Cupid

Chapter 10

Ten square feet separate us, that’s it. The length of my kitchen island but I might as well be wandering through the Sahara.

Harper’s here though, sitting in front of me, in a seat I’ve imagined her in a thousand times, so that has to account for something.

Maybe she’s simply curious or maybe, just maybe, she’s really here for what we both want.

The last thing I want to do is pressure her, but the easiest way to loosen someone up is food and the bowl I placed in front of her is nearly empty. “That was great. Normally I don't eat pasta but this was really good.” Harper sings my praises.

“I know.”

“You know what?” The words come out a bit garbled as she sucks up a rouge strand of spaghetti.

“You do eat pasta, you just don’t eat pasta with sauce.”

She blinks, staring at me like six heads have sprouted in the span of a few seconds and cocks her head to the side. “How do you know that?” Harper shakes her head. “Actually, better question, why do you know that?”

An internal war breaks out. Do I tell her exactly how long she’s been in my head? If I do, it might send her running again. I shouldn’t, I know I shouldn’t, but the beast is back, frantically pacing in my chest.

Fuck it.

What I want isn’t fair unless I also bear myself completely to her.

I’m not a man of many words, but I am a man of action with a keen sense of observation. I’ve watched Harper, studied her.

Harper’s a work of art that should be displayed in the Louvre.

The type of painting people travel across the world for even a glimpse.

I spend hours looking at her and each minute I find something new to fixate upon.

Like the one soft brown freckle on the side of her mouth or the one tendril of hair at the nape of her neck that naturally spirals into the perfect ringlet.

I notice more about Harper than I should but who can blame me?

“I notice everything about you. From the fact you prefer all your food plain, or how when you're really focused or concentrating on work, you stick your tongue out. At work, you wear heels but only on Mondays and Fridays. You are on more social committees than I knew existed because you love people. You hang renaissance artwork in your office, and when people ask you why, you tell them no real reason, just that you like it. But I think it’s because you miss working at the museum, so you surround yourself with pieces you miss the most.”

“Oh,” she whispers.

“I see you, Harper. I see you more than anyone else.”

Her mouth parts and her next breath is ragged. “I lied to you,” she says suddenly.

I straighten up. Those are never good words. “About what?”

“Well kind of lied. At Midnights.” Her words are shaky, teeth gnawing at her plush bottom lip. “If we’re going to do this I want to make sure you know what you're getting into. And after that display of…well, I don’t know what, but I feel like I lied to you.”

I wait as she fidgets in her chair, mumbling something under her breath.

“Harper, I can't hear you.” I said gently.

She inhales deeply. “I have zero experience with any of this.”

Silence drops over us, only a slight hum fills the room.

“But you said you weren’t a virgin?” Now I’m getting nervous. It wouldn’t change my answer, not now, I’m in this, but it would change some aspects.

“I’m not.” She pauses for far longer than I expected. “Technically.”

“Technically, you're not a virgin. I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean.”

“It means I’ve had sex but before the other night it had been a while since I had even done that.”

“Define awhile.”

“Years,” she says, almost like a question.

“You're joking.”

“I’m not.”

My hands press into the countertop as I lean in. “But how?”

“Do you really want me to sit here and tell you all the ways men don’t see me or when they do, it usually ends with them telling me ‘you’re pretty but just not my type.’” She rolls her eyes while curling her fingers into air quotes.

My brain stalls like a car with a bad clutch on a San Francisco hill. It makes no sense that no one is falling into a lust induced fog when close to her, while I’m constantly losing the battle to get my head out of the clouds.

“I just don’t want you to start whatever this is going to be and think I’ll have something to add because I don’t. I’m practically brand new and have nothing to offer you in return.”

Practically brand new shouldn’t have my knees weakening but I grip the counter for support anyway. Isn’t my number one rule no virgins? Apparently Harper being on the cusp is enough for me to catapult that rule out like it never existed.

I circle the island to get to her. The barstool screeches against the floor as I pull her chair so she’s facing me. “I wouldn’t care if you came here and everything in the folder is marked off as an item you’ve done, what matters to me is you're here.”

