Chapter 8
SIMONE
Igo.
Cross the couch. Settle onto his thigh sideways with my knees folded, one hand braced on his chest. His arm comes around my back like it's been there before.
"Closer."
I scoot closer.
His other hand slides up my thigh and stops at my hip. Just rests. Heavy and warm through the leggings. He's not rushing. A man who's never rushed anything in his life.
"Before we do anything," he says, low, "I need a couple things from you."
"Okay."
"Safe word."
"Revelstoke."
He almost laughs. Almost. The corner of his mouth moves.
"Too soon."
"Never too soon."
"Revelstoke. Okay. You use it, we stop. Hard. You use yellow, we slow. Green means go. You can say any of those three without explaining."
"I know how it works."
"I know you do. I'm saying it anyway."
"Okay."
"Limits."
"No blood. No permanent marks where my mother could see them at Thanksgiving. No degradation talk. I don't like it. I like praise."
"I know you like praise."
My stomach tightens.
"How."
"Because your eyes did a thing this morning in the shack when I told you you did good, and I've been thinking about it all day."
"Oh."
"What else."
"I haven't. Not in three years. So. Go slow."
"I'm always slow."
"Good."
He lifts his hand off my hip. Brings it up. Takes my chin between his thumb and index finger. Tilts my face up so I have to meet his eyes.
"One more."
"What."
"You tell me right now this is a one-time thing, or you tell me it isn't. I'm not going to be a weekend for you, Simone, and you're not going to be a weekend for me."
My chest does something.
"Is that you negotiating a scene or negotiating something else."
"Both."
I look at him. Really look. The gray at his temples. The tired at the corners of his eyes. The way he's holding my chin like it's a cup he doesn't want to spill.
"It isn't a weekend."
"Good."
"Gray."
"Yeah."
"Kiss me already."
He does.
And God.
He kisses me like a man who's been thinking about it for two days and disciplined himself out of it the whole time.
Slow. Deep. No rush. His beard is soft against my mouth and his lips are not soft at all.
He tastes like whiskey and the good kind of tired.
His hand slides from my chin to the back of my neck and fits there like it was measured for it.
I make a sound into his mouth I didn't plan.
He swallows it.
Kisses me harder.
His tongue finds mine and it's patient and filthy at the same time. He knows what he's doing. The hand on my hip slides up under the cardigan, under the tank, palm flat on my lower back, fingers spread wide. Not moving. Just claiming that stretch of skin.
When he pulls back an inch my lips feel swollen.
"Upstairs."
"Yes sir."
His eyes go dark.
He stands up. Me with him. One of his arms under my thighs and the other across my back and he lifts me off the couch like he's been wanting an excuse to. I wrap my legs around him. My arms around his neck. My forehead drops to his.
He carries me up the stairs.
Not fast. Each step deliberate. My braids swing against his shoulder. He smells like wood and whiskey and the cold air he was standing in on the porch.
At the top of the stairs he turns left.
His room, not mine.
His bed.
He sets me down at the foot of it. Both feet on the floor. Hands on my hips to steady me.
Then he steps back.
Takes me in.
"Cardigan off."
I shrug it off. Drop it on the bench at the foot of the bed.
"Arms up."
I lift them. He peels the tank over my head. Tosses it.
He takes his time with the bra. Reaches around my back. Unhooks it one-handed. Slides the straps down my arms. Drops it.
I stand there in the lamplight in leggings and nothing else and I don't flinch.
His jaw does the tic.
"Jesus Christ."
He steps in. Not close enough to touch. Just looks. Gray eyes moving over me slow. My breasts. My stomach. The softer curve of my hips where the leggings sit.
"You are a fucking problem."
"So you've said."
"You're more of one with your shirt off."
A laugh escapes me. Shaky.
"Leggings."
I hook my thumbs in them. Push them down. Step out. My underwear goes with. I don't plan it but it happens and his breath catches for one clean second and it's better than if I had.
He walks around me.
Slow circle.
Stops behind me. One hand lands on my hip. The other pushes my braids to one side and comes to rest at the nape of my neck. Warm palm. Not squeezing. Just there.
"If I'd tied you to the chair," he says, low in my ear, "you'd have liked it."
