7. Cat
7
Cat
No More Hiding
I dry my hair enough to keep it from being limp when I twist it up into a clip. Minimal makeup and a simple sundress. No big effort, but not a complete lack of one. I’d rather change into pajamas and hide away from the public, but I know that’s the wrong choice.
Giving up is easy, and I’ve taken it easy on myself long enough.
Nash stands and stretches when I reach the landing. I pause to watch him until he catches me looking.
“Any chance you want to go to dinner?” I ask, walking down the second half of the stairs. I turn into the kitchen and quickly look away from his lunch trash that he’s left on the table. Too late. My jaw has already clenched.
“You want to go out?” he asks, clearly shocked by the prospect.
“No. But I need to. Hiding isn’t going to make it go away. And I need to learn to handle it better than I did earlier. I may have said something that could actually make things worse for me if that follower repeats it.”
“Interesting. You’re just going to drop that teaser and leave me hanging?”
“Maybe I’ll explain it over dinner.”
“Well, how could I say no now?”
“Were you going to say no before?”
His wolfish smile relaxes my jaw as if it sets an invisible pulley in motion between us. He smiles, the gears turn, and the tightness in my jaw goes slack.
“The answer was always going to be yes,” he admits. “Let me change.”
My jaw only tenses a little when I look at the table again, but when he comes back into the room wearing a snug white t-shirt that clings to his tanned arms, it’s all I can do to keep it from hitting the floor.
A plain white tee should not be that powerful, but on him, it’s potent.
“Can you please clear your trash off the table before we go?”
“Yeah, I can do that.”
It dawns on me that he couldn’t do it earlier because he was busy taking care of me. Did I thank him for helping me through that whole humiliating episode? I can’t remember anything I said, only everything I felt.
The suffocating shame, the overwhelming fear that I’ll flounder like that again, the uncontrollable shaking . . . the warmth of his arms, the calming rhythm of his heartbeat when I laid my head against his chest, the soothing tone of his voice, telling me to breathe.
He washes his hands in the sink. “Okay. Trash is handled. You ready?”
There are crumbs on the tabletop, but I don’t mention them. I’ll wipe it down when we get back. “I was waiting on you.”
“What are you hungry for?” he asks as he puts his car in reverse.
“I don’t know, but the breeze feels nice. Somewhere we can eat outside would be good.”
I allowed it be a foregone conclusion that he would drive, which isn’t how I’d normally handle the situation. It’s hard for me not to offer to drive with a new guy, to make it known that I’m capable, even when I’m sure he plans on driving. Even when I know I’m going to let him.
But I didn’t say a word with Nash; It didn’t even occur to me until he was already backing off the driveway.
His hands look confident on the steering wheel, which is a strange way to describe hands, but it’s the first word I think of when I look at his. I think I meant capable, and that it was a response to realizing I feel safe with him behind the wheel. It makes sense after the way he treated me earlier.
Being in the passenger seat of his car feels oddly familiar, though. Comfortable. I remind myself a kind stranger is still a stranger. We don’t really know each other at all.
More words come to mind for his hands: strong, warm, firm . . . they spool out like scarves being pulled from a hat. And I absolutely need to stop looking at his hands. Like right now.
We drive past a restaurant that should be on a postcard. It’s one of those coastal places that keeps unevenly strung, multicolored Christmas bulbs lit up on the exterior year-round. It has a palapa bar on the patio that’s almost as big as the building.
Definitely looks like the kind of place people recommend for the cheap drinks more than the food—a place where the menu has an identity crisis, and the wait staff won’t hesitate to say things like, “well, fuck a duck” if their pen breaks while they’re jotting down your order.
Our eyes meet, and we both smile. Because that is where you go for dinner when you give zero fucks about impressing anyone, but could really use some comfort food and tequila. Nash makes a U-turn, and as we walk under the faded driftwood sign that just barely still says Aloha, Amigos! and the competing smells of fajitas on the grill and fish in the fryer overwhelm me, I know we made the right choice.
