Chapter 17 Fin
Chapter 17
Fin
“Mila?” I rap my knuckles on the bathroom door. “Tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” comes a little squeak. Does it sound as though she’s crying?
“You don’t sound fine.”
“I am,” she answers, her voice a little stronger. “Except the part where I woke up being molested.”
My stomach plummets. What the fuck? “No. Mila, that’s not what happened.”
“I know. I was joking.”
I frown. “It was a really shitty joke.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I say stupid things when I’m ... when I’m embarrassed. I thought you might’ve realized that by now.” A pause. “Chia Pet?” she adds in a warble.
I smile. Despite my flagging hard-on and the ache in my chest. “There’s nothing for you to be embarrassed about.”
“Easy for you to say.”
I glance down at my dick as I murmur, “It’s not. Not really.”
“You weren’t in the bed when I went to sleep. Did you come back in after you finished on the phone?”
“No, but not because I didn’t want to.” Gripping the sides of the doorframe, I rest my head against it. “I must’ve been on autopilot after I took a leak during the night.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Understandable, even. It is your bed. You might even be a hero.”
A half dozen things flash through my head, none of them making any sense. “I don’t ...”
“You probably saved a pillow from my unwanted advances.”
I give a breath of a laugh, hot air bouncing back from the door into my face. “Not all heroes wear capes,” I say softly.
“Some of them don’t even wear pajama pants.”
“I was wearing them.” Only out of deference to her.
“That was my fault too. But I’m telling myself I was doing us both a favor—that the room was too hot.”
“It was hot.” So fucking hot I thought I might melt under her hands.
She could’ve killed me, and I wouldn’t have complained. I would’ve just enjoyed every minute of it.
I thought I was sleeping, that I was having the horniest dream, when I woke to her tight, frantic breaths; her hands; and her wet pussy sliding the length of my dick. It took me a minute to realize that Mila, my goddess of a wife, was getting herself off. I was just a means to an end. Her sex toy. And I had never been so aroused in my whole goddamned life.
But how do I tell her that? How do I say I can give it to her however she needs. That I long for her touch. That I’m rock hard again just thinking about it.
What I settle on is: “You okay in there?”
“Yes.” Her voice, while still soft, seems a little louder. Like she’s just on the other side of the wood. “But I can’t come out yet. You see, I seem to have melted my face off.”
“No, love. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”
She gives an unhappy laugh. “Oh, I beg to differ.”
“I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree, because what just happened was one of the hottest experiences of my life.”
“I doubt that very much. Not with the size of your fan club,” she says, her annoyance piqued. “I wish you hadn’t followed me, because I was just going to compose myself, then come back and tell you I have sexsomnia.”
“Sounds ... like something I might have the cure for.”
“There he is.” She gives an unhappy-sounding chuckle. “The man I’ve come to know. And assault.”
“Is it assault when the other party wants it?”
“That sounds a bit dubious.”
“I have to agree to disagree. Consensual nonconsent. Or plain old ravishment. I’m down for either, because the thing I have for your ailment is a willingness.”
“You’re daft.”
“Of course, I prefer ravishment .” I glance down at my cock. He’s so down for that. “In fact, when you come out of the bathroom—”
“Didn’t you hear me? I’m never leaving this room again.”
“That might be problematic. My heart medication is in there.”
“You have a heart problem?” she squeaks.
Only that I’ve lost it to you, maybe. “Bad joke,” I whisper instead.
“I might just stay here until you’ve gone, in that case.”
“Or maybe you could come out and we could talk about what just happened. We don’t have to ...” I find myself pressing my hand to the wood, as though I could draw her out by touch alone.
“I think I’d rather eat my own feet.”
“If you don’t want to talk, we could just ...” Fuck it. “Come out, and we could pick up where you left off.”
No answer.
“I can’t be any clearer. I want you, Mila. I want you so much it hurts.”
I turn from the bathroom, leaving her there. For now. I’m so fucking frustrated, because it seems there’s nothing I can say or do to make her believe me. Or to gain her trust.
I make my way into the compact kitchen, pulling out a carton of juice. I inhale a glass, unable to get my thoughts to stick. Unable to chase this low-grade ache from my gut.
Shower or swim?
Or take the bathroom door off its hinges and kiss the strength of these feelings into her.
Consensual nonconsent. What was I thinking? That’s not her bag.