Her breath cascades out. “Okay,” she whispers.

“Do you have anything to say about my original statement?”

I didn’t realize how bad I want to know if she watches the way I watch her.

Her tongue darts out and I fight the urge to press my mouth against hers. Timidly, she replies, “I like knowing that you’ve been watching me.”

“Oh, my Sweet Girl, you have no idea.” I turn the chair so she’s facing the island again. “Finish eating and then we’ll go over exactly what you're looking for.”

Harper takes another bite without any further prompting and my gut tells me something I already knew; she is going to be perfect.

“Do I get to see your list?” Harper asks, thumbing the edge of the folder in front of her.

“Of course. I’m not here to hide anything from you.” Loose paper glides across the table into her waiting hand. She looks it over, too fast to register anything, before setting it back down.

“Harper.” Her name comes out as a soft demand. When her eyes lift and meet mine, trepidation fills her rich irises. “You can ask me anything. Nothing is too small or off limits.”

The delicate skin along her throat bobs as she goes back to not looking at me. “Our first time together you were very…um, direct.”

“Is that something you didn’t like?”

Her hands wave wildly, batting away my question. “No, no, I like it. I was just wondering if there’s a name for it.”

A soft chuckle slips out and a rose wave colors her cheeks again.“Out of everything you see on the list, your only question is if there’s a name for how I act in the bedroom?”

“Kinda.” She shrugs, looking between me and the list. “And to know whatever ‘cock warming’ is.”

My next laugh comes out as a bark. “God, you're going to be so fun.”

The way she looks at me stirs my darker desires, the ones that want to own her completely.

Steal her away from the world and selfishly keep her to myself.

There's nothing wrong with what I like, crave, even. It hurts no one, doesn’t break any laws, and yet it’s an aspect of my life I’m forced to keep deep in the shadows.

Not that I’m trying to showcase it but there's always a chance of ridicule. Which is why I don’t date, and my metaphorical punch card to Midnights is overloaded.

“Labels don’t mean much to me but if you want a name for it, I’d say I fall somewhere between a soft dom or pleasure dom.”

A small noise of acknowledgment comes from Harper’s side of the table.

“Do you know what either of those are?”

“Not really.”

“Look at my list and tell me what you see.” Her eyes dart back down, and she flicks through the pages, but a bit slower this time.

Ultimately she shrugs. “A lot of things marked as interested.”

“What’s not marked as interested?”

Harper lifts the paper and skims through again. I wait before feeding her the answer.

“No blood or impact play, no harsh degradation. No spanking even. I don’t want to cause or see you in any pain.

That's not what this is about, all I want is your pleasure. Everything that is marked are aspects that I engage in because I know they will bring you the most out of body experience. That’s all I want. ”

There's a slight shift in her. Her hips rock in the chair across from me as her neck cranes side to side before she sets the paper back down. “So you like giving?”

“More than you know,” I say and relish in the way her face flushes. “Can I show you?”

Her hands fall into her lap. Everything goes still. Seconds drag on for eons until finally she nods.

“Come here, Harper.” I request, wearing the heavy air of authority like a comforting mask.

I like to be the one to call the shots, I like to give orders.

But what I love most of all is the precise moment when control is relinquished and placed entirely onto me.

Giving me the power to do whatever I want.

And as Harper slowly stands without any further command and walks over to me all I want is to pull every ounce of pleasure I can from her body.

Today couldn’t have been better, the outfit she has on is one of my favorites. Honestly, anytime Harper is in a skirt is my favorite and right now is no different as my cock stiffens in my pants.

“I like being in control. At work, in my personal life, in the bedroom,” I start saying as I lean forward, placing both hands on her hips and guiding her so she’s in between my knees and her back is to the table. “But I don’t get off on controlling by fear or punishment or pain.”

Harper watches with rapt attention as I grip her hips, lifting her to sit on the table. Fingers melt into the softness of her. The fabric of her skirt flows like water as I guide the soft material up her legs. I want at least ten more in her closet.

“I prefer a more gentle approach. Coaxing you into submission rather than demanding it from you.”

Fabric pools around her waist and onto the table. Harper leans back on her hands with a few labored breaths moving her entire chest.

