Chapter 21 Madison
Madison
Don’t you think we’ve delayed this gratification long enough?
My knees are still shaking from Wesley’s little miracle vibe as we move into the bedroom.
He’s so hard and seems so keyed up that I kind of expect him to immediately reach for me when we’re within dwarf-tossing distance of the bed, but he holds up a finger and disappears.
When he returns to the room, he’s holding a big glass of water that he hands to me as I settle on the bed.
“Drink it,” he instructs.
“Bossy,” I mutter, but don’t hide the smile as I do as he says.
When he looks up and sees my glass is empty, he holds out his hand for it and sets it aside. He starts carefully unrolling his sleeves, eyes downcast and focused on the task. “Now that we’ve settled that, are you ready to begin?”
A thrill zings through me. “Say that a little more ominously. I don’t think all the blood in my body is in my crotch quite yet.”
He ignores my joke, dark eyes glittering. “Stand up, please.”
Dios, that tone. And for some reason, it’s the please that gets me. A totally unnecessary courtesy. A demonstration of restraint through politeness. A reminder of the need for mutual respect.
I stand. Suddenly, I feel exposed—I’m acutely aware of my own nudity once again, and my nerves are alive with it.
“Turn around and spread your legs.”
“Oh, we’re not messing aro—”
“Do you want to be gagged for this, Madison?” he asks, voice dropping.
I shake my head. My nipples are so hard they could cut glass, and my pulse is pounding in my throat. “Maybe if you use your dick,” I mutter as I spin.
What can I say? I’m physically incapable of relinquishing the last word.
He heard me, and his laugh is just as low and dangerous as his Dom voice. “Don’t mistake me: I love that smart mouth—I can’t wait to fuck it. Before we get to that, I just… I want to look. Lean forward. Grab your ankles if you can.”
My insides clench so hard it hurts. There’s an intense kind of vulnerability in being naked while the other person is still dressed, and this takes that hot, twisty feeling up to 11. No hiding. A display just for him.
Feeling a little dizzy, I slowly lower myself and grab my ankles. I have to shift my hips back to maintain balance, and I know it opens me up almost lewdly. I can feel the draft of cool air against my throbbing, hot, tender skin.
His breath heaves out, stuttering towards the end of the long breath. “Fuck, Madison.”
My face heats, and it’s only partially because the blood is rushing to my head in this position. I bite my lip and throw him a look over my shoulder as I straighten. “You say that, but you’re still standing all the way over there.”
It’s a dramatic overstatement, but I think I’m going to die if he doesn’t close the four-foot distance between us and just fucking fuck me already. His sleeves are down and he started unbuttoning his shirt, but he’s still totally covered up. And he doesn’t make a move towards me.
There’s a small shift in his expression as his eyes rake over me. A frisson of uncertainty, of longing so sharp it pokes holes of doubt all over.
“Wesley?”
Snapped out of a trance, his eyes bore into mine, dark and intense.
He makes a contemplative humming noise. “Honestly, I’m… at something of a loss. There’s so much I want to say, but I… I don’t have the right words for you. For me. For… this.”
I suck in a breath. “Wesley—”
My breath catches in my throat, and my stomach twists. The reverence in his voice slips right through all the cracks in my walls—suddenly, I’m rooted in place, watching him look down at me as emotions bubble up that I’m a little scared of.
We’re… here. Together. It’s real. It’s him. Between the impossible situation and the repeated setbacks, some part of me never thought this would really happen, so I don’t feel ready for it.
Before last week, SpyderMan only existed as words on a screen—and somehow, despite that, he’s got a piece of my heart anyway.
Because at the end of the day, who are we, really, beyond the words we choose and use?
His words have made me happy. They’ve inspired me, comforted me, teased me, challenged me and changed me.
I fell for his words a long time ago, and I was prepared to let him keep that piece of me, even if we never met in person.
But now… we’re finally together.
I understand exactly how he feels—I’m at a loss, too.
I don’t know whether I want to stare or touch or taste him first, because I want it all.
And there’s this strange pressure hanging around us, like expectation and fear.
We’re not afraid of each other, exactly—we’re afraid of this moment, because it feels so important.