We ask to sit on the patio. There is a man on a stool in the corner, playing classical guitar, music too refined for the mismatched kitsch all around us, but it’s the incongruity that makes it the perfect choice.
A woman who looks like she’s probably worked here since the place first opened sets a couple of laminated menus on our table. “Hi, there. I’m Georgina, and I’ll be taking care of y’all tonight. Y’all eaten at Lee-Lee’s before?”
“No,” we say in unison.
“Well, welcome in. The green hot sauce will melt your face off, but the purple margaritas will numb the pain. Drinks are on the back side of the menu. I’ll be right back with some chips.”
“Margaritas should not be purple,” I say as she walks away.
“I don’t think Georgina would give us bad advice.”
“Wow, she earned your trust a lot more easily than I did.”
“You didn’t offer tips to keep my face from melting off.”
“True. And you do value your face.”
“What are you trying to say, Cat?”
“I’m saying that I think you’re a little vain, Nash.”
“Just a little, though, right?”
Dammit, why does his smirk have to be so sexy? He might be entitled to a little vanity, but I wouldn’t admit that to him if he shoved toothpicks under my fingernails.
“Sure. Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
Georgina provides a basket of chips and two hot sauce choices: the green sauce that she warned us about and a red version that she describes as “still spicy, but tame enough for the kiddos.”
We didn’t bring any kids, but I guess that’s just an expression? Does she think we have kids? Do we really look that much like a couple at first glance? Like exhausted parents?
I know Nash doesn’t look exhausted. And I don’t think most people get dad vibes from him either. Maybe Georgina just assumes everyone our age has kids, and any man and woman having dinner together must be a couple.
People and their damn assumptions.
I ask if the purple margarita is sweet, and she assures me it tastes just like fruit punch. So, that’s a hard no from me.
Nash passes on it, too. We both get a top-shelf margarita on the rocks, the option listed on Lee-Lee’s drink menu as an El Kahuna Grande.
Georgina seems shocked. “Y’all sure? It’s still happy hour. Frozen margs are all buy one, get one free until seven.”
We reassure her we want the rocks version we ordered. She shrugs, shakes her head, and asks if we want queso or guacamole. We opt for both, which seems to restore her faith in us.
Nash braves the green sauce and laughs when it hits his tastebuds. “It falls a little shy of the hype.”
“That figures.” I try it and agree with him. It’s not bad, just not nearly as spicy as Georgina said. They fry their own chips here, though, and they’re perfectly crispy and lightly salted. These chips could make any sauce taste good.
The El Kahuna Grande is perfect, and the breeze is warm. This is nice. I wouldn’t have come here alone. I might’ve just had food delivered all week. Maybe screwing up my dates was a good thing. Weird, but like he said earlier, weird can be good.
“Do you work for the video game company or is game testing an independent thing?”
“I’m a contractor. I almost opened a company that represented other game testers. The idea was that we’d vet them, sign the strongest, and negotiate their contracts to get them the highest rates and the game companies the best talent.”
“We? What happened.”
“The other half of we decided she didn’t need me.”
“You were a couple?”
“Yeah. And now she’s running the company I envisioned and using the name I came up with.”
“Rude. Do you have any legal recourse?”
“No. But I don’t know that I’d use it if I did. Some things happen for a reason, and sometimes it’s better to just let it go.”
“Wow. That’s a very Zen attitude. How long ago did it happen?”
“About six months.”
I nod, doing the math in my head and hoping I’ll feel that nonchalant about things in a few months. Aiden was never part of my business, but I made the mistake of hiring his best friend, who ended up not being the hotshot developer Aiden swore he was.
It wasn’t even my idea to add a digital feature to my product line. Aiden may not have been my business partner, but he definitely influenced my decisions. I knew better. Won’t make those mistakes again.
