14. Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
J essica
The next three months pass like a fever dream. We eat dinner together. Sometimes we read next to each other on the couch. More often than not, we end up in his secret room, where I’m Ms. Jones and he’s Dr. West.
The things we do there defy my wildest fantasies. They shatter every boundary I had. In that room, he teaches me to speak the language of my desires.
During the second week of our trips to the room, after his hands have roamed my body, touching everywhere until I’m panting for him, begging for him, he takes a step back and crosses his arms over his chest.
“Tell me what you want, Ms. Jones. Just say it, and I’ll do it. You’ll find I have no limits. There’s nothing I won’t do. You want me to spank you, fist you, call you names, I’ll do it. You want me to make love to you slow and gentle, like you’re made of glass, I’ll do that too.” He tilts his head, running his eyes over my naked body in a way that makes me feel more seen than I’ve ever felt before. “All you have to do is tell me what you want.”
What do I want?
No one’s ever asked me that before.
There are so many options, and I’ve already learned he’s good at all of them—at least the ones we’ve tried so far. There is one thing I particularly enjoy… My cheeks heat as my gaze drops. In a whisper I say, “I want you to kiss me.” I flick my eyes to the space between my legs.
He purses his lips and arches an eyebrow. “I’m sorry.” He raises his voice like he’s hard of hearing. “What was that? Couldn’t quite understand.”
Clearing my throat, I try again. “I want you to kiss me down there.” I repeat the eye flick, exaggerating it this time.
He’s trying not to smile. I can tell from how his lips twitch. “It’s funny. I don’t remember any location labeled as ‘down there’ in my anatomy class back in med school.”
I huff, understanding now what his game is all about. I’m just as stubborn as he is. I clamp my mouth shut and glare at him. At least I try, but his hand is between my legs, stroking and swirling until my mouth drops open with sharp gasps.
“Use your big-girl words.” West smirks at me, annoyingly unruffled.
“I want—I want you to lick my—I don’t know. It feels weird to say!” I throw up my hands in exasperation, glad he hasn’t bound them for once.
“Let me help you.” He’s using his professor tone now. “I’ll accept the following terms. We can go clinical and call it your vagina, or we can go casual and say pussy or cunt.” His fingers are relentless, gliding, sliding, shifting on my core until it’s molten, on fire from his touch. He makes it hard to concentrate, but I know him. He’s trying to make a point, and I won’t get what I want until I learn the lesson.
So bossy.
“Fine,” I snap out, irritated. “I want you to lick my pussy. Happy?”
The grin that stretches across his face is wide, radiant. “Delighted,” he says. He easily lifts me into his lap and lays down beneath me. Pressing my ass, he inches me up his body.
I wobble, dangerously close to the edge of the examination table, which is really more of a firm, flat bed.
“What’re you doing?” I throw my arms out, balancing like I’m walking a tightrope.
“I want you to ride my face,” he says huskily, like the idea turns him on just as much as it does me.
“Oh—uh—okay.”
I’ve never done that before.
It takes a minute to get settled with my thighs on each side of his head. I stay upright, suddenly shy. “I’m going to smush you.”
He snickers at that, as close to a giggle as I’ve ever heard from him, and I can’t help but grin in response. It’s a gift. Every laugh, every smile I coax out of West feels like a victory. Like I’ve won a fucking gold medal.
“You won’t smush me, pretty girl.” His hands glide from my thighs to my hips and in one swift motion he jerks me down, so I land on his face with the full weight of my body.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” I yell, convinced I broke his nose. He must be fine because he pulls me harder against him and ravages me with his tongue, licking, stroking, and thrusting it against my already wet pussy.
“Shit.” I collapse against him, unable to bear my weight as my body succumbs to the pleasure. His hands grip my hips, raising and lowering me so the sensation alternates between more intense to less and back again.
I lose control, grinding against him. I chase the high he offers. It’s in me, the orgasm, growing with each brush of his lips and tongue. I’m almost there when he lifts me off him and flips us around so I’m under him.
I cry out in protest, which makes him chuckle, a sinister sound.
“I don’t think you’ve been properly examined yet tonight, Ms. Jones.” He yanks me down to the edge of the table and whips out the stirrups.
I’m still whimpering and complaining when he slots my feet into each stirrup and then ties my ankles to the stirrups with leather straps. He’s humming cheerily as he binds my wrists above my head, tying them into metal rings that were placed there for just that purpose. I wiggle against the restraints, annoyed and turned on in equal measure.
West pushes the stirrups out, spreading me wide. His back to me, he rummages in one of the cupboards above the sink.
