was more pissed off than he’d realized. He was, too, and he didn’t know why.
He wanted her to stop calling him Steve. “You kind of sprang it on me.”
“Poor baby.”
“What do I have to do to make up for it?”
“I don’t know. Compose an ode?”
“To your bare pussy?”
“Too ridiculous?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Let me think.”
She tapped her fingers on the mattress, eyes on the ceiling. He slid his hand up her thigh. Over her waist. He cupped her breast. “You move fast, Steve.”
He leaned down, shoved a swoop of black fabric out of the way, and took her nipple in his mouth.
Her skin smelled like citrus and candles up close. Not candles. Chocolate-chip cookies.
Vanilla. Reminded him of baking.
The bunched shape of her nipple in his mouth reminded him of his wife, their bed, the hot welcome of her body.
This bed could be their bed. He could be her husband here. Make her say his name.
He sucked the way she liked him to. Hard, long pulls, with his free fingers flicking over her other nipple through the fabric. His thumbnail scraping over it as his tongue worked the wet one. Normally a soft pink, they darkened when he did this, marked by his mouth, the sensitive skin around them turning rosy from his stubble.
It always made him harder, seeing how he’d marked her.
She sighed and placed her hands on his hair.
He kissed the top of her breast and the space in between.
“I like what you’ve done with the landscaping,” he said solemnly.
“Thank you.”
“If you want, I’ll compose a poem with a lot of very bad stuff about wet roses in it.”