I lift my glass. “To better decisions and brighter futures.”
“Cheers to that.” He taps his drink to mine and our ice cubes clink against the glasses sweating in our hands as our margaritas slosh dangerously close to the rims without spilling over.
When our appetizers come out, we order entrees. I think I’ll be too full of chips and salsa and cheese and avocado to eat anything else, but if all their food is this good, I might have to try. So far, Lee-Lee’s is exceeding my expectations.
Nash nods his approval when he crunches into a chip covered in queso.
“I thought you only ate cheese on pizza.”
“Pizza and queso.”
“In other words, you just don’t eat it on salad.”
“I knew you were one of those brainy girls the moment I saw you.”
We munch and chat effortlessly while the calming breeze wafts complex guitar chords across the patio. Nash tells me how he ended up becoming a game tester, and I listen with genuine curiosity about him. He’s interesting. Even when he slips into tech jargon that means nothing to me, I’m still interested.
To my surprise, I eat most of my dinner. I’ve eaten so much today. It’s like I’ve been starving for weeks. Starving would be an exaggeration, but my eating habits have been sporadic, unhealthy, I’m sure. I don’t feel too full, just no longer hungry. Satisfied.
We both decline a second drink, once again disappointing Georgina. I would’ve thought I’d want a second one, but I feel so content right now that I don’t want to risk upsetting the balance. It’s been too long since I’ve felt this way.
The guitarist in the corner packs up, and a trio of mariachis stroll onto the patio, much louder and livelier, instantly making conversation far more difficult.
Happy Hour is over, and most of the other diners out here have taken full advantage of it, rendering them unaware that they’re practically yelling across the table, forcing the people at the next table to yell at their dinner companions, and so on . . .
All our peaceful summer evening ambiance is gone. The new vibe is festive, but neither of us is up for the drunken revelry, so he pays our tab and we leave.
“Do you want to go somewhere quieter for another drink?” he asks as we walk toward his car. “Or maybe go for another run before it gets dark?”
“I really hate that our conversation had to end, but I don’t really want another drink. And I’m not up for a run. Could we pick up a bottle of wine and go back to the house and just talk some more?”
“Yeah. I like talking to you. But there’s already wine at the house.”
“You had wine, and you didn’t offer me a glass last night?”
“I wasn’t sure if I wanted to drink with you when we met.”
“Because you thought I might be nuts?”
He rubs the back of his neck and looks down as we walk.
“Are you avoiding my question?”
“I’m trying to think of a nicer way to put it.”
I’m not offended. His honesty is refreshing. Of course, I seemed unstable, following him and accusing him of being a squatter when I was the one who actually had no right to be there. I laugh.
“It’s okay. I wouldn’t have offered me a drink either. I probably wouldn’t have even offered me dinner.”
He reaches to open my car door and leans in close when he says, “I’m glad I did.”
“Me, too.” I’m surprised by him opening my door. He didn’t do it when we left the house. But I’m more surprised by the charge in the air between us, and the fact that neither of us says anything to neutralize it or makes a move to put more space between our bodies.
There’s only so long I can stand next to him with his car door wide open before it becomes awkward, but I prolong getting in until the last possible second, until the intensity of the moment becomes almost unbearable.
He waits for me to reach for my seatbelt before he closes the door.
The odd comfort I felt in his passenger seat before has been replaced by nervous anticipation. I’m anxious about being back at the house alone with him. I wasn’t nervous when I showered knowing he was in the same house. I wasn’t uneasy at all about going to sleep under the same roof last night.
But some shifts are undeniable, and we’ve somehow crossed a line without ever touching. With no steamy flirting. No innuendo seeping into the conversation.
All we did was sit on a warm breezy patio, toast to our futures with smooth drinks and soft music in the background, enjoy rich, spicy food, and learn a little more about each other. It was just dinner and conversation.