“It’s my turn to play,” he says when he comes back with silver instruments in each hand. “Hemostats.” He holds them up. Clicks them open and closed a few times with a loud ratcheting sound. They look a little like pliers. He points to the middle of one. “This locking mechanism will hold them closed. Don’t worry, though. I’ll pad them so they won’t hurt…not too bad anyway.” His eyes glimmer with a sadistic gleam.
Crap.
Fear stirs in my gut, a noxious swirl that mixes with my arousal and—God help me—heightens it. I’m learning I like it, this dangerous collision of emotions, of sensation. Sweet with spicy. Hot with cold. I strain not away from him, like a sensible person would, but toward him.
West sends me a knowing look, like he always knew this darkness was inside me. Like he thinks it’s beautiful.
He lectures while he works between my legs. “These outer lips are the labia majora, and the inner, smaller ones are the labia minora.” Gently he clamps my folds together in the hemostats.
I moan at the pinch of my tender flesh, at the stretch of it as he bares me to the cool air. I’m a butterfly, spread wide, wings pinned open.
“This will hold everything out of the way, so there’s no resistance when I sink into you.” He slips the black lab coat from his shoulders and lets it drop to the floor. His pants and underwear follow.
A condom and then he’s pushing into me with a sigh, like this is his version of heaven.
“You’re perfect, Ms. Jones. A perfect fit,” he whispers huskily, his gaze unfocused, his breathing uneven.
He grabs each hemostat and pulls them to the sides. It hurts, a burn that washes up my inner thighs, but it’s countered by the stroke of his cock against my G-spot as he thrusts into me. My back bows as I groan, and his voice answers mine with a guttural sound that I’ve never heard before. It’s primal and erotic. Pleasure spirals up into my low belly, tightening it, and then moving to my chest, which heaves.
This must feel good to West too, because soon he’s rutting into me like a beast, like he wants to burrow into my body and make it his new home. He glances at the hemostats every few minutes, obviously enjoying the sight of them melded to my skin.
That tingling, tightening tension grows and grows in me. My body pulls together into a ball of concentrated energy. I’m electrons in a cloud moving together until I burst into lightning. I’m a bomb lit by a single match. I’m a swirling storm about to rip apart an unsuspecting village. I’m so small, yet multiplied into infinity when I’m joined with him like this.
We come together, crying out in unison as he slams into me one last time and then freezes with his eyes squeezed shut like he wants to memorize this moment. To hold onto it forever. When he opens his eyes again and looks down at me, I know it. It’s there shining and unspoken.
We’re in love.
Jessica
The next thing I know, it’s Christmas. West gets out suture. We use it to string popcorn that we’ve popped in the microwave. We loop it over the branches of our tree, which rests against the window. The lights of the Navy Pier shine almost as brightly as the lights on the tree.
Christmas morning, we sit on the floor with our legs crossed to open our gifts. West gives me diamond earrings the size of blueberries. I protest that they’re too much, but he just laughs and says there’s never going to be any “too much” when it comes to me.
I give him a stethoscope I had custom made, only to be used in our special room. The entire thing is black, even the metal parts, and I had his initials engraved on the back, A.W. , in curling cursive script.
When West opens the gift, he stares at it for so long that I start to worry.
“Do you not like it?”
He presses the box to his chest and in a fierce whisper says, “It’s perfect.” I’m shocked when I see his eyes have a sheen to them, like he’s holding back tears. “It’s just—it’s—no one’s given me anything like this before.”
“You mean something custom made?”
“I mean a gift, like a real gift.” His head droops. “We didn’t have money when I was young. Mom said Santa couldn’t make it to every single house and that’s why he skipped ours. I thought it was because I’d done something bad, something naughty. That it was my fault we had no tree. No presents.”
A hush settles between us. This is the first time he’s mentioned his childhood or his mother. I’ve gotten the feeling before that he had it rough growing up. It’s in the way he hoards food in the pantry, stocking up on cans of soup that he never eats, and how he takes such painstaking care of his shoes, polishing them himself, so he doesn’t have to buy a new pair.
“But you grew up, and I’m sure you got gifts then, right?” I ask, my composure slipping as I wait for his answer. Tears build in the back of my throat.
A shrug. The corners of his mouth pull down. “A bottle of wine from a colleague. Cookies from a patient. Stuff like that. Never something like this —with my name on it.” He crawls to me, buries his face in the crook of my neck, and whispers, “Thank you.” I lift my hands and let my fingers sift slowly through his hair. When he finally pulls away, neither of us mentions the single tear that he leaves behind, but I feel it slide down the skin of my throat.
“Tonight, when I make you come, I’m going to listen to your heart,” West says, holding up his gift. “I want to hear what it sounds like.”
That’s what he does. He listens to my heart as I orgasm.
He says it sounds like a symphony.