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I hear her come out of the bathroom. I smell the mint of her toothpaste. I watch her in the glass, see her sit on the edge of the bed, take hand lotion out of her nightstand drawer and massage it into her fingers.
“Hey,” she says after a century or two, which I’ve spent telling my brain to cool it with the fucking memories of how she feels beneath me, how she sounds, how she tastes.
“Hey,” I say back, turning toward her with a smile that feels like it’s cracking my jaw. Fuck me. She’s wearing her terry robe. It’s tied tight around her waist. It rides up on her hips where she’s crossed her legs. Her toenails are painted the same shade of pink as her lips.
She unties the robe and slides it off her shoulders.
She’s wearing satin and lace, black with strategically placed crimson bows that make me hard before I can swallow. The bra’s the one she wore at the train station. It barely covers her incredible tits. The bows on the panties rise and fall with her breathing, so fast a sane man would offer her a paper bag to keep her from hyperventilating.
I’m not sane.
I have other ideas for helping her to calm down. Filthy ideas. Ideas I have no right to ask for.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say. “If it’s too soon… If you’re not ready…”
“Do I look not ready to you?”
“You look fucking incredible.”
“Prove it.”
I cross the room and reach for the lamp on her nightstand. If she truly means to give me this gift, I’ll make it as easy for her as I can. We can fuck in the dark.
She catches my wrist with cool, calm fingers. “Leave it,” she says.
I sit beside her on the edge of the mattress. I cup her face in my palm as I say, “I love you.”
She leans into my hand, just a little. “I love you too.”
Jesus fucking Christ. I’m supposed to be an expert at this. I’m supposed to know exactly what to do, how to turn her on, when to snap an order that’ll bring her to her knees.
But I don’t want to break her. I don’t want to take more than she can give.
“I’m not made of glass,” she says, because after everything we’ve been through, she can read my fucking mind.
“I just want to be sure—”
“Red means stop,” she says. “Yellow means slow down. Green means go. Go hard. Go very, very hard.”
She’s learned her lessons better than I ever could have dreamed when I picked her up at Debasement. Her lips are as red as the strawberries I fed her that night. Her eyes are still the same whiskey brown.
“All right, Princess,” I say, purposely making my tone hard. I’m rewarded by a flare of hunger across her face. I point to the bottom dresser drawer. “Leather cuffs,” I command. “Hands and feet. Hurry.”
She jumps like a greyhound out of the gate. While she’s digging for the tools, I toss her robe toward the wall. My shirt follows; I pull it over my head, not wasting time with the buttons. I’ve got my belt undone and my fly unzipped when she comes back with the bonds.
She kneels in front of me. Like a goddamn dream, she sinks to her knees, bowing her head like she can’t see the massive hard-on two feet from her lips.
Her tits are straining that bra like they’re desperate to be free. Only a superhuman could keep from reaching down and twitching the black hooks apart.
I’m not a goddamn superhuman.
I’m a man. And I groan when the silk slips away, revealing nipples so hard they’re a fucking invitation to be sucked.
If I do that, I’ll blow my load faster than a fifteen-year-old boy in the back of his father’s Chevrolet. So I do the next best thing. “Suck them,” I tell her. “Left one first. Suck it hard.”
She hated those tits when she came back to me. But I remember the first night I had her in this room. Her nips were so sensitive that a pinch between my fingers was enough to make her safeword. These new ones aren’t so fucking tender. These new ones open up whole new worlds of possibility.
She clutches her tit with her left hand. Bends her head. Pulls the nipple into her mouth, sucking hard enough to hollow her cheeks.
