Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Jackson
D aphne sighs with relief as she steps into our hotel room. Even though it's early by most people's standards, she's exhausted. "What time is it?"
I hold up my left hand. Not that she can read my watch from there. It's ten. We stayed at the party for a while and stumbled home, tired and full.
For the first time in a long time, I feel the way people do in pop songs. I'm a part of her family, and she's a part of mine. Not the way we were last week. Not as long-time friends.
As something else.
Something deeper.
She could be my family.
I could have a family. One all mine.
It's not what she wants, I know, but the desire overwhelms me anyway.
Daphne smiles as she plops on the pleather couch. "Always showing off your wealth." She shakes her head in an over-the-top tsk-tsk gesture. "Haven't you heard of stealth wealth?"
"I'm a corporate lawyer," I say.
She nods exactly and checks the time on her phone. "It's only ten? It feels like three a.m." She tosses her phone on the couch cushion. She's full too. She's wearing the hazy bliss all over her face.
She rolls onto her back and shoots me a wicked smile.
Hazy bliss and anticipation.
She wants to touch me.
Is it all sexual, or is there a romance there too?
Usually, I'm the first person to say there's intimacy to all sex. There's trust, especially when we play with control.
Right now, I want more than that.
I want to make love to my wife.
Have I ever made love?
Or even said make love without laughing in my mind?
Daphne is not confused about what she wants. She looks at me with conviction. "You owe me." There's need in her voice.
Enough to send blood racing south. My heart cares about closeness. My dick, not so much.
Well, not the same kind.
A teasing tone drops into my voice. It's sexual, yes, but it's more too. I'm playing with her because I like her. Not just because I like fucking her. "I don't remember making any promises."
"Jackson." Her voice rises to a whine. She holds my gaze for a moment, waiting, begging even. Then, something else spreads over her face. Epiphany.
Then rebellion.
She's not taking this lying down.
My dick likes it as much as my heart.
She notices my pace. Decides something about it. Some way she's going to tease me back. "Is that how it is for you?" She rises from the couch and takes a step toward the bedroom. "The ends are the means?"
"I tease because I like to tease." And fuck, how I like to tease her. For every reason. "That's the key to good sex, isn't it? Do what you want, in the moment, because you want it. Not because you expect some future outcome."
"Don't trigger Daphne Webb, sex researcher." She doesn't stumble over her last name for a moment. Married or not, she's a Webb.
That isn't how I imagined my marriage. Even with my outspokenly progressive siblings, I always imagined my wife would take mine. Or hyphenate.
But I like that she didn't.
I like that she's a Webb.
She continues, "She'll run an experiment on orgasm denial on you."
"Was that supposed to discourage me?" It's too much fun teasing her. I want to do it forever. In every way.
She smiles, shifting into her fully playful mode for a minute. "Don't even."
"Don't even what? Dare you to tease me?"
She presses her lips together. "No. I'm not a tease. And I won't take this lying down." She shifts into that other mode. Still playful. But sexual. Teasing here instead of elsewhere.
I could stop her. Ask to talk about this. What it all means.
But I know what it means.
I know where we stand.
I might not like it, but I do know.
Better to savor everything I can.
I submit to my desire to toy with her. I let the complaints of my heart fade into the background. I let my body take over.
"No?" I hold her stare.
"No. If you won't deliver, I will." She gives me a second to object. When I don't, she takes another step toward the bedroom. "Can you really do all that teasing without any release?" Her eyes move over my body, stopping on my crotch.
I'm hard, yes, but if she thinks that means I'll give in, she's wrong. I'm good at waiting. Very fucking good at waiting. "Most of the time."
"Other times?"
"I fuck myself." I still make my partner wait. I still know how to draw it out as long as I want.
Daphne's pupils dilate. She holds her pose, considering her options, then she takes another step toward the bedroom and releases her stare. "Is that fair?"
"Life isn't fair."
"And neither are you?" She finishes my thought. "Then I won't be either."
Without another second of hesitation, she fully turns her back to me, unzips her dress, lets it fall to the ground.
"I'd rather come with you inside me." She unhooks her bra and tosses that on the ground too. "But I'm coming one way or another." She does away with her underwear too. The pin holding her hair together.
The light strands fall over her shoulders and back.
She stands there, letting me take her in for one glorious moment, then she saunters into the bedroom in nothing but her silver high heels.
She goes straight to the bedside table. Not for condoms. For a toy. A vibrating pink dildo and lube.
She tosses both on the bed, slides onto the soft comforter, and spreads her legs.
"Where did you get that?" Curiosity drips into my voice. I can't predict her. And I like it. With other women, I've hated it. I've tried, too hard, to hold on to stability and control.
A side effect of growing up with my father on the road and my mother working all the time. That's what one ex-girlfriend said. She was right, no doubt, but the knowledge did nothing to change the pattern.
I tried to hold tighter to control.
The harder I grasped, the more it slipped through my fingers.
