Aubrey
Neither of us moves.
The refrigerator hums. My palm pulses under its tape. My ankle has reached the fun stage where it feels personally offended by the concept of standing. My split lip stings when I press my mouth together.
The guest suite is upstairs. My room. My lock.
Barely two weeks before we can end this early, and the smartest thing would be to let go of his cuff.
My fingers stay where they are.
"Do you want me to step back?" he asks.
I hate that my throat tightens. "No."
His hand flexes once at his side, then goes still. "Do you want me to stay standing?"
I look at his height, the way his body fills the edge of my vision without crowding me. His size is part of the problem, but also part of the appeal, because my survival instincts and my libido were built by separate contractors.
"Can you..." I stop. My voice is scratchy and small. "Can you come lower?"
His expression barely changes. "Yes."
He doesn't drop instantly. He takes his time, bending first, then lowering to one knee beside the island with enough distance left that my knees aren't trapped. He doesn't put a palm on my thigh, my back, my face.
He waits.
"I want..." I try again. My fingers tighten around his cuff, not enough to pull him, just enough to tell my own hand to stay. "I don't want to go to the guest suite."
He goes still. "Because you're exhausted?"
I nod. "Yes."
"Because you don't want to be alone?" he presses.
"Yes."
His eyes hold on mine. "Because you feel you can't leave?"
"No." I say it fast, then make myself slow down. "I know I can leave. That's the point. I need the door to my room to stay mine. I need the exits to stay on the table. All of that still stands."
"I hear you," he says.
He lifts his hand, slow enough that I can change my mind, and cups my uninjured hand on his cuff. His fingers are warm, careful enough to make my stomach drop, because I know what those hands can do when he stops being careful.
"Can you walk?" he asks.
"Ankle says no. Pride says yes. So, yes, badly." I shift forward, touch the floor, and immediately regret it. "You can give me your arm."
He stands first, letting my hand slide from his cuff only when I let go. Then he offers his forearm. I put my right hand on him and push up, and he adjusts to take my weight.
We make it to the stairs at the speed of elderly mall walkers. My ankle complains the whole way.
By the time we reach his bedroom, my face is warm for reasons that have only half to do with the stairs. The room is quiet, blackout shades still down except for light at the edges. He stops at the threshold.
I look at him. "Are you asking permission to enter your own bedroom?"
"With you, yes," he agrees.
I step in first. "Come on in, Mr. Dunleavy."
He follows. For a second, neither of us goes near the bed. We stand with a few feet between us, and the tenderness from the kitchen turns awkward.
"Lights?" he asks.
"Low."
He adjusts the bedside lamp, turns back, and keeps his hands to himself.
I make a frustrated sound. "You can kiss me."
His eyes move to my split lip. "How?"
"Carefully," I tell him.
He comes close slowly. His mouth touches the unhurt corner of mine first, one press, then another. He lets me set the pressure. My fingers find the front of his rumpled shirt. He smells like sweat and fading deodorant. His hand hovers near my waist.
"Yes," I say against his mouth.
His palm settles at my side, above my hip. It doesn't steer or pin me. I make an embarrassing noise.
He stops. "Lip?"
"Dignity," I answer.
His forehead rests briefly against my temple, then his mouth finds my jaw, then my cheek, then the spot below my ear.
I tug at his shirt buttons.
He catches my wrist above the tape on my palm. "Use the other hand."
"Bossy," I pout.
"Protective," he answers. "Different track."
I switch hands, and get three of his buttons open before he catches my hand. Then he finishes the buttons himself.
I push the shirt off his shoulders and put my hand against his well-built chest.
"Your turn," he says. "Arms up."
I lift them. He works my T-shirt up, pausing at my taped hand, then drawing the fabric over my head without catching the scrape. Cool air touches my bare belly. I fight the old reflex to fold in on myself.
He lowers his head and kisses the scar inside my left wrist, then the inside of my elbow, then my shoulder.
He helps me sit on the bed, then I kneel up onto the mattress so I don't have to twist the bad ankle. The bed dips under his weight when he follows.
He stays beside me rather than over me.
He strips my pants down my legs, stopping to ease the fabric over my ankle. When I'm down to my underwear, I reach for the covers.
Linden catches my hand, then lets go immediately. "Sorry."
I look down at myself. Soft stomach. Full thighs. Skin flushed in patches because my body handles attention with all the subtlety of a car alarm. "No. Don't apologize. I like you defending me."
He nods. Then he kisses my knee first, then the inside of my thigh, avoiding my bad ankle, spreading my legs with his shoulders only after I let them fall open.
His hands settle on my thighs, warm and firm, not holding me down.
I close my eyes and everything narrows to his voice, his hands, and his mouth moving higher.
His mouth brushes over my underwear, and my hips twitch.
He slides the fabric aside instead of taking it off, and the first touch of his tongue against my clit makes my hand fly to his hair. He makes a sound against me, and it vibrates straight through my pussy.
He takes his time, licking me slow, then slower, remembering every place I go quiet and every place I can't keep quiet at all. His fingers spread me open, and I feel exposed for half a second, then his mouth covers my clit again and my mind drops everything else.
When I get close, I know he knows. My hips lift. My hand tightens in his hair.
Then my grip goes loose, and the noise in my throat cuts off. I go still in the worst possible place, bracing for the finish instead of staying in it.
He eases back a fraction.
"No," I say. "Don't stop."
His voice is rough. "I want you here with me."
"I am here, you menace."
"I know." His thumb strokes once along my thigh. "But I can feel you trying to leave your body when it gets too good."