She’s so self-reliant, so unwilling to accept help. And I get it: her experiences with her asshole of an ex would make anyone lack trust. But it feels deeper than that. Like it’s a reflection of her life somehow. Her current existence. A place where she has no choice in the matter but to close herself off. But in her deepest, darkest fantasies, I know she enjoys letting go of that control.
She’s so fucking strong, a fighter. And she doesn’t even realize. The world likes to overlook the strength in women, yet they carry the weight of it quietly in the background, mostly without realizing it themselves. Fucking period pain, childbirth to keep the damn species marching, fear of men, workplace bias, pay gaps, power imbalance, yet they keep on trucking. Resilience —that’s the word I’m looking for. My wife has reservoirs of the stuff. And I find I just want to walk alongside her. Maybe carry a little of that load, if she’d let me.
I know what she wants in the bedroom. What she needs in her life. Love. Support. Trust. And I’ll give it all to her gladly. I want the whole package. The real deal.
With that thought, I drop the glass to the sink and put back the juice as I adjust my crotch. What a shit show. She’s tearing herself up. Meanwhile, this thing just wants to tear her up.
It looks like I’ll be jerking off in the shower.
I don’t make the decision lightly, and while it’s not quite a necessity, I find it’s more pressing than a want. Post-nut clarity is an actual thing, not an excuse to touch yourself, as some might think. Given I’m about to spend a day with Mila being all in her head, I could do with the clearness of mind that jerking off will undoubtedly bring.
I don’t want to spend the day salivating and imagining her unclothed. I want her to feel heard, not just seen, even if she has the kind of body I want to lose myself in. At this rate, it’s not likely to happen again.
Like a sad sack, I make my way through the suite, pausing as I pass the bedroom door. When there’s no sign of Mila, I carry on, pushing the glass door open and stepping out into the walled garden. The air is already sultry as I open the outdoor cabinet and grab a hotel-amenities pack; the eco toothbrush and tube of toothpaste, adding one to the other and shoving it into my mouth. I grab a towel from the rack as I pass. When I say grab , I mean lift carefully , because a snake once fell from between the folds of a towel I was just about to dry my nuts with.
With a deep sigh, I step onto the black rock shower platform, and flicking the dial, I tip my head under the waterfall-effect spray.
The water is instantly hot and the fall of it against my body delicious as I twist my neck this way and that, simultaneously moving the toothbrush over my teeth. The heat unknots the tension-filled coils in my shoulders as I press one palm to the stone wall, letting the water cascade. Letting it sluice my troubles away.
Only it doesn’t, because my mouth still feels full of her, and I still have this need clawing in the pit of my stomach.
I felt like I awoke in heaven, Mila’s wild hair like clouds spilling over my chest. I didn’t know what to think as she pressed tiny licking kisses to my skin. Scratch that—I couldn’t think as all the blood in my body drained to my cock. She looked so fucking hot, undulating over me. And I just lay there like a landed fish, straining my brain, hoping—wishing—she’d make that one slick slide and put me inside.
She was so wet and I was so hard.
And now I’m terrified we won’t ever get to that point again, let alone make this a lasting thing.
I could make her feel so good, if she’d let me. Make her see what I see, show her how she deserves to feel good. To feel loved. She ought to be worshipped, and I should be the one to make her feel that way.
I feel like such a fuckhead. I don’t know what I did to spoil the moment, other than being in the bed in the first place. I ought to have made sure she wasn’t asleep. But as she worked her sweet body over mine, I found I couldn’t care—my need overruling my brain.
Why do I keep saying the wrong thing? Doing the wrong thing? Calling her names just to get a fucking reaction like we’re grade school kids. It’s like I can’t help myself, like my brain switches off when she’s near. I’ll take any kind of reaction from her—a roll of her eyes, her disdain and distaste—as long as she’s next to me.
I stand straight with a growl, slicking the water back from my face. I’m so frustrated, so fucking annoyed with myself, I can barely stand it. And I’m so fucking hard, my idiot body at odds with my fucking brain again.
There’s only one thing for it. Well, I guess there are three.
Cardio. Meditation. Masturbation.
When the monkey brain is in charge, you’ve gotta pick an outlet.
I can’t go for a run and leave Mila to find an ominously empty suite, and I’m too amped for meditation. Not that it’s really my bag, anyway. So I take the option left to me.
Time to work out those kinks with my cock in my hand.
Then maybe I’ll get to move on with my day with a little more sensitivity.
