ago, was only about five-six. He could never have picked me up. He’d have ruptured a disc in his fragile, boy-sized spine. Josh sinks down onto a beautiful wing-backed armchair I’d only dimly registered when we first came in.
My whole life, before Josh, I’ve scoffed at guys who made displays of their strength. But maybe a little part of me still exists who loves to be carried and coddled. My skirt has slid up so high he can probably see my underwear, but his eyes don’t stray down. The word gentleman flashes through my mind.
He raises a hand and once upon a time I would have flinched, but now I lean into his palm.
“Slow down.”
I shake my head in disbelief, but he looks me in the eye. “Please.”
Doubt begins to spread through me. “Don’t you want to?”
He rolls his hips. The heavy, painfully hard proof is against me. He wants me so badly his eyes have gone their signature serial-killer black. I press my eyebrow to his. We breathe against each other, lips barely touching.
He wants to press his mouth against my skin. Bite. Eat. Devour. He wants me, hands and knees. Wet skin and cold air. Fingers sliding into me. His whispered words barely audible over my labored breathing. Tears of frustration and wet mascara marking a Rorschach pattern on the pillowcase.
I already know what I’ll get from him. Coaxing, tormenting, a darkly worded warning when I get too close. I’ll be rolled into whatever position he feels like, bossy hands cupping, tilting, tightening, and gentling.
But I also know he’ll make me laugh. Sigh. He’ll tease me, chide my theatrics, make me smile even when I want to strangle him. My defiance will earn me a delay. My acquiescence, a kiss.
It’s what he is creating, of course. Delay. He wants to play with me until my orgasm hits me, hours after the first touch. He’s going to make this little Easter egg last for days. Shard by shard. Melting on his tongue. He wants to do it so many times that we lose count, and probably die in the process. He wants to make sure I’m addicted to him. I know what I’ll get from him in bed, all right. It’s what I’ve always gotten from him.
Every single pornographic image is flickering in my eyes because he’s licking his lips and his eyes drop to the sheer lace at the tops of my stockings. He tries to speak but can’t.
I’m unbuttoning his shirt very clumsily, dragging each button through until I hear a thread snap.
“Why do all colors make your skin so lovely? Even the horrendous mustard.” I drop my mouth to his
neck. “Beautiful man, inhumanly pretty under fluorescents in the office.”
“Green, the color of envy. I’ve been a jealous psycho lately.”
“Mustard, the color of Colonels. Let’s burn it.”
“Sure, Shortcake. You can burn my shirt. In a barrel, in an alleyway.”
He’s laughing and then sighing against my throat, not making it remotely easy for me as I get as many shirt buttons open as I can. I slide my hands inside.
“You’re like an anatomy poster under all this perfectly ironed business attire. I always suspected it.
Clark Kent.”
“Slow down.” He takes both my hands out of his shirt. I struggle a little, but he holds me gently cuffed, and tilts his face to mine.
We begin kissing again; soft as silk, lighter than I could have believed was possible after my rough little paws mauled him