13. Chapter 13 #2
Henrik seems entirely unconcerned with the state of his chair as his palms glide over my thighs, thumbs digging into the skin as if he can’t help himself from being at least a little rough.
I noticed that the other night, too. That he was on the edge of losing control, as if trying to hold back whatever it was clambering to break through.
But I’ve caught glimpses of it. The beast within. The animal lurking behind that wild glint in his eyes, desperate to be uninhibited and free. Something within him that’s tired of being locked up. That’s restless and yearning for a taste of something real.
I wonder what it would take to break that cage wide open.
Henrik hovers over me, as if in stasis, his fingers indenting into my flesh. My dick strains toward the lips poised only inches above my crown.
“Henrik, would you please put your mouth on me?” I all but beg.
Those seem to be the magic words.
He grins, as if ever so pleased, and slowly lowers his face to my crotch.
I inhale sharply as Henrik detours to the base of my dick, his tongue coming out to play.
He swipes it across my skin, leaving wet stripes that feel cool in the open air.
One hand moves to my shaft, angling me to Henrik’s satisfaction, as he teases and tastes me.
I squirm, enjoying the sensation, and yet…
In the back of my mind, I can’t help but wonder why Henrik seems so content to prolong the foreplay.
It was the same last time. Doesn’t he want to get to the main act?
Most men do. They want to fuck and be done.
Or they want me to give them a show. Most don’t linger the way Henrik does.
“Mal,” the man says, grabbing my leg and hoisting it over his shoulder.
I snap back to attention and grip the armrests tightly as Henrik’s tongue laves lower. With a groan, my body turns to jelly.
“That’s right,” Henrik murmurs against my skin. He tugs my ass to the very edge of the chair until I’m hanging half off of it, Henrik’s broad shoulders the only thing keeping me from slipping to the ground. Then he ducks his head again and…
“ Oh ,” I breathe out, plunking my head against the chair back as Henrik swirls his tongue over my opening slowly, again and again, as if he has all the time in the world.
I briefly worry I should be doing more to pleasure him .
That’s what I’m here for, after all. But Henrik’s insistent tongue stops teasing and pushes , breaching me, and all remaining coherent thoughts scatter like the wind.
I moan, the sound broken and reedy, as the smooth, wet surface of his tongue slides in and out of me, working further each time.
I wish it could reach deeper. I wish he could truly fuck me with it.
The surface is slick enough lube wouldn’t be a necessity.
I wish he could reach my prostate and flick that clever tongue against me until I was crying out his name, clamping tight and shooting across my abdomen.
The fantasy is vivid in my mind, and for a moment, it almost feels real, but then I realize it’s two of Henrik’s fingers sliding inside of me, wet and wonderfully deep as his tongue drags around my rim once more.
I pant, squirming as those fingers find their intended target, rubbing over that sweetest of spots as Henrik’s arm comes around my lifted leg, hand touching my stomach and fingers sliding under my shirt.
He seems to anchor himself there, fingers splayed wide, clutching my abdomen as it heaves underneath his palm, as my breaths come shorter and shorter, as heat and electricity spread out from every point he’s touching me.
“Hen,” I groan, my dick twitching as he removes his fingers to make room for his tongue, pushing it as deeply as it will go.
I can’t take it any longer. I grab my erection, stroking as Henrik pushes his fingers back into me, reaching and rubbing and pressing just so.
His tongue never strays far, gliding around my rim, occasionally sliding alongside his digits, soft and wet.
I cry out as I hover on top of that precipice, my body coiling tight as it fights the inevitable, wanting desperately to come and yet never wanting the torture to be over.
But Henrik pushes his fingers deep, flicks his tongue once more, and I’m done for.
A hoarse shout leaves my lips as I grab Henrik’s hair and come.
My erection swells, and I spill over my fist onto my shirt, my ass clamping tight against Henrik’s digits as he guides me through my release.
He rubs firmly and then gently, pressing his lips against the inside of my quaking thigh as he slows.
His eyes are shut, head tucked against me, but the tension is smoothed from his face.
And, if I’m not mistaken, there’s a small smile gracing his lips.
But it doesn’t linger. Henrik places a final kiss against my thigh and gently extracts his fingers. He lets my leg lower to the ground outside his shoulder, and then he pushes himself from the ground, his erection tenting his slacks. I reach for him, but Henrik holds out his hand.
“Give me your shirt.”
“My shirt?” I ask in confusion, looking down at the soiled mess.
Henrik raises a brow, hand held waiting, and I strip the tee over my head, placing it in his palm.
Much to my fascination, Henrik unzips his pants with one hand, pulls out his erection, tucks my shirt over his crown, and then begins to stroke himself.
I watch with wide eyes as he stands there chasing his own pleasure, stance wide and confident, hair disheveled, forest gaze dark.
I feel like both a peasant and a king in his presence, ragged and wrung out, sprawled in my makeshift throne. Being watched. Coveted.
It takes maybe seven seconds before Henrik stiffens, unloading into my shirt with a grunt and an exhale.
He shivers, balls up the garment, and hands it to me without a word.
Then he tucks himself away. After a moment of silence in which Henrik’s face runs through a myriad of emotions, he turns toward the table and starts to clear our dishes.
I watch, boneless and perplexed, as he goes about our evening as if that never happened. As if we just finished a nice dinner together, sans orgasmic finale.
After swatting away my pang of disappointment—what, did I think we were going to cuddle?
—I grab my discarded jeans and briefs from the floor and tug them into place.
I wipe my thoroughly used shirt over my stomach, catching the remainder of the mess I left behind, and then I disappear down the hall, dropping my tee into the laundry and washing my hands.
By the time I make it back to the kitchen, Henrik has a placid expression on his face, and the dishes have been taken care of.
I stand near the edge of the island, worrying the granite corner with my thumb and forefinger. “Thank you,” I finally say.
Henrik’s brow lifts. “I have a meeting tomorrow evening. I likely won’t be home until late.”
“Oh,” I reply, taken aback by the abrupt subject change. “Yeah, okay. Thanks for the heads up.”
He hums, walking past me but stalling at the last second. “Night, Mal.”
“Night,” I mumble, watching his retreating form, wishing I understood the dials in charge of Henrik’s hot and cold settings.
And yet, at the same time, wishing I didn’t care quite so much.