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“Hmmm,” he said.
She could feel him relax, except for that one part of him. She twisted her neck to face him. He had his eyes closed, so he startled her with “Were you pleasuring yourself?”
“Thought about it.”
He opened one eye. “This is a thing we could do in the bath?”
She put a hand to his face, so smooth. The way he checked for permission was smooth too. A power stroke, professionally executed. You didn’t see it coming, but once it was there it hooked and held you. “If you wanted.”
He said, “Yeah, I want,” and his hand went to her throat where he held her while they kissed, then he slipped it down her body, to cup her breast and tweak her nipple, bringing his other hand into play, hitching her thigh, placing her heel on the tub’s side.
The suds had begun to dissolve and they could both see what he was doing, where his fingers were and how they played inside her, until Flick could only see the colored streaks and stars that exploded behind her eyes.
The orgasm was quick to build if you forgot about how enticing the lead-up was, and hit her hard. A lot of water left the tub. She’d had a grip on Tom’s forearm as it banded her ribs, as if she’d needed it to stop from floating away.
“That was nice.” He kissed her temple, keeping her snug against him.
She was knocked out by the warm water, the hot man, relaxed from the inside out and not at all sure her limbs would work. Tongue didn’t want to. “Uh-huh.” He nuzzled in the crook of her neck and she remembered he’d been in a state when he got in the bath. “We can—”
He cut the words off, turning her face to kiss her. She wasn’t at all sure she could’ve finished the sentence let alone attended to Tom. It was like she’d aged a thousand years with the pruning of her fingers.
“I think I broke you.”
She waved an ancient hand. “Temporary.” It’d better be. In the meantime, she let him bundle her out of the bath, wrap her into an enormous bath sheet and dry her, then lead her to bed.
It didn’t feel so bad to be broken when Tom was there to collect her piece by piece. The shame of it was he wouldn’t be there when she got the bad news that would eventually shatter her, and no coupon could fix that.
Chapter Seventeen
The coupons were in the bowl on the coffee table. But Tom wasn’t sure he needed proof of purchase because Flick was more than willing, woke him with kisses so minty he knew she’d already been out of bed, and so purposeful he knew she had a plan.
He checked the clock on his side table. He couldn’t be late into the office this morning, so there wasn’t the time to thoroughly indulge.
“Quickie or head?” she said, between kisses across his chest.
If he didn’t think about it, and since he wasn’t yet upright or caffeinated, he might not worry so much about losing control and rutting into her mouth. And he had an idea about the quickie—it involved being almost fully dressed on the balcony where he thought Flick might get a thrill from the risk of being seen, at a time he chose, when he knew they wouldn’t be.
“Blow me,” he rasped, morning-husky on top of the invasion of lust, and she did. A raspberry on his neck.
“Funny girl.”
“Let’s see if you think I’m funny in about...five—” A kiss with a sweep of tongue into his mouth. “Four—” Wet licks down the middle of his chest. “Three—” Her hand around his thickened cock. “Two—” A slow pump, with a kiss to his crown.
“Ah, Flick.”
She mumbled, “One,” with her mouth around his tip.
Nothing amusing about this, everything was coursing want. He came up on his elbows to watch, taking a handful of her hair in his hand to keep it out of her face. He got her eyes then. They were full of glitter, sparks of light and shards of beauty. She liked doing this. She wasn’t going through the motions like other partners had, or worse, camouflaging reluctance. Or maybe that was him, too worried about how this played out, the potential dominance of it, the gagging, choking, eye-watering awkwardness of it with a partner he was unsure of.
Kneeling between his legs Flick worked him over, making everything wet quickly, his semen, her spit, using her hand and—how, God, how—taking him all the way to the back of her throat.
She swallowed on him and his brain flashed white and his body took over, and he moved her head and used her mouth, and she swallowed again and again and he emptied, long, shuddering streams of come that she took until she couldn’t and finished him with her hand.
He flopped to the pillows, dragging her up his side, and holding her close. They were both a mess and neither of them cared.
He felt like he’d crossed an artificial barrier of his own making. Giving head didn’t have to be a suffered-through experience for a woman, it didn’t
have to be all about him being in control. With the right partner, he could let go, let her run the show.
