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And then, slowly, fatalistically, she drops to her knees, right in front of me, her hair a wet pelt against her head, her eyes locked to mine.
Is she going to do what I think? What I am now hoping against hope?
Her lips, always painted a bright red, have been kissed free of cosmetics and are simply pale pink, full and perfect. My fingers find their way to her hair, stroking it gently at first.
Then she opens her mouth and takes my tip—just my tip—inside, encircling me with her tongue, testing herself and me, and I find my fingers curling tighter, fisting around her hair, and I’m trying not to hold her still and push myself farther forward. It should be at her pace; she’s tentative and I gather this is new for her too, that she hasn’t done this often, maybe never. Power is an aphrodisiac.
I want to roll my hips and claim her mouth; I want to feel the back of her throat, hitch myself in deep and far. I don’t, but I do hold her hair tightly, as though it alone will save me. I am drowning in this—in her.
And then, out of n
owhere, she moves her mouth along my shaft, and my tip hits the softness at the back of her mouth. I cry out, a hoarse sound that might be her name or might be a curse, and I throw my head back for a second, letting my body feel everything. But only for a second because I want to watch her. Her on her knees, her hair drenched by the shower, her body pale and creamy except for the pale pink patches I’ve left with my stubble and my touch.
She draws back, rocking on her knees a little, and then swallows me again, making a little sucking noise that is hotter than I can say.
My breath hitches in my throat and she pulls away, looking up at me, removing her mouth. ‘Show me what you want,’ she says.
‘You’re doing it,’ I promise throatily.
‘No—’ And she knows me so well, knows what I want. ‘Show me.’ She lifts a finger to my hands that are curled in her hair, her eyes challenging me. ‘I’m not made of glass,’ she whispers.
God, she’s in my head. She hears my thoughts. It terrifies me. But she’s right. I am treating her more gently than I want to, and she doesn’t want that.
‘Show me,’ she says again.
‘Because you haven’t done this before?’ I ask, needing to hear it. Getting off on the admission.
She shakes her head. ‘Never.’
Fuck. I’m done for. I’m fucking done for.
The darkness within me consumes me then, the need to possess her and own her and fill her up with me takes over. Almost against my will, my hands push her head forward, bringing her back to my cock. A thread of concern runs through me and I hear myself say, ‘Tell me if I’m too much for you...’
‘You’re definitely too much for me,’ she says, a small laugh on her face that is taken away when I throb into her. I push her head all the way forward; my cock fills her mouth and I jerk my hips back and forth, fucking her lips, my fingers digging into her scalp. Her eyes hold mine and then, as I move her, she drops a hand between her legs and touches herself.
It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever done.
Her mouth is so moist and I’m so far back, her tongue flattened by me. I know I need to look after her, and I pull back out to let her recover before taking her mouth once more.
She makes a moaning noise and I see that she’s climaxing again, her body quivering.
And I can hold off no longer. ‘I’m coming,’ I grunt, letting go of her hair, giving her a chance to pull away, but she catches my wrist and lifts it back, her eyes warring with mine.
Fuck.
I hold her right against me, so deep her lips encircle the base of my cock, and I thrust twice more into her mouth, releasing myself with a guttural oath, giving her my seed and holding her there while I shake with the power of my release.
I am weakened and strengthened by this. I reach down for her, grabbing her under her arms and lifting her, her wet body sliding along mine as I cradle her against me. I step out of the shower, using the voice command to turn it off. I have a stack of freshly laundered towels on the bench—not my work, obviously, so much as the cleaners who come and look after this place—and I wrap one around her as best I can, without relinquishing our bodies’ contact. Her eyes are heavy, dropping shut as though weighted with cement.
But as we reach the bed and I lay her down gently she smiles at me, her lips curving upwards and her eyes holding mine. There is a silent question we each pose the other: Are you okay? She smiles and I return it.
We’re better than okay.
She is asleep almost the second her head hits the pillow. I towel her dry gently, squeezing water out of her hair so that she doesn’t feel uncomfortable, and then I pull a sheet up around her.
She smiles in her sleep and rolls onto her side, facing the emptiness of the bed. I look at her for a moment and think of going downstairs, of having a Scotch or a coffee or a fucking sandwich. But instead I peel back the sheet and lie in bed beside her, staring at her, watching her sleep, envying the ease with which she’s found peace.
I watch her and, the next thing I know, she is watching me and it’s morning.