How could something so simple change anything so profoundly? If I’d had a second margarita, I could blame it on the tequila. If there were a full moon rising or a rare tidal phenomenon . . .
This is just pure attraction on a purely ordinary evening. Natural. Raw.
The easiest things are always the hardest for me to trust.
Maybe that green sauce did have powers. I laugh to myself. Or so I think.
“What’s so funny?” he asks as he pulls out of the parking lot.
“I’m not sure.”
“You don’t know what made you laugh?”
“It’s silly.”
His questioning expression begs me to share.
“I was just thinking about the way Georgina oversold that green sauce.”
He laughs. “She really wanted us to try those purple margaritas.”
“Maybe whoever is sitting at our table now will be more suggestible.” As soon as I say it, I feel a twinge in my side at the thought of someone else sitting where we sat.
Our table. Okay, weirdo.
As it turns out, Nash has more than one bottle of wine stashed in the pantry. I’m no expert, but judging by the label, it looks like a nice Italian red. “You’re a wine guy?”
“No.” He uncorks a bottle and takes a deep breath. “I have an ex-girlfriend who lives down here. And she likes this wine.”
“And you have plans to see her while you’re in town . . . and I am totally in the way.” That twinge in my side comes back, but it’s a full-on gut twist now. “I’ll go to a hotel, Nash. Shit. I’m sorry.”
“No. We didn’t have plans. I hadn’t even reached out to her yet. I was just thinking I might, but I’ve lost interest. It would’ve been a bad idea, anyway. I don’t want you to leave, Cat. I’d much rather drink this wine with you.”
He passes me a glass, and I accept it. I know there’s a chance he already reached out to her, and she turned him down. Maybe she’s the reason he bought so much salad stuff. I take a sip. She’s got good taste in wine.
“You were planning to ask if she wanted to come over and have dinner with you last night, weren’t you?”
His shrug seems natural, indifferent. “I don’t know when I would’ve reached out. It was truly just a thought in the back of my head. Something I figured I’d end up doing before the week was over.”
“How confident were you that she’d have said yes.”
He shrugs again. “Fifty-fifty. That’s about definite as we ever got.”
“Oh. So, it was more of a situationship.”
“It was exactly that.”
“But she’s the reason you came here to get away instead of going somewhere else.”
“Like I said, she was in the back of my mind, so, yeah.” He takes another drink of his wine.
I like how honest he’s being. He didn’t have to tell me about his potential plan at all. I don’t know all that much about wine. He could’ve said anything, and I probably wouldn’t have questioned it.
“I’m not the asshole you probably think I am right now.”
“I don’t think you’re an asshole at all. Thanks for being honest about why you bought the wine. It’s good, by the way.”
He steps forward suddenly, and I instinctively back up. He keeps coming, and I keep going until my back is against the wall and his lips are on mine. Softly. Testing my response.
I part my lips, inviting him to deepen the kiss. It’s part surrender, part joining forces. His tongue takes the lead and I follow. He pulls away and looks into my eyes. “It tastes good on you. Is it okay that I kissed you?”
“Can you not tell by my response how okay it is?”
He presses his hips into mine. “Is this okay?”
His erection is evident, and my breath hitches when he rocks it against me. “Yes.”
After he sets his wine glass on the counter, he takes mine and places it next to his. And then he pins my wrists to the wall on either side of my head. “Do you like this, too?”
I nod because I’m afraid of what my voice will sound like if I try to speak.
He lays his forearms onto mine to restrain me further, releasing my wrists, but sliding his hands up to lace his fingers into mine, pinning me now from my hands to my elbows. And then he kisses me again, more aggressively, deeper.
His mouth trails down my neck, biting at my collarbone until I’m writhing against the wall.
I’m not trying to get away from him. I’m just trying to keep from whimpering and grinding into him, physically begging, which is a level of submission I’m nowhere near willing to assume for him.