"Yes."
"I know."
His mouth finds the side of my throat. Not a kiss. A graze. The beard. A scrape of teeth that isn't teeth. My whole body does a small shiver and he feels it under his hand and I feel him smile against my skin.
"On the bed. On your knees. Facing the headboard."
I go.
I climb up. Kneel on the mattress. Hands on my thighs.
I hear him behind me. The flannel coming off. The henley. Belt unbuckling. Jeans. The rustle of clothes hitting the floor in a pile.
I don't turn around.
"Good girl."
My thighs clench together.
The bed dips behind me. His knees on either side of mine.
His hands come to my shoulders. Slide down my back.
Slow. Find the small of my back. The curve of my ass.
One hand stays there. The other comes around and palms my left breast, full in his hand, and his thumb finds my nipple and circles it once.
I make a sound.
"There it is."
He plucks it. Gentle. Again. Harder. His other hand leaves my ass and comes up to the right breast and does the same thing. Both nipples at once. Rolling. Pulling.
My head drops back against his chest.
His cock is hot against the base of my spine. Thick. Hard. Patient.
"You're already wet for me, aren't you."
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I'm wet for you."
"That's not the word."
My face heats.
"My pussy is wet for you."
"Thank you."
He says it like a gentleman. Like I just passed him the salt. It ruins me a little.
His right hand leaves my breast. Slides down my stomach. Over the soft swell below my navel. Finds the neat strip of hair I keep. Two fingers part me. Find my clit. Don't rub yet. Just rest.
"Wider."
I spread my knees.
He makes a sound in my ear that is low and appreciative and male.
His fingers move.
Slow circle. Two fingers. Not too much pressure. The callus at the pad of his middle finger drags against my clit on the downstroke and I feel it in my teeth.
His other hand stays on my nipple. Pulling. Rolling.
"Gray."
"Mm."
"More."
"No."
Just that. Flat. The word drops into my chest and spreads.
"I decide when more," he says. "Say green."
"Green."
"Good girl."
He doesn't speed up.
He keeps the circle exactly the same. Steady. Relentless. My thighs start to shake. My hips push forward into his hand without permission and he laughs quiet behind me and his teeth find the curve of my throat.
"Keep still."
"I can't."
"Keep. Still."
I force my hips down. Muscles quivering. The circle keeps going. His fingers are soaked. I can hear them. My clit is swollen against his fingertips.
"Please."
"Please what."
"Please let me come."
"Not yet."
I whine. Out loud. Actually whine. The sound of my own voice shocks me.
He hushes me.
His hand leaves my clit. My whole body shakes at the loss. His fingers push inside me instead. Two of them. Deep. Curling forward.
I arch.
He holds me against his chest with the other arm, crossed over my breasts, hand on the side of my throat. Thumb resting on my pulse.
"Look at you."
"Gray."
"Shh."
His fingers move inside me. Slow. Curl. Drag. Find the spot. Stay there.
I come anyway.
I didn't mean to.
He didn't give permission and my body doesn't care. It crashes through me and my whole center clenches around his fingers and I cry out and my face goes hot and he feels it rip through me and his arm tightens across my chest.
When it's done my body goes slack against him.
His mouth is at my ear.
"That one was a freebie. The next one you ask for."
"Okay."
He lays me down on my front then. Presses me flat. Wrists above my head. One of his hands pins them both. The other runs down the length of my spine. Pauses at the small of my back. Continues to the curve of my ass.
Squeezes.
"Spread."
I spread.
I hear him reach for something. Foil. Tear. The weight of him shifting behind me.
His cock nudges me. Thick. He rubs the head along the length of me. Coats himself. Lines up.
"Green?"
"Green."
He pushes in.
Slow. Long. Not all at once. Gives me every inch in a way that makes me feel it stretch me and open me and settle.
When he's all the way seated he holds there. One hand on my wrists. One on my hip.
"You're okay."
"Yes."
"Tell me."
"I'm yours."
His breath shudders out against my shoulder.
"Good girl."
Then he moves.
And the first stroke is deep and slow and the second is deeper and the third is not slow at all, and I bury my face in the pillow and I let him have me.
And I finally remember what my body is for.