His mouth returns before I can protest. He works my clit with slow pressure, then slides one finger into my pussy. I arch hard enough to tug my ankle and hiss.
He stops immediately. "What's wrong?"
"Stupid ankle," I explain. "I moved wrong. Keep going."
He shifts, placing a pillow under my knee so my leg rests without strain. "There?"
"Yes," I tell him. "Now keep going. Please."
When I say please, his mouth comes back softer. One finger becomes two, curling inside me until he finds the spot that makes me clamp a hand over my own mouth.
He lifts his head. "I want to hear you."
My face burns. I move my hand.
"Good." His fingers stroke that place again. "You like that?"
"There. Holy shit, yes. There."
He keeps me right on the edge until my thighs start to shake, then he backs off by one cruel degree.
"I hate you," I say.
"No, you don't," he counters. "You're wet all over my hand."
The filth of that sentence nearly takes me out.
"Last time," he says. "Then you can cum."
"I wanna cum all over your face," I admit.
"You will." He puts his mouth back on my pussy, and this time he doesn't pull away. His fingers stroke my g-spot while his tongue works my clit, and the orgasm builds enough that I feel all of it. My hand stays in his hair.
And then I breaks. "LINDEN!" It comes out cracked.
He doesn't stop too fast. He eases me down with his mouth, softer now, until I tug at his hair. "Too much."
He lifts away immediately and kisses my thigh.
I look down at him.
Huge mistake. Linden's between my thighs with his shirt open, his hair wrecked from my hand, his mouth and chin wet from me, and he's watching my eyes.
"More?" he asks.
I want his weight, his voice, his cock inside me.
But all I can say is, "Yes."
He lets the front of my panties slide back into place, and I can only imagine the humiliating wet spot that's forming there as my juices soak it.
He comes up the bed slowly, kissing my stomach on the way.
He stops with his mouth above the softest part of me. "Tell me what you want."
I don't answer.
He draws my underwear down and tosses it aside. Then he strips out of his pants and reaches for a condom. His cock is hard as usual, looking heavy in his hand.
He looks back at me before opening the condom. "Do you want me inside you?"
I nod.
"Do you want to be on top this time?" he asks.
My ankle pulses. "No. Over me. But don't pin my hands."
His face tightens. "I won't."
"Then come here," I urge.
He rolls the condom down his cock, and I can't help but lick my lips.
Then he moves over me with his forearm braced beside my shoulder and most of his weight held off of me. His body covers mine.
He kisses me, careful of my lip, and I taste myself on him. My hips lift.
His mouth touches mine again. He lines himself up and presses in with maddening patience. The stretch wipes out my next thought. I hold his shoulder with my uninjured hand and dig my fingers in.
Inch by inch, his cock fills me. When he's all the way inside, he stops.
"Look at me," he says, then immediately adds, "If you want."
I do. Damn him.
His face is close. He's inside me, and he's waiting.
"Move," I say.
He moves.
The first stroke is shallow. The second deeper. I wrap one leg around him, the good one, and he catches my other knee before the bad ankle can strain, guiding it lower onto the pillow.
"Thankie," I whimper.
He keeps his pace slow, and I feel each thrust instead of disappearing into it. His hand slides between us and circles my clit lightly.
"Linden, oh god," I moan.
"Too much?"
"No," I say quickly, between pants. "Keep... doing... that."
His thumb moves again. His cock strokes deeper, and the angle changes enough that my back arches. He watches, learns, adjusts.
"Right there," I scream.
He holds the pace, slow and relentless, until my hands search for places to grab. I grunt and moan with each of his thrusts, repeatedly slapping my hips upward to meet him.
"Do you want to cum like this?" he taunts.
"Yes yes yes," I pant.
"Then take it." His thumb presses my clit. His cock hits that deep spot again, close enough that the first orgasm folds into the second. "Cum for me, Aubrey. Cum. I'm listening."
And so I do.
I cum around him, hard and messy, clenching on his cock while he keeps the pace steady through it. My mouth opens against his shoulder. No sound at first, then too much sound.
"Aaaa Linnnn aaa aaaa aaa."
He's pounding me harder than ever. I look up at him.
"Cum!" I scream in time to his thrusts. "Cum cum cum."
That does it. He drops his forehead to mine, thrusts once, twice, then goes rigid above me. He says my name with no polish left. "Aubrey."
Then he collapses above me.
For a while, neither of us moves.
He pulls out carefully, then deals with the condom and comes back to me without making me ask. He sits on the edge of the bed first, facing me.
"What do you need?" he asks.
The old answer is right there. Nothing. I'm fine.
Bathroom, shirt, joke, retreat.
"Lie down," I say. "Beside me."
He does.
"Can I touch you?" he asks.
"Yes." I roll toward him. "My stomach is okay."
His hand settles there, warm over softness I usually try to hide. I don't move it away.
His eyes come to mine.
"You care about me," I say. "Don't you?"
He nods.
"I believe that," she says. "It's the rest of it, though..." I look away. "Your family. The board. The hearing. Sometimes it's all so... suffocating."
"I don't want to ever take your choices away from you again," he says. "If I start to, you point it out. And if I don't stop fast enough, you leave the room, the suite, the building, the marriage. The exits stay real."
"You say that now," I say.
"I'll say it when I'm scared, too," he says. "Especially then."
I look at him.
He stays still and waits.
In the dim light, with his hand warm on my stomach, I stay.
I know where the door is.
The exit.
I don't reach for it.