He brings his face within inches of mine, staring into my eyes again. “You are so beautiful, Cat. So smart and accomplished. But you need to let go and let somebody else be in charge sometimes, don’t you?”
“Yeah.” My voice is thready and weak, painting me with strokes too broad to give a clear picture of who I am. I need to say more, to clarify, to justify . . . he’s not going to understand that I’m not—
“You’ve had to be too strong for too long, haven’t you? Misunderstood to the point you lost touch with your needs. Gave up. Settled for less than you deserve?”
His eyes are smoldering, and his voice is shot through with confidence. And authority. “You need a man who knows how to read your body, but still listens for your voice. Someone you can trust to understand that you’re only relinquishing control temporarily. Who will respect your strength when you reclaim it. A man who’s awed by your independence instead of threatened by it, but not afraid to dominate you physically, to take what he needs, too.”
He knows without being shown or told. Body language is enough for him to see me. But how? I wasn’t trying to show him anything. This dynamic is supposed to be revealed through communication, unvarnished honesty that can get so clinical it doesn’t even feel sexy anymore.
I know that’s the right way, but I’m not good at vulnerability and admissions that feel hard and uncomfortable. It’s easier to hope maybe someone will come along and read my mind.
I’ve only known one man who wasn’t completely fucking confused and frustrated by me. Who actually got me. But the timing was all wrong.
Fantasies aren’t meant to last.
But I promised myself if I ever got another shot at that kind of connection, I’d enjoy it without questions or expectations. Just let it be what it is. Temporary. A fantasy.
“Yes. To everything you said.”
Why isn’t he saying anything? Touching me, anything?
“Your cheeks are flushed. Your heart’s beating faster. I believe you, and I want to ravage you right here, but I need you to talk to me first. Are there any words or phrases you don’t like? Anything that triggers you? A line you can’t cross?”
“I don’t know. I like praise, but you can degrade me, too. Some. I don’t know how much of that, though.”
“You haven’t explored your limits?”
“No.”
“What about physically?”
“I like to be held down, and I can be restrained as long as I can move, and you promise to pay attention and check in with me.”
“I’ll always be paying attention to you. Do you like pain?”
“A little. I think I’m pretty vanilla.”
“Spanking?” He pulls my hair. “A little of this?”
“Yeah.” My shoulders soften and I smile. I’ve never talked like this with anyone without it weakening my arousal. It’s doing the opposite with him. “I’m not into anything extreme. I just don’t like to be aggressive in bed.”
“That’s okay. I very much do like to be aggressive.”
His smile makes me shiver.
“But your pleasure very much matters to me, too. Do you understand?”
“Yeah. I think so.” I try to kiss him again, but he denies me.
“Do you want to know if I have any limits?” His voice is lighter, teasing almost.
“I guess, but I don’t see me pushing any of your boundaries.”
“Right. But I might not be able to meet all your expectations.”
“I can’t see that being the case.”
“I cannot choke you. I know a lot of women are into it, and most guys are willing, but that’s a hard no for me. I’m not comfortable with it. I don’t even want to experiment with it. There’s no bad experience in my past; I’m just not into it at all.”
“I don’t want to be choked. Ever.”
His smile returns. “That’s kind of an important thing, Cat. You need to tell partners that because not all guys are turned off by it like I am.”
“Okay, well, consider yourself told. No choking.”
His breath tickles my ear when he whispers, “I can’t ignore this one, beautiful. An aversion to choking is a pretty important thing.”
Another chill runs down my spine. “I don’t want you to ignore it.”
“I just won the bet. That’s three things we have in common. You’re not going anywhere. You’re mine for the rest of the week.”
He kisses me again, and I can hardly breathe. When we made the bet, I was wary of sharing the house with a stranger. Sharing his bed wasn’t even a factor. And giving myself to him for the week was definitely not part of the deal. But now . . .
“You win. Are we done talking yet?”
“That’s the only thing we’re done doing.”
