Chapter 2 Kneel between my legs
He grabs for the red loose robe on me, ripping it easily from my body and tossing it to the floor. He kneels between my legs and I feel his naked body too. My eyes go to his cock, sticking straight out. It’s tight and angry-looking on the tip as cum leaks down the head of it. I lick my lips. I want to take him into my mouth, but that is something he’s never let me do before.
His breathing is strained like usual; I feel his chest puffing in and out. I pull at the ties around my wrists to no avail. I’m desperate to touch him. I’ve missed him so much and I need to feel him against me; he was here yesterday too. I want to close the space between us and wrap myself around him. I want my hands on him, but he hardly lets me touch him when we have sex. If he isn't pinning me down under him, he’s got me tied down in some way.
I know why he does it without even having to ask. It’s all about control. It’s what he always has to have. He’s scared that, with me, it could break at any moment. I have a feeling I’m the only person who’s ever tested it. I like that, but what I like more is when he's inside me. The reminder of seeing him as he enters me today has me lifting my hips and begging him to fall on top of me and brand me in every way, to leave little marks on my skin like the last time so I feel and see his hickeys on me for days see it any time I look into the mirror.
He gazes at the spot between my legs and this time he’s the one licking his lips.
“Hey, sweetie, please let me go.” I wiggle my hips more. His big hands grab them to stop me from moving anymore.
“Never,” he growls. His blue eyes look darker, then his mouth is on me.
“Ahh!” I cry out as he goes straight for my clit, sucking it into his mouth. His hands keep me in place as he pushes me quickly towards an orgasm. I’ve been on edge since he left this dawn, so it only takes a second before I go off. The pleasure rushes through my body as I cry out, but my mystery man doesn't stop when I jerk against him. He keeps licking and sucking me, pushing me towards another orgasm. He’s trying to wear me out. He’s been doing this since I’ve been testing his control. I expected him to take me at any moment, make him enter me and push all my limits, but he didn't. After I had calmed down from my climax, he picked up the covers and pulled them up to my shoulder.
Then he turned and he was gone.
No noise, not even the door opening and closing. He was just gone. Like he’d never even been there.
Freaking crazy.
I stared at my bedroom door for a while. My body felt warm, sated, and tired. My mind did not feel the same.
I turned to my back, tucked the covers around my naked body, and I stared at the ceiling.
I didn’t even know his name.
“God,” I whispered, “I am such a slut.”
D-e-a-d, Dead.
The next morning, I was sitting at my computer in my boss's mini office.
I should have been working. I had three deadlines the next two weeks and I’d barely begun on the work. I was a translator; I got paid by the hour, and if I didn’t work that hour, I didn’t get paid. I had a mouth to feed, my own. I had a body to clothe, a body that liked all sorts of clothes; it craved them, so I had to feed the habit or things could get nasty. I had a vintage addiction and vintage didn’t come cheap. And I had a house I was about to finish paying a mortgage on. Therefore, I needed to get paid.
Okay, that wasn’t strictly true. I wasn’t paying everything on my house. My Dad paid most of it. My friend Terry did the interior designing. So, I should say that I had a house I was about to own by begging and emotionally blackmailing my close people into helping me.
But still, it needed fixing up, and the cabinets and tile didn’t match. I think one day these damn walls will speak and ask me what's going on.
That only happened in my dreams, of which I had many, most of them daydreams. But not about my tiles or walls, but hot, sweet dreams.
Like right then, sitting at my computer, one heel to the seat, my chin to my knee, my eyes staring out the window, I was thinking about my Mystery Man, the Great After Dark. I was daydreaming about changing our first meeting being smarter, funnier, more mysterious, alluring, interesting hooking him instantly with my rapier wit, my flair for conversation, my ability to discuss weather and world events intelligently, my humble stories of expansive charity work, all wrapped up with enticing looks that promised a lifetime of mind-blowing orgasms, making him declare his undying love for me.
Or at least tell me his name.
Instead, I was drunk and definitely not any of that. I left work and went home; thanks to working by the hour, I had less translation to do today.
I continued my wild imagination at my house. The doorbell went a chime, then a clunk and I started out of my elaborate daydream, which was beginning to get good.
Then I got up and walked through my office into the upstairs hall, making a mental note, again, to call Terry and see if she’d fix my doorbell for a free three-day meal outside and a homemade cherry cake. This might mean she’d bring her annoying, whiny, constantly bitching new boyfriend, though, so I changed my mind and decided to call my Dad.
I got to the bottom of my stairs and walked through my wide living room, ignoring the state of it. I got to the entryway, which was delineated by two narrow walls both fitted wi
th gorgeous stained glass.