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“Good idea,” he says. “You can muffle your screams.”
“I’ve never screamed during sex, and I don’t intend to start now.”
“We’ll see.” He licks me from the bottom all the way to the top.
I crush the pillow to my face to hide my loud moan, and I feel him laugh as he strokes inside me.
“It’s going to feel so good when you come,” he says with annoying confidence.
“I might have a coronary first.”
“Ah, Missie. I’m never going to wash again.”
I can’t reply. I’m going to come whether he wants me to or not.
But my orgasm remains tantalizingly out of reach, and I realize I’m totally under his control, and he’s only going to let me climax when he’s good and ready. I lose all sense of self, all hope of dignity. I beg him to have pity on me, but he makes me wait, and wait… I’m almost crying with it, close to calling out our safe word, shit, what was it? Some tropical fruit… mango? No, pineapple. The word hovers on my lips… I can’t take much more…
But then he murmurs, “All right, sweetheart. Hold on tight.”
He curves his fingers up and presses, and at the same moment he covers my clit with his mouth and sucks hard. Oh fuck. He’s waited so long that I expect it to hit like a train, but it doesn’t. It creeps over me, agonizingly slow, a contraction of every single muscle inside me, oh holy fuck, it’s almost unbearable, squeezing, tightening… And then the pulses slam into me as if I’m being hit with a tennis racket. It’s going on forever… I cry out into the pillow at the blissful beauty of it… my body jerks, eight, nine, ten times as he continues to suck… and then all of a sudden it’s too much and I squeal and say, “Oh my God, stop! Stop!”
He rears up and throws off the duvet, moves up my body, and in two seconds he’s inside me. We both give a loud groan. I force my eyes open and look up at him, and he bends and kisses me as he starts to move. Oh jeez, he’s all wet…
“Please don’t say that was all from me…” I plead.
“We might need to change the bed,” he says with a wicked laugh. Lifting up onto his hands, he starts to thrust hard. His eyes are so hot I’m sure they could set me alight. He’s moving fast, driving down into me, and even though I’ve just come, the orgasm seems to be hovering around, intent on making a reappearance.
To my surprise, he pauses then, though, and withdraws. Aw. But I should know better—he’s not stopping. Instead he moves next to me and kind of under me, lifts my leg across his hips, and enters me from behind, and I’m lying there spreadeagled and completely uncaring as he arouses me again with his fingers and tugs my nipple with his other hand, and oh holy Jesus this guy is going to be the death of me…
He fucks me hard, and it’s only minutes before I feel my muscles start to tighten again. Luckily this time he doesn’t stop, he just demands, “Come for me, Missie,” and I say, “okay,” and he says, “good girl,” and we come together, him thrusting us all the way to the finish line, then holding me tightly as our bodies lock together as if we’re one statue carved from the same piece of marble.
And then we flop back with a groan, turning into limp noodles in the space of seconds.
“Holy shit,” he says, still inside me.
“You can’t keep doing that,” I complain. “I’ll be a shadow of my former self. Not every orgasm has to be an eleven out of ten.”
“Are you seriously complaining?”
“A little bit.”
“That’s it. We’re going again.”
I groan. “I couldn’t, not in a million years.”
“I only need a second.”
“Alex! I need a snooze, a cup of coffee, and a steak sandwich before I can even think about coming again.”
That makes him laugh, which starts me giggling. He says, “Ow,” and withdraws, then pulls me into his arms, and I snuggle up to him. He pulls the duvet back over us, taps his watch to set a forty-five-minute alarm, then holds me tightly.
“You’re some girl,” he says.
“Is that a polite way of saying I’m a right tart?”
“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.” We both laugh.
He kisses my ear. “I’m serious. You’re a special girl.”