It’s one of those rare occasions when you know ahead of time that everything is about to change.
“Kiss me. Please.”
His breath heaves out, and he closes the distance.
When he reaches for me, I brace myself, but instead of feeling his palm hitting my throat, as he’s so fond of doing, he tucks a lock of hair behind my ear and lets his fingers slide down the length of my jaw.
His thumb gently caresses my bottom lip.
“You’re so beautiful, Madison.”
Goosebumps prickle on my skin, though it’s a toasty 70 degrees in here. I press harder into his hand. “So are you.”
He continues stroking the callused edge of his thumb across my cheek, almost absently. After a few seconds of intense eye contact, I start getting antsy. “Don’t you think we’ve delayed this gratification long enough?” I ask, knowing how frustrated and hopeful I sound.
His lips quirk, and he kisses me. Barefoot, I feel every inch of the height difference as he spins us and walks me backwards towards the bed.
When the back of my thighs hits the mattress, I break away, gasping for air, bending backwards in his arms until he has to let go of my face to catch me around the waist. Even then, he pursues, following and burying his face in my shoulder.
There’s a sharp sensation as he bites the skin there, and a spasm of need wracks my body.
When I make a pathetic little whimpering noise, he pulls away and releases me.
Realizing he wanted the space so he could start undressing, my mouth drops into a little O and I fall gracelessly onto my ass, totally transfixed.
Butterflies start fluttering around like mad, making my insides roil and tingle.
This is it.
He’s meticulous and deliberate as he unbuttons his shirt and drapes it over the edge of my office chair. His pants get the same treatment, and then he’s standing only in a pair of boxer briefs, looking like he’s trying to smuggle a traffic cone.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
The first thing I notice is the tattoos, but only because they’re so bright and so copious.
This is a man who understands patience and can sit still through days—weeks, most likely—of discomfort and outright pain of needles depositing ink under skin.
Shapes and colors draw a continuous pattern, though a few stand out images strike me—a British flag, a gravestone, a red rose in the mouth of a skull, an ace of spades…
“Beautiful,” I breathe, pulling back on the need to run my fingers over them. “Did the same artist do them all?”
“Most,” he says, looking down and smoothing a hand across his flat abdomen. Somehow the tattoos accentuate the ridges, making them look even harder and emphasizing the cut of the V that disappears under the band of his boxers. “I had to find someone new when I came over here.”
I can’t wait to touch every single one, but there will be time for that later.
And it’s fitting because his body is a different kind of work of art.
He looks so… strong in a way that’s thoroughly exciting.
Solid. Firm. He’s all rock-hard hills and valleys, with a smattering of light brown hair across his chest. My eyes drop to his package, and I stare unashamedly as he pulls down and steps out of his boxers.
His cock springs up, curving slightly towards his body.
Excitement coils and uncoils deep inside me at the sight. I was right—it’s pretty.
Like, I know that objectively, dicks usually aren’t. His is.
He smiles wickedly, seeing the intensity of my focus. “If you want this, show me what a good girl you can be for it,” he instructs, reaching down and gripping his length at the base. It makes it jut out from his body further and look even longer. “Lean back and open your legs.”
That normal bristling feeling I get at the phrase be a good girl is nowhere to be found. Just eager submission—like my need for this man overwrites any resistance to being told what to do. “Yes, Sir.”
I scoot back a few inches and lean my weight onto my hands so I can draw my legs apart for him. He takes a stiff step towards the bed, and my stomach drops in a pure rush of excitement. Then, he stops himself, meeting my eye. The intensity there is almost scary.
“Tell me what you need now, Madison,” he orders, giving his cock a firm stroke that steals my breath. “It’s hard not to lose control around you, and once I’m inside that perfect cunt I know I’ll be lost. What can I do to make sure you’re comfortable?”
It’s hard to tell which warms first—my face or my heart.
“Well, we’ve got that,” I nod at the vibrator he made me.
Then, I eye his size, stretch to the side and reach for the bottle of lube in the top drawer of my bedside table.
I tilt it towards the fingers on my left hand, but as I start squeezing, he clears his throat.
With a smile that feels equal parts thrilled and shy, I hand it to him.
“Lie back, my love.”