With Daphne, it's different. I don't want to push her into a box. I don't want to order her to stop. Or go. Or do something else.
I want to give her space to play exactly how she wants to play. Space to surprise me. To take what she wants.
My interest in introspection dissolves the second she turns on the toy. Who the fuck cares about a deeper explanation for my enjoyment?
A gorgeous woman—my gorgeous wife—is about to fuck herself while I watch.
What's not to like?
"I bring my toys with me everywhere." She says it matter-of-factly. As if it's obvious. As if any reasonable woman travels with sex toys. As if only a truly ridiculous, self-involved, idiotic man would object.
That's true.
Only an asshole insists on being the sole source of a woman's pleasure.
But I understand the impulse. I want to toss that thing aside and fuck her instead.
But I want to follow her instinct where it leads to more.
This defiant, difficult, assertive side of her—
I fucking love it.
Daphne spreads lube over the head and shaft of the toy; then, she positions it between her legs.
She falls back onto the mattress as she teases herself with the head.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Again.
Then, slowly, she penetrates herself. Only the head to start. Then another inch. Another.
Then she pulls back and pushes it inside again.
She doesn't use the full length. Only the first few inches. I'm sure she'd explain it in scientific terms, but at the moment, I don't give a fuck about the reasons.
Only the experience of watching her fuck herself.
Her head falls to one side. Then the other. The one with the mirror.
Through the reflection, she makes eye contact. She studies my expression. The need in my posture. The bulge in my slacks.
She needs encouragement.
So I give it to her. "Don't stop on my account, princess."
The pet name makes her purr. It suits her too. She's regal and poised and demanding as all hell. A princess.
So often, people use it as an insult. To say someone wants too much or isn't willing to work. But that isn't it.
Daphne expects a lot because she wants a lot.
Because she gives a lot.
She looks back at me for one glorious moment, then she gives into her desire. Her eyelids flutter closed. Her hand moves with more purpose. She fucks herself with the toy as she toys with her nipple with her free hand.
Again and again.
Until her breath hitches.
Until her toes curl.
Until her lips part with a groan.
She's close, but she's not there. She can't get there from penetration alone. Even with the vibrations.
She brings her other hand to her clit, and she touches herself exactly how she needs, long strokes of her finger as she fucks herself again and again.
She works herself through her orgasm, moaning low and deep as she comes.
She pauses for long enough to catch her breath then she fucks herself again. No teasing this time. Straight to what she needs. The in and out thrusts. The long strokes of her finger.
She comes quickly, her expression filling with bliss and need and tension and releasing until it's only bliss. Until she's a puddle on the ground.
Relaxed, spent, at peace.
She turns off the toy and tosses it aside.
I wait for her to catch her breath then I answer the dare she issued.
I stay in front of the bed. I stay positioned so she can watch in the mirror, and I strip out of my tie, shirt, shoes, slacks.
The boxers.
She sits up straight, and she finds a position leaning against the headboard.
She reaches for something and tosses it to me.
The lube.
"Bad girl." The words fall off my lips. Pure instinct. A visceral need to play this game with her.
That perfect defiant smile spreads over her lips.
She doesn't say game on because she doesn't have to. It's written all over her face.
Her eyes travel down my body and settle on my cock as I squeeze just enough lube for just the right friction.
She stays there, watching the action with wide-eyed wonder as I stroke myself.
I try to start soft, but I'm too revved up, and she's naked on the bed, flushed and wanting and daring me to come for her viewing pleasure.
I don't have the patience for soft.
Or teasing.
Or build up.
The second I make eye contact through the mirror, I give in to the need coursing through me. I tighten my grip. I move at just the right speed.
I come far too fast.
But she doesn't mind. She watches wide-eyed, like she's taking notes, like she's committing every moment to memory.
She stands and offers me a tissue and watches as I clean myself.
"So this is game on, huh?" Her eyes meet mine. "Whoever breaks first loses."
"How do you define breaking?"
"Touching below the waist." She presses her lips to mine. A soft, slow kiss. One with the perfect mix of promise, heat, affection.
Then she pulls back, slips into pajamas, gets ready for bed like this is any normal night.
Like she isn't driving me out of my fucking mind.
Like she's sure she's going to win this game without trying.
In the morning, we pack, check out, drink too much tea and coffee during a brunch with the entire party.
Then we head out with Cassie and Damon.
Laurel and Zack drive back with the grooms.
Even though we don't hit traffic, and we only stop to refill our drinks and use the bathroom, the drive feels far too long.
We get back to my place in the afternoon.
It's Monday. I only have one more day of vacation. My boss insisted I have a proper honeymoon.
One day isn't enough.
But I'm going to savor every moment of it.
Finally, Cassie and Damon say goodbye and drive back to Mom and Dad's house in Mom's car.
Daphne leaves for two hours to gather enough to stay here for a few weeks.
I use the time to grab groceries and fix dinner.
She walks into a house that smells of oregano and tomato.
But she's not alone.
My parents are with her.
Hers too.