Pulling our hands away from the wall, he walks back a few steps until he has enough clearance to pick me up.
I wrap my legs around his waist and let him carry me, unsure if we’re going all the way to the bedroom or if he’ll stop in the living room. He takes me to the bedroom.
When I lower my feet to the floor next to the bed, he immediately begins undressing me, pulling my dress up by fistfuls until he has most of the skirt in his hands. He sighs when it clears my hips.
“I was so hoping you hadn’t worn panties to dinner.”
His laughter when he uncovers my strapless bra is sinister. “So uptight. Why would you bother with this?”
His fingers don’t fumble with the hooks at all. He lets the bra drop to the floor. His hands cup my bare breasts, and his thumbs play with my nipples. “Do you always wear a bra?”
“Usually.”
“I think that’s a shame. Your tits are gorgeous. Turn around and take your panties off for me. Go slow and bend over before you push them down your legs.”
I do it the way he’s asked, loving that he’s watching me reveal my ass, and then giving him a clear view of my pussy from behind.
His groan makes my thighs weak. I want his hands back on me. As soon as the thought is fully formed, his palm meets my ass, granting my wish, but shocking me just the same. I stumble a bit. He grasps my hips to steady me and turns me toward the bed.
I plant my hands on the mattress, knowing without him asking that’s what he intends.
“That’s my girl.”
The sting left on my ass cheek itches to either be reignited or soothed, anything but left untouched like this. He slaps again, and my eyes close to shut out every other sensation. Every strike stings longer, and each time his hand makes contact the pain is heightened until I’m standing on the balls of my feet with my back arched and my teeth crushing my bottom lip.
I don’t want to tell him to stop yet because I know if I can endure just a little more, the pain will disappear, taking with it all the stress trapped in my body. He spanks me once more, and the warmth spreads like a heating pad.
My heels sink to the floor, and my shoulders lower to the mattress. I turn my head toward the balcony and press my cheek into the comforter. All I can see through the glass panes in the door is the bright top-glare across the sky as the sun is beginning to set over the water.
He rubs over the inflammation he’s caused, pausing to squeeze and knead intermittently. I am truly reduced to putty in his hands.
But when his hand slips between my legs, and his fingers skate through my seam, my melted spine firms up again. I don’t lift my shoulders from the bed, but I’m hyper aware of his touch now.
“Mmmm, damn. This pretty little pussy is soaked. Is this all for me?”
“Yes.”
He drops to his knees and uses his thumbs to spread me open. And then he simply holds them there, inspecting me and leaving me to guess what he might do next. My pussy clenches in anticipation of his next touch.
His warm breath ghosts over my tender skin as his mouth moves close enough for the tip of his tongue to trace my entrance a few times before he leans forward and lets it delve inside me. He leans back and the air feels cold where his hot mouth has abandoned me.
“You taste good. But everyone who’s ever tasted you has told you that, haven’t they?”
“Some have.”
“The ones who didn’t should have. Anyone too lazy to appreciate you doesn’t deserve you.” He stands and grips the backs of my thighs and lifts. “Put your knees on the bed.”
Once both knees are on the mattress, he says. “Spread your legs as wide as you can and tilt this gorgeous ass up so I can admire my handprints while I play with your tight, juicy pussy.”
I separate my knees as far as possible and pop my ass up, exposing myself more fully than before. Short of being stretched on a rack, I honestly can’t imagine a position in which I could be more exposed than I am right now.
He fingers me at an even slow pace, one that feels nice, but would never induce an orgasm. It feels even better when I realize he’s watching what he’s doing to me and how I respond.
I’m not on display to be humiliated. He’s learning my body and what I like, and he’s not afraid to do it openly. His ego doesn’t demand he pretend to be an expert on women, as if pleasing us is as universal as small engine repair.
He’s experienced enough to know every woman is different, and he’s man enough to want to tailor his skills to my needs. God, that’s fucking hot.