Every male, from the time he hits puberty, is aware of the benefits of masturbation and the ease of cleanup when in the shower. Soap, shower gel, bodywash—whatever ruffles your fun-time feathers.
I drop the toothbrush onto the ledge and slick a dollop of bodywash to my hand, smear it down my chest, then farther to the base of my cock. My palm plenty lubricated, I make a pleasantly soapy upward stroke.
God, I wish Mila was here with me. She looked so fucking hot, all wet and glistening, dark strands sticking to her cheeks. If she was here, I’d press slippery kisses to her slick skin and lick at the drips.
I groan softly. It feels so good. Not as good as having her under me, or over me, but you’ve got to work with what you have. My eyes fall closed as I imagine her here, her dark hair streaming down her back. I’d turn her to face the wall and take her hips in my hands. Maybe twist her hair in my fist instead. Her fingernails would scrape the stone when I smack her ass, just for the hell of the moment. Just for the joy of watching it.
Mila has a body built for sin. Only, marriage is supposed to be a sacrament. The act of giving yourself to another. I tighten my grip and angle my thick crown to the teasing fall of the water, each touch blending into another.
A sacrament, not a sin. I guess it makes sense, given fucking her feels like a religious experience. She feels like heaven.
“ Fuck. ”
My wife. I love fucking my wife. And I love it when my wife gets off on me. In my mind, I hear the sound of our bodies joining. Skin against skin. Moaning and taut, tortured breaths.
What I wouldn’t give to have Mila on her knees in front of me, her fingers digging into my thighs and her pretty mouth stretched wide around my crown.
I tip back my head and groan her name, the rough sound echoing, and the sky above the only witness to my need.
“Fin.”
I press my hand to the wall and drop my head. I’ve got it bad. I’m so obsessed I can actually hear her.
“ Fuck. Oh, fuck. ” My arm works a little harder. Her mouth. Pussy. Nipples diamond hard. A familiar sensation begins to build in my core.
“Fin.”
The second time, her tone sounds less tentative. In fact, it prickles down my spine. I run my fist to my crown and squeeze, turning my head over my shoulder just to indulge my curiosity. Because she can’t be ...
Here.
Yet she is.
Twice. She called my name twice. This is no accident.
Her eyes dip deliberately to my ass, her full bottom lip tortured by the press of her teeth. I take my chance, my heart beating so hard I can hear it.
“Have you come to watch me shower? Or to watch me get myself off?”
“I didn’t know.” Her cheeks flame. “Are you ...”
“Hard?” I turn to face her, my cock pounding as her eyes dip, then widen. “Am I fucking my fist while thinking of you?” I give a husky groan at my next slow, torturous stroke. Not entirely for her entertainment. “Look at me. I’m so fucking hard for you, Mila.” Her eyes are wide as I press into my hand. “You did this to me—made me like this. You were whispering my name, so wet and so ready for me. I’m sorry it freaked you out. But I’m not sorry I’m in your head. Look at me,” I demand. Her eyes rise to mine as the water continues to cascade behind me. “I’m a man on the edge. Take fucking pity.”
“You want me to pity you?” Her voice is 90 percent purr as she steps closer, her hips a hypnotic sway. It’s around about then I realize she’s just wrapped in a towel, my brain working on a fucking delay.
My cock is so engorged, I’m maybe just a few minutes from blacking out.
“Or are you asking me to pity fuck you?”
Joy bursts from my chest. Her question, her conflicted expression, and her come fuck me body language. How did she get to be so perfect? Like she has one thing to be insecure about.
My laughter eases. My smile falls. She’s in touching distance, but I don’t reach out. “I’d take your pity fuck, but not your regret.”
Not again.
“You called me a good girl.” Her lashes are a dark sweep as she keeps her gaze from me, her finger tracing the vivid-orange birdlike head of a heliconia. “In my dream, I mean.”
“Maybe it wasn’t a dream but a memory.”
“I liked that you said it,” she admits without lifting her gaze.
“I know.” A pause. “Tell me, Mila, why did you come out here? To watch. Or to be part of this. I need to know, sweet girl.”
The flower bobs as her finger retracts. She takes a step, a provocative goddess with hips built for that sway. I tighten my grip on my cock, so fucking ready for this. I’ll take the dregs—if she wants to watch, I’ll give her such a show.
Another step as she reaches for the fold of her towel.
Then she pulls.