I’m not. My body betrays me by sending out a rush of arousal. Nipples spike, stomach dips, pussy grows wet. I swear I can feel my eyes dilating and my pulse jumping like a cornered rabbit in my throat. My fingers are clutching cut up vegetables, my mind is on measurements and the final headcount. I’m frustrated, anxious and frazzled. I stare.
“I know you’re busy, though, so just for a moment.”
“I’m not…ready,” I lie. Why do I always do this to myself when he surprises me this way? Why do I never just say, Yes, dear fucking all that is holy yes! Fuck me now. I’m ready. No preamble is fine. Why do I always insist on the build up?
Derrick reaches out to capture my hard nipple through my worn out UCLA tee. He pinches hard enough that my tongue roams over my lips to lick away the dryness. Pleasure and pain tangle, grapple, fight to the death and on that final bit of pressure pleasure wins. My pussy goes from wet to soaked, my need to have him now has become overwhelming. That fast. That easy. I drop my clutched vegetables on a pretty crystal plate because my hands are shaking.
What he just did to me—so simply and so expertly—is why. I want the dance of warring emotions. I want the teasing and the torture. I want the blips of pain that slither beneath my skin, dark needs swimming in vibrant want. Like eels beneath the surface of a sunny pond.
“Just a moment,” I gasp. “But I’m not wet—”
“If you say you’re not wet enough Fiona, I’ll have to spank you. Because it isn’t just a lie. It’s whatever lies beyond a lie.”
Something twists deep inside of me, rippling waves of fear and excitement radiate out from my center. My body seems to be humming with electricity. I chew my lip as if considering and then blurt. “But, I’m not wet enough.”
“Lie,” he reminds me, smiling.
He is absolutely right. We both know it. It is a big. Fat. Lie. But one I need to tell.
“See,” Derrick whispers pushing his big hand slowly past the meager barrier of my ratty old sweat pants. I’m catering an event. I’m up to my eyeballs in batter and flour and small delicate cheese twists and fruit and that ever loving fucking veggie platter. I am dressed like a castoff or a college student. My dark hair is twisted up like a mad woman’s. But I can feel my pulse slamming in my temples and my cheeks blushing a hot, slatternly red.
I watch his hand disappear inch by inch until he’s turned his palm to me, cupping my mound, long thick finger nudging between my nether lips to brush rudely over my clit. Too short, that touch was too damn short. But then he’s plunging a finger into me and my eyes are sliding shut. I’m so wet I can hear him sink a second finger into my willing cunt.
“Feels pretty wet to me,” he says. His free hand yanks my sweats down around my knees and I gasp. It’s always a surprise when taunting turns to rough. And when rough turns to welcome it’s even better.
ليست هناك تعليقات:
إرسال تعليق