My body contracts when he scissors his fingers over my clit to agitate and tease a bit. I like that he can be so incredibly dirty and sexy, but still keep it playful.
“Oops. My fingers slipped.”
“Slip them back where they were before.”
“Oh, somebody found her voice.”
This is fun, and I don’t remember the last time sex was fun.
“Do you want your first orgasm to be on my fingers or my mouth?”
My first?
“You can do it either way.”
“I’m aware of that. I’m asking which one you want.”
Why is it so hard for me to answer him? In this position, I should have no inhibition left, but the inner battle to just say what I want is maddening. It’s a simple choice, and I know what I want to say, but the words won’t come out.
His voice changes in the same way it did yesterday, going lower, gravelly and nearly stern. “I’m the only one who can hear you, Cat. There’s no one here but us. If you really want me to choose, I will, but if you prefer one over the other, I want you to tell me. This is your chance to get exactly what you want.”
He pistons two fingers into me forcefully, twisting and ramming. “Trust me, I’m going to do plenty of things of my choosing to you before the night’s over.”
His fingers feel amazing, but his words steal my breath for a moment. His mouth has the ability to control me in a way no one else ever has. How could I not want it to be source of my first orgasm with him?
“Your mouth.” The weight that lifts from my back once the words are out is huge. I know I said them softly, but he was listening.
“Yeah, that’s my girl. Roll onto your back.”
I roll over in time to watch him suck my arousal from his fingers. “Do you want to be propped up so you can watch?”
Oh, damn. No one has ever asked me that before. Um, yes, please. The words don’t get farther than my thoughts, but I nod, and he lets that be enough.
He helps prop the pillows behind me until I’m comfortable, sitting up enough to have a clear view of what he’s doing, but slouched enough to give him all the access he wants.
“If you don’t need this one, I’m going to slide it under your hips.”
“You can take it. I’m good.”
He kisses me, and then he ducks his head to suck my nipple on his way down.
I’m nowhere near bold enough to tell him there’s a chance I could come from that alone. But holy shit, this man knows how to use his mouth.
Lying on his stomach, his biceps flex as he slides his body forward until his shoulders meet my inner thighs. With the pillow under my ass, my pussy is lifted enough that he doesn’t have to drop his head too much.
This is probably easier on both of our necks, which is good because I don’t think I could lift my head and look away if I tried.
He eats pussy like he enjoys it, not like it’s a toll he has to pay to put his dick in me. Not like he’s trying to score in overtime to end the game so he can hurry up and get to his post-game steak dinner.
I swear he could teach a master class in cunnilingus. He should patent his method. Give it a name and trademark it.
My head falls back against the pillows, and I close my eyes, too blissed out to hold my neck up any longer. When he moves his mouth to my clit, it’s so sensitive, I whimper at the soft touch. He takes his time here, too, massaging gently over it with his tongue until I adjust to the pressure.
By the time he transitions to rapidly flicking his tongue, and then sucking on it, I’m so close to orgasm my hips rock uncontrollably, and my glutes and thighs are quivering like hummingbird wings.
When I finally reach the peak, my breath is punctuated with shrieks and cries that would have my neighbors calling the cops if we were in my thin-walled apartment.
Thank goodness the windows are all closed or we might not be safe from a wellness check here either.
He peppers kisses across my abdomen as my breathing settles. My body rag-dolls on the bed. I’m spent. His mouth was definitely the right choice.
“You can do all the things of your choosing to me now. I have no strength left to object.”
His grin is so full of conceit, but I can’t fault him an ounce of it.
“No, sweet girl. I’m nowhere near done rendering you helpless.”
“If I were any more helpless, I’d be unconscious.”
“You really don’t know your limits at all, do you? I love that I get to help you uncover them.”
“I think one is my limit.”
“I think the fuck not.”
Oh, hello, voice that made me forget I’d sworn off men.