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I rolled my eyes at him. “Better idea. How about I take a bath, then we do your plan?”
“Oh, if you must.” He set the bottle aside and came to me, looping one arm around my waist to pull me against him. His fingers dove into the hair at the nape of my neck as he kissed me, and my toes curled in my shoes. My pussy clenched, and I momentarily considered hopping up on the counter and letting him have his way with me right then and there, but we had all night. That was pretty rare.
I stepped back, a little wobbly on my feet. “Okay. I’m off.”
Our house was thirty-five thousand square feet, equipped with a library, a home theatre, a hot tub and a sauna, and forty-nine acres of grounds that included the previous owner’s custom built, scale reproduction of the Pavilion Français at Versailles.
But my favorite part of the place was my bathtub.
It’s really amazing. It’s a high-backed, claw-footed copper tub with a white porcelain basin. It was an antique—part of the apartment I’d shared with my best friend Holli. When I’d moved in with Neil, he’d not only bought the tub from the landlord, but he’d had a reproduction made for our house in London.
I started the water running and poured in some bubbles. The tub had good memories for me. I’d spent a lot of evenings lazing in it, fantasizing about the one-night stand I’d thought I’d never see again. Back then, I’d thought Neil was Leif, a hot forty-two-year-old guy who’d swooped in like a sex guardian angel and fucked me silly during a sixteen hours layover. He wasn’t the only one who’d lied about his identity; he’d thought I was twenty-five, not eighteen like I was at the time.
Now, eight years later, we were getting the happily ever after neither of us had even hoped for.
When I sank into the deliciously scalding water, it was like returning to the womb. I moaned with unabashed pleasure, tilting my head back and closing my eyes.
“Have you started without me?”
I smiled slowly. I heard Neil’s footsteps and the scrape of glass on the granite tile. The cool, slender stem of a wine glass pressed against the back of my fingers, and I turned my hand to accept it.
“I haven’t started anything, Sir.” I opened my eyes to bat my lashes at him above the rim of the glass. “Would you like me to?”
He stood and went to the dimmer switch on the wall, lowering the lights. Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, he pulled out his phone, flicked the screen a few times, and “La Femme d’Argent” by Air softly slunk over the room. Despite the steam, I had goose bumps. My nipples hardened, only half hidden by the bubbles. Every movement of the water primed me for his touch.
He turned back to me and took a long sip from his own glass. “Touch yourself,” he said finally.
I drained the rest of my glass in one long swallow and held it out for him to take. Then, wetting my lips, I slid my hand below the water.
It had only taken a few deliberate actions, a subtle shift into his role as my Dom, and I was ready for him. He never took his eyes off me as he took another slow drink of his wine. The movement of his throat above the collar of his sweater drew me in, made me acutely aware of his body. I knew every inch of it, had kissed so many parts. He’d learned all of me, too, so I knew he could visualize my fingertips stroking the hood of my clitoris forward and back. I dipped them down and pressed inside, just enough to coat them in the dense slipperiness that felt wetter than the water. I rolled over my clit again and again, my hips rocking in time and starting a little tide in the tub.
His steady gaze spread a fire in me, raging through my body, tightening my skin and tensing my muscles. I didn’t want to close my eyes, but as I drew nearer and nearer to the apex of my pleasure, I had no choice. My breathing changed, and my thighs moved to clamp around my hand as if to prevent my orgasm.
“Stop.”
I shuddered and whimpered, but I pulled my fingers away from my aching
clit.
He knelt beside the tub, rolling up one sleeve. His hand glided through the water, sending silken ripples along my tingling skin. He parted my thighs and sought out my pussy, sliding two fingers inside, finding my g-spot. When he pressed up, hard, the way he knew I liked it, my eyes rolled back in my head.
“You have to tell me before you come, Sophie. So, I can stop.”
I writhed in frustration. I’d been so close, and now, without even moving his hand, he had me on the edge again. He circled his fingers slowly, and my cunt clenched around them. “Please let me come, Sir.”
My pleading fell on pitiless ears, as it usually did. He stood and reached for a towel. While he dried his hands, he instructed, “Finish your bath. Edge two more times, and I want you to watch yourself. Then, come to the den.”
He left me in there, listening to the chill sexiness of the music, surrounded by silky, perfumed water, and I wasn’t supposed to come? I could have had an orgasm just remembering his hands on me.
I did as he’d told me. I washed, careful not to get my hair wet or streak my eyeliner. When I was finished, I stepped out of the tub and dried myself. When he’d introduced this new game a few weeks ago, Neil had put a full-length oval looking glass in our bathroom. He’d placed a small, padded stool in front of it, where I dutifully sat and spread my legs wide. Though he’d made me do this several times already, the novelty hadn’t worn off yet. I watched as my fingertips parted my labia, exposing my glistening sex. I kept my eyes there, concentrated on the soft sucking and popping sounds of my dripping, clutching cunt. My nipples stood out as hard peaks, and my back arched as I neared the crest of my release.
I pulled my fingers away with a little “ah!” of frustration. Beads of perspiration stood out on my forehead as I fought my body to stop myself from coming. I held my own gaze as I waited for my nerves to calm, for the danger to pass before I started all over. As I looked into my reflection’s eyes, I concentrated on losing myself in my role.
In our daily lives, Neil and I were equals. In our roles as Dom and sub, I was his property, glad to fulfill his every command. The body under my hands was not mine. The pleasure I felt was his. The sensual torture he inflicted on me was an expression of our love and trust for each other.
I squirmed and gasped toward the next orgasm that wouldn’t happen. Disobeying him was not an option; it wasn’t my decision to make.
The walk to the den was painfully arousing. My clit throbbed, and every step I took threatened to tip me over the edge. I stopped once and braced myself against the wall, desperate to fulfill what seemed like an impossible command from my Sir.
