Chapter 31 #3
This is what Henry has always wanted from me.
The rough stuff, the mean stuff, the exposure and the humiliation, that’s my idea of submission.
But this is his. My doe eyes. My pliability.
The stuff that hives my skin but is knotting me up all hot and tight every time I glance at the windowsill to see Henry’s phone turned on us.
I am being forced to do it like a sweet, normal girl, I tell myself, and yet it is also what I want.
Henry and I are standing in the glow of the fire, swaying together like someone is sawing a violin off camera.
He wedges a finger under my chin and lifts my face to his.
His eyes are a metallic gray-blue, and my fingers are drawn to the swell of his pink lips.
Henry gives me a discreet nod. That’s right. That’s good, Faye.
He slips his hand beneath my hair and kisses me, walking me until the backs of my knees bump the edge of the bed.
“Tell me you missed me,” he says into my ear. He sits me down, kneels in front of me, waits.
I say it, staring at his mouth I have missed like home.
Henry kisses me, says with his lips on mine, “So sweet.” A filthy noise comes out of me, one he does not need to ask for.
He slides off my pants. He unbuttons my shirt and pushes it down my shoulders where it catches on my elbows and stays.
He’s sitting on his heels, between my legs, and he’s toying absentmindedly with my pussy, watching as my jaw goes slack, as my cognitive abilities decline.
“I love when you spread your legs for me,” he says, and then he puts his warm hands on my knees and pushes them flush against the edge of the bed.
He lowers his head and in a slow and specific pattern, his tongue makes its way up my inner thigh, tracing his next instruction.
An M at my knee, an O where a miniskirt stops, an A…
I moan obediently at the place where he draws the last letter.
My fingers in his hair, one hand behind me for balance.
I lift myself into him and release, the nanosecond beat between his lush mouth and the cool nothing air inducing an agonizing, ever more urgent rhythm.
Pleasure stabs at my middle, and I let out a pained whimper that I have not gotten what I need yet, that I will too soon.
“Fuck,” I say, clutching the hair at his scalp and smashing his mouth into my clit.
“Fuck.” Something is spilling inside of me, creeping into my every corner, filling me with a warm, impossible feeling.
I slip a hand between us and pull myself farther apart, and with his tongue Henry pens my pussy a love letter.
Home, he writes. My pussy is home. Safe.
My pussy is safe with him. Safe. Safe. Safe.
The word is an accelerant. I fuck his face.
I am safe. I show him everything. I am safe.
I thrust myself into his mouth, I give him everything, and I ride the release like a lucid dream.
Henry, I am marveling while my body soars over the atmosphere.
I soar and I soar and I soar and I land in the palm of his hand.
Henry is covering me, holding me like you would an open, pulsing wound to limit its exposure to air.
I curl over him, kiss myself on his mouth, reach down between us and undo his belt, unbutton his pants.
Henry rises over me and crosses his arms over his torso, gripping the hem of his shirt and sliding it over his head, tossing his sandy hair this way and that.
I put my hands on his lean torso. I look up at him in awe, tug down on his pants.
He puts his tongue between his teeth and hisses as fabric snags on his cock.
I hold his eye as I kiss the blood-warm head, blow cool, soothing air on him.
A sharp, startled exclamation from Henry, and then he’s picking me up, wrapping my legs around him, dampening himself on me and easing inside like someone trying to find the most comfortable position to sleep.
He lays me down on my back in a single fluid movement, like he picks up Faye-shaped weights every day in his basement, like he’s been training twelve years for this very moment.
My necklace flips up, the heart lands in my mouth, and I bite down like I am in pain.
Henry brushes the hair out of my eyes and mouth, unearthing me, revealing me, and he puts a thumb on my chin so that he can watch my face.
He goes slow, his forehead creased with arousal and determination, and when he can no longer go slow, he buries his face in my neck.
“Say you love me. Say you love me and this will all be over.”
I press my lips together in defiance. I refuse to do it, so that when Henry reviews the tape, he will be forced to say it’s not good enough.
We will have to do it again, and again, until he believes Corrine will be pleased with the result.
I lift my hips to meet him, I let him all the way inside even though it hurts, especially because it hurts.
He comes with a vicious cry, his hand around my throat.
Punishment for daring to defy him, or maybe he doesn’t really want me to say it either.
Maybe he is also realizing that the moment I do what he says is the moment this ends.
I love him, and that’s why I won’t say it.