Sing (Songs of Submission #7)(5)

“Goddess,” he whispered. “I have to have you.”

“No f**king way.” We’d tried two nights previous, and the word disaster would be used if we were underplaying the results. I’d gotten an earful from Nurse Irene on the matter, and had cried for hours from the stress and the scolding.

He pushed his finger under my waistband. I could feel the tubes from the IV on my skin. “Undo these,” he said.

“No.”

“Open your jeans and pull them down.” He spoke as if I hadn’t just refused him, and the command send waves of lust below my waist. “I swear to God I won’t get my heart rate up.”

“I’m scared,” I said.

“I’m not. Come on. Trust me.”

His face was inches from mine, his hand on my cheek, stroking my lower lip. Every night I curled up next to him and slept for a few hours before I was asked to get in my chair. Every night I wanted him, and every night I worried. He’d gone from distraught, to annoyed, to depressed, to this. A feeling that he’d lost control. He was using me to feel like he had it for a minute. I just didn’t know if I could trust him to take care of himself.

I unbuttoned my pants. He sighed and put the container on the table, his eyes still locked on mine as I straightened my hips, put a knee on the bed and pulled my pants down.

“Straddle me,” he said. I was restricted by the waistband, but got a leg out and wiggled around the instruments and tubes to get myself on either side of him. I made no move to shift the sheets away or touch him. I only did what I was told.

“The door’s ajar,” I said.

“The curtain’s closed.” He whispered, feeling my ass. “You’re wearing this cotton shit again,” he said, his left hand, the one without the IV, stroking my lower back and finding its way under my panties.

“It feels silly to waste to good stuff when you won’t see it.”

“You miss the point.” He pulled me forward. “Put your hands behind me.” I placed them on the wall behind him. With his left hand, he reached between my legs, caressing me over the fabric of my underpants. “The idea is that during the day, I’m present where no one can see. You dress for the world, but under that, you dress for me. I own your softest places, and what touches them, is mine.”

“How can I think about that when you’re sick?”

“I need you to. It’s the only thing that gets me through the day. Knowing I own you even from here. Can you do something for me tomorrow?”

“Anything.”

“At three o’clock, when you’re in the studio. Exactly three. Put your fingers on your lips and think of me.”

“Yes. I can do that.”

He brushed his thumbnail over the crotch of my panties. My clit throbbed at his touch, and I gasped.

“Remember the office?” he whispered. “On the desk?”

“How could I forget? You were cruel.”

He stroked the nails of four fingers over the cotton he so hated. It was damp already.

“I wanted you so badly,” he whispered.

“You could have had me.”

“Anyone else, I would have just f**ked. Not you.” He brushed one finger under my panties, stroking my opening. “You were so wet. So responsive. A quickie on a desk would have been such a waste.”

His finger ran circles around my wettest part, and again, his thumb touched my clit gently. When I thrust forward, he pulled it back.

“You were a bastard.” I spoke through gasps as his fingers teased me. “You could have let me come and f**ked me later.”

He pushed two fingers in me. I closed my eyes and groaned.

“Look at me,” he said. I put my nose to his and tried to keep my eyes open. “I wanted you before my trip. I needed you motivated. I had to have you.”

“Have me,” I gasped as he put only the lightest pressure on his thumb while rotating his fingers in my hole.

“You were fantastic that first night. Unforgettable.”

Pulling his fingers out, he slipped them up my cleft, stroking my clit slowly, barely moving, every millimeter of movement a shot of sensation from my cunt out to my knees and waist.

“Oh, God.”

His right hand went to the back of my head. I knew he had his IV in that hand, but I wasn’t going to think about that. I only thought about the excruciatingly unhurried motion of his fingers. “Do you want to come, Monica?”

“Please let me come. I want to.”

He grabbed my hair. “I don’t believe you.”

“Please. Jonathan, please. Don’t let me walk away like this. Let me come for you.” My begging could not have been more sincere. The pleasure and tension between my legs was so intense, so heavy, it was almost painful.

“No.” He slowly dragged his fingers over my clit, then lodged them back in me and pulled them out, rolling around the outside, then pushed them back in again, all the while keeping my head still by holding a handful of my hair in his fist.

“Please,” I whispered.

“Why should I?”

“You love me.”

“I do.” But he didn’t say anything more.

“And I love you.”

“So?”

“I miss your body. I want to come for you. Please.”