“Does that make sense, Sweet Girl?” Harper opens up beautifully when I spread my legs with her feet pressing into my knees.

There’s not an inch of skin I don’t want to see, but having her partially clothed, with her most intimate space on display for me, is the type of torture I’d die to experience.

“Yes,” she answers, a breathy whisper of a word.

“I also get enjoyment out of how many times I can make you come and all the different ways I can get you there. Probably even more than finishing myself, if I’m honest.”

“Really?” It's not the first I’ve heard the questioning tone when I make that confession, but at the very least, this will be the last.

“Really.”

All I see are pale pink cotton panties and momentarily I’m rendered mute. Nearly non-existent and molded to her center. Nothing to hide the fact she’s turned on and has probably been since she got here as a small damp spot blooms in the middle.

I’m fixated, salivating and trying my fucking hardest not to dive face first into nirvana. “I want you to remember you can stop all of this or even some of it at any time. I may be in control but you have all the power.”

Our eyes meet. Ice to earth. Matching unbridled heat swimming through our connection. “I don’t want to stop,” she says, and it's exactly what I’ve been waiting for.

Reaching forward and hooking my fingers under the band, I peel her underwear from her body slowly, and then unconsciously pocket them. My knees slide out further to spread her wider, before giving her first order. “Show me what makes you feel good.”

Her eyebrows knit together, pouty lips parting with an unspoken question. “Don’t tell me you’ve spent all these years neglecting this pretty pussy too.” I run the back of my finger along her center, forcing a sharp breath into her chest. I do it again for good measure.

“Show me how you like to be touched.”

Her lip is in a vice-like grip between her teeth but slowly she reaches down, only hesitating for a second before doing exactly what I asked.

Inside every molecule in my body takes flight at the sight of her pink, wet center and I have to press my palm against my zipper for even the smallest amount of relief.

Harper knows exactly what she needs. Each movement is executed with calculated precision. Years of being the only one to bring herself over the edge. Burgundy painted fingertips tread slowly through the dark thatch of hair covering the top of her mound, the rest is bare and slick with arousal.

Chain me to the chair because I don’t know how else to keep myself from sliding into her in the next five seconds. One look at her like this, spread wide for me, her wall of inhibitions slowly crumbling as she spins tight circles around her clit and it makes my cock weep.

Harper’s head falls back. A breathy moan falling from her lips

“You’re beautiful, Harper. I should take a picture of you like this, spread wide and dripping wet. Hang it in my office like the art you keep in yours.”

She murmurs something incoherent, circling her fingers tighter, quicker. Chest heaving and hips lifting, she’s seconds from tipping over the edge. “Stop.” I instruct.

Harper’s hand stills, head lifts, and with eyes wild, looks at me with a pained expression. “What happened? Did I do something wrong?”

“Of course not. Touch yourself again,” I say, reassuring and tender.

She wants to ask a thousand questions, I can see each of them brewing behind her eyes. A precious sort of agony circles her irises but she complies. The edge comes a bit quicker. I wait until her head drops back onto the table and I tell her to stop again.

Harper’s a natural, even if she stops with a heavy groan.

Relinquishing control isn’t easy, it goes against everything we’re ever taught.

Humans are wired to make decisions, thousands of them every day.

When to wake up, what to wear, what errands need to be done.

We’re overrun by lists, appointments to remember, and jobs where we juggle endless tasks.

We go to bed then do it all over again, day after day.

Shutting our brains off in order for someone else to make the decisions, is an intimate act, even more so when it's for someone to tell you when to come.

“Start again.”

“Nolan, I don’t understand.”

“You marked edging off on the list, this is your first lesson. Do you want to keep going?”

She lifts up on her elbows and stares at me. Each of us breathing heavily in tandem. “Yes,” she finally replies.

“Yes, what, Sweet Girl?”

There’s a pause. Any answer would work, there’s nothing in particular in mind but I'm curious about what will come out of her mouth.

“Yes, Sir.” It’s a timid answer, probably foreign as it rolls off her tongue but God dammit if it’s not the sweetest syllable.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.