Because (Seven Year Itch #4)(2)
I watch him sink down to his knees until he’s face to face with my exposed, starved *. My chest is heaving faster as he narrows in on my most private of areas. The whiskers of his chin hair graze over my sensitive skin. He does it again, this time his hazel eyes watch for my reaction. I take my hand and dig it into his thick dark hair. This is the type of attention I always receive when he wants to do something I don’t agree with. At times like this, his affection is copious and appreciative, but also with malice. He is doing this for one reason alone, and it isn’t out of the goodness of his heart.
My husband needs to go to school for how to treat a woman. He thinks sexual rewards were some kind of bonus package only needed to buy a night out with his friends.
Who thinks like that?
With him nibbling at the base of my *, about to go at it until I’m unable to control myself, I’m not about to complain or do anything to cause him to stop. This is something I not only desire, but desperately require. Hell-bent on taking advantage of the situation, I keep my mouth shut while his tongue flicks at my clit. My body jerks, my hand holding onto his hair so he won’t pull away. Two fingers rub my wetness over my lower lips before they plunge inside of me. He keeps at it, licking my bud in a circular pattern while swift movements soothe my welcoming walls. While trying to watch him work, I catch my tits bobbing around, my nipples are so hard they could shatter glass. I suck on my bottom lip until I can taste the blood filling inside of it, then bite down. I’m close.
Like electricity flowing through a cord, I feel my body responding to such actions. Every inch of me has awakened. No longer do our problems matter. I’m taken back by his attempt to please me, no matter his reason. When wild sensations rip me apart, I cling to his scalp, my hips lifting as the orgasm takes control.
Within seconds I’m a puddle of mush. I lay there in front of him, my body shakes profusely.
He pushes away from me to fetch a wet towel from the tile floor, spreading it out while motioning for me. “Turn around and get on your knees, babe. I’ll get behind you so I can come all over that fat ass. I’m so f*cking turned on I’m about to blow my load.”
I used to be offended when he said that to me. His crude words were what drove me to take extremes to lose the baby weight at first. I tried starving myself. I stuck my finger down my throat for months. Then I decided nothing was going to work if I didn’t stick to something permanently. Let’s face it, I’d never been a supermodel. My mom is a full-figured woman. Even my dad is stocky. Having big bones was in my blood. Brandon knew this when he married me. It wasn’t like I’d kept it a secret. I’d even joked about it with him when we were in high school, asking if he’d still love me if I gained weight and lost all attractiveness. Back then he’d reassured me, telling me he’d never let it happen anyway. He said I was his beautiful china doll. He used to say I had the most beautiful face he’d ever seen. He’d stare into, what he called, his favorite gray eyes and promise nothing could make him stop loving me. He’d even reassured me I was still attractive when I cut off my long brown locks for a pixie cut after I’d first discovered I was with child.
Pregnancy screwed me up. I gained sixty seven pounds while I was carrying our daughter. I stopped wearing makeup, and basically let myself go. It wasn’t like it was intentional. I was too caught up in becoming a mother to realize what was happening to me. My priorities had shifted, and for a while I was preparing for motherhood instead of worrying about what I looked like each day.
After delivery, I lost eighteen pounds. Since then I’ve struggled to get back to my original size, and through trials of desperate attempts at anything that could possibly work I’ve lost myself in an ocean of low self-esteem.
Brandon always says when he talks about my fat ass he means it in a sexy way. I’ve never been an expert on dirty talk, but I am pretty certain there are other things he could suggest instead. Even so, I did as I was told, settled on any touch being better than none at all. As my knees hit the floor something inside of me snapped. I have no idea what got into me. One second I’m content and the next I’m flying off the deep end. Maybe it’s because I’m tired of his head games. Perhaps I’m finally sick of feeling degraded. Its possible I have finally reached my lowest of lows. Despite not knowing what would happen, I flip over and take ahold of his erect cock. My teeth grit together as words begin to escape me. “I’m not a f*cking dog, Brandon. If you can’t look me in the eyes and want every part of me then it’s not happening at all. I’m done being your shit bag.”
He leans back, sitting on his legs while still kneeling. His arms cross over his chest as he smirks. I could tell he wants to laugh. He doesn’t believe I have the power to take control. “You’re going to pull this after what I just gave you?”
“You act like it was some duty. You made me come. Big freaking deal. You’ve had over seven years to practice. I’m not a job for you. I’m your wife. I’m supposed to be your best friend. Giving me pleasure shouldn’t be some difficult task.”
He chuckles and shakes his head, his curled face lets me know he isn’t pleased. “Yeah right. A friend.” He can’t contain himself. “You’re the last person I’d ever call a friend. You nag me worse than my mother. You tell me what I can and can’t do. If you wanted to be my friend you’d get off my damn back and let me breathe. You keep saying I’m the bad guy, but you’re the one bitching. I haven’t changed a damn bit. It’s you. You’re not the person I married. I don’t know what the hell happened to her.”