Day 12
Explore what feels good to your partner using only your hands.
“Let’s consider this a do-over of day six,” I say as I sit on Daniel’s butt. He’s lying face down in bed, shirtless and groaning as I knead the muscles in his back. “That one didn’t count cause we were fighting. Let's hope we can get through this one without Violet's cough starting up again.”
“She'll be fine…and I’m not complaining,” he replies, but it’s muffled by the pillow under his cheek.
“Of course not, you’re the one getting the massage.”
“For now. I’ll get my hands on you later.”
The words prompt a swoop in my belly; they’re both a threat and a promise.
And after the night we had on day ten, I’m eager for either, both, anything.
Ever since, pieces of memory hit like lightning strikes.
I’ll be picking up the dry cleaning and get a flash of Daniel spitting in his palm, or folding Violet’s tiny laundry and hear his eyes on me, baby.
It’s a problem.
It’s distracting.
And this PG-rated massage isn’t nearly enough.
“Ooomph, that knot’s been there forever, you don’t have to fix it tonight,” he says, and I realize I’ve been digging my fingers too deep around his shoulder blade.
I switch to scratching and run my fingernails along his back.
It leaves red, raised track marks, parallel lines that brand him as mine.
He used to wake up every Saturday with them—evidence of a productive night before.
“Okay, my turn,” he says.
“You sure?”
“Fully. Come here.”
He scrambles up the bed, leans his back against the headboard and pats the spot between his open legs. I shuffle over and sit, my back to his front.
“Can I take this off?” he asks while tugging at my shirt, with no hint of presumption or pressure. It’s sweet. But I’m not feeling sweet.
“Please.”
He says, “Arms up,” and gently lifts the shirt from my body before tossing it on the floor. The cool air on my naked skin makes me shiver. The warmth of his palms landing on my shoulders helps.
“That’s better,” he says, and starts working. Firm swipes of his thumb to the base of my neck, then gripping my shoulders to press his fingers there. I can feel some of my tension melt with the pressure.
“Much better,” I reply.
“You know, if the card didn’t say hands-only, I’d kiss your neck right now. That’s one of my favorite things about having you in front of me like this—nuzzling right here.” He runs the back of his hand down the length of my neck before stopping at my collarbone. “This spot in particular.”
I lean my head on his hand for a moment. “I’d like that.”
He continues kneading the muscles in my back, this time near my spine. I let out a soft whimper when he hits a tender spot.
“Too much?” he says.
“Just a little sore.”
“I’m trying to make you feel good tonight. Let me try something different.” With this, he straightens, puts his hands on my hips and pulls me flush against him.
It’s not an ideal position for a back massage, but apparently Daniel’s done with that anyway.
Instead, he brings his hands to cup my breasts.
“This alright?” he asks, and the proximity of his mouth to my ear has his breath tickling my skin.
I suck in a breath and then nod. “Thank fuck because I’ve been dying for this since we talked about it the other night.
” Just as he promised then, he swipes his thumbs over my nipples.
Slowly, methodically, until it feels like torture.
My back arches into him as I chase more contact.
“Told you you’d be begging,” he says, and while I can’t see his face, his tone is smug. Absolutely dripping with it.
“Hmm, pretty sure I haven’t said a thing.”
“Not yet. But you will. I know your tells.”
As if to punctuate the point, he twists both nipples—hard. My gasp comes out half-moan. I love when he does that. He knows it, and does it again.
It’s not long before he has me squirming.
He palms my breasts, pinches and pulls my nipples, twiddles them between his index and pointer fingers.
He runs a flat palm back and forth over my chest until the friction starts to sting.
He pushes my tits together and describes, in explicit detail, what he would do with his mouth and where he’d put his cock if he could.
And all the while, I am getting increasingly keyed up until the ache between my legs turns into a painful thrumming.
“Okay, I’ll beg,” I plead.
“What was that, baby?” Daniel taunts.
“Please, I need more. Lower.”
“You want me to touch you here?” He brings a hand to cup my center, before drawing one finger from my entrance straight up my slit. It makes my breath stutter. “Yeah, that’s what you want. You’re needy for it, aren’t you? I’ll give it to you, baby.”
Holding me tight against him with one hand still on my breast, he presses his thumb to my clit. The sensation is loud and then lingering, like a firework from our perfect date, one that pops and then fizzes its way down.
He finds a rhythm then, coating his fingers in my arousal, pushing inside me to curl against my inner walls, and then dragging them up to my clit, where he circles. He works my nipple in tandem, pinching, squeezing, twisting. It’s so much.
It’s so good.
I’m floating, letting myself sink into the rhythm and be rocked by it. Slow and steady, I climb. He plays my body like a score played by ear. He’s fluent in the language of my sighs.
Which is why his slap to my pussy—hard enough to sting, gentle enough to be loving—has me gasping. In surprise, but also from pleasure. “Again,” I ask as my head lolls back to rest on his chest.
He flicks his wrist for another sharp slap and my god, it’s lovely and confusing and dirty and exactly what I need.
My quiet “yes,” is tempered by a moan as he presses the heel of his palm against my clit.
I’m sensitive in a way I’ve never been after the more forceful contact.
The pressure of his hand there, the rough way he toys with my nipple, the two fingers he dips inside me, it’s perfect, perfect and then I tip over the edge with the filthiest encouragement from this man’s mouth—I catch slut and come and mine before I’m lost to this bed and this room.
Bright and diffuse.
Warm.
I’m falling like stardust, pinpricks of light tumbling through the universe until Daniel grounds me. His hand cups me again, and I flutter against his fingers.
“Too much,” I say while twisting away from his touch. The sensitivity is unreal. “And it’s your turn anyway.”
“Not until I’m done,” he replies, while he slides the pad of his thumb across my clit, in a featherlight touch. “You can give me another.”
I want to argue that I can’t, that I’m spent, that maybe I’m dying and the last orgasm was my final, gasping breath but when he holds his thumb with delicious pressure, my lips won’t open for words. Only a moan.
“That’s right, baby. Give me another.”