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“Wh- Wha? Mark!” He grabs the plate out of my hand and scoops me up with one firm arm under my thighs. I’m smashed into him as we move out of the kitchen to the side breakfast nook. He sets me on the edge of the small table. Some recipes and papers fall from the surface top onto the ground.
“Lie back.” He says, his voice like sandpaper. I’m still in shock at his sudden change, unable to process what exactly he means. His huge hand presses flat on my chest and moves up slowly to cradle my head, using force to guide me back as it goes.
I stay up on my elbows to watch Mark take the plate of pie and set it on the bar behind him. He leans over me, holding my eyes in his furious stare as he pushes up the hem of my slip. I wonder if he can already feel the heat of me, the pulsing that has taken over my whole being. I’ve never been more excited than with him, like this. His head jerks down when he reaches the apex. “No panties?” Then he turns and whispers a string of something so fast under his breath as he turns away, I can’t catch it. But it doesn’t sound English?
I can’t think about that because he turns back in a flash with something in his—
Whipped cream.
Which is now all over me…all over me down there. It’s cold at my opening, covering above, below, the insides of my thighs. I look at him and whimper. He is staring, his mouth open, watching his handiwork.
“Lie all the way back.” He looks up at me and I obey. He picks up one of my legs, throwing it over his shoulder like it’s urgent. He also pulls me closer to him and lifts me off the table a bit as he does. “Hold onto the table, Ellie.”
I…
He…
I…
His tongue…
His tongue is everywhere. Licking, sucking, biting? Biting! Ow. Sucking again. My whole body arcs up involuntarily. Everything feels so much. So good. So…everything. All at once.
His tongue changes, from soft and exploring to hard and…inside me. “Mark!” I cry out, dying with the sensations. He hums in response and the vibrations of his low voice kill me all over again. Without thinking, I grab his hair, clutching his head to me. He hums again and as his mouth goes back to sucking, hard, he adds his finger where his tongue was.
“Come, Ellie,” He says, in between destroying me with his lips and his hand. “Come, Ellie, now.”
I do.
Even harder than the last time. He backs up to watch me, keeping his finger going, wringing out more and more and more from my body.
“Mark. Mark!” It’s all I can say or think.
“Good, Ellie, good girl.” He says. I look at him and see his hand at work on himself again. I can’t help it, I reach out. I need to feel him, grab his arms, touch his skin. He pulls back. “Now lay still while I paint you.” I start to ask what he means but he pulls his finger out of me and steps up onto one of the chairs. He tugs down his pants just enough.
Finally, I can see at least one part of him, huge and angry and leaking in his hand. He’s angled over me on the table now that he’s up higher. He looks like a mythical god. His suit jacket and shirt are still on, his tie loose, his hair flopping over into his face. His tugging gets harder and faster.
“Grab those perfect tits, Ellie.” He grunts. I do as he says and watch his eyes follow my hands. “Squeeze.” I moan. “Good, Ellie. Harder.” I whimper this time, gripping myself while lost in him and his awed expression. “Yes!” He says, exploding all over me. Hot streams cover my hands, chest, and stomach. He freezes again, seemingly as lost as me. He stares down at me, tracing over what he’s just done with his eyes. Finally, he pulls back and whispers, “Stay still.”
He goes to the kitchen and grabs a hand towel. I watch in shock as he cleans my skin, gingerly, thoroughly, still with a reverent expression. As the last bit of hot ribbons are wiped away, so is all the tenderness of the moment. He stalks back into the kitchen and tosses the towel in the trash. I sit up, wondering what happens now.
Oh.
Apparently what happens now is he fixes himself a plate of food.
“I can heat up the—“
“It’s fine. I’ll see you in the morning.” He says without looking at me, moving with his plate towards his wing of the house. I watch his back as he retreats, trying to sort my thoughts. Was that progress? He let me see him, and he let me touch his hair.
How sad that touching a few locks of his hair feels like a major triumph.
Still, thisisarranged marriage. This is the fight I signed up for. Fighting for him, for us, for our partnership. Are we any closer now than we were before? I remember his voice, encouraging me, teaching me, and also cursing under his breath.
I don’t know if Mark feels any closer to me.
But I’m sure I feel a lot closer to him. It’s his eyes, warmer and softer than I’ve ever seen them. Revealing things he doesn’t want me to see. But I do see them. And they stir things deep in me.
Which is not good.
