Submit (Songs of Submission #3)(9)

He stepped back from me, an artist working on a piece. I stood, legs apart, back arched, arms behind me leaning on the back of the sofa. I felt exposed, vulnerable, and turned on. He’d called Jessica a liar, and one with her own brand of lying. I noted the change in attitude. He put his hand on the small of my back and pushed up, arching it further, exposing me to him, and forcing me to look at the ceiling.

“She lives in Venice, on the water,” he said as he lifted my bra, exposing my tits so he could stroke the rock-hard ni**les. “And she was waiting. As soon as I drove up, she was in the doorway. She hadn’t acted happy to see me in two years or more. And yes, I thought about you, but I figured, only a few hours had passed. If I needed to get out you’d understand. Or not. I wasn’t on ethically shaky ground.”

A drizzle of wetness dripped down my leg.

“She hugged me and pulled me into the house. I kept asking her what was wrong, and I mean I shouldn’t have been surprised, but there was so much shit missing.”

“Her boyfriend left and took his stuff,” I said.

“I was happy. I was excited. I felt like I’d won some kind of war.” He reached down to part my thighs more than I thought physically possible, his finger grazed the drip. “A war of patience. She poured us some wine and as soon as she started talking about how great she felt that he was gone, I knew something was wrong.” He brushed his wet finger against my lower lips, and I tasted myself. “This is turning you on.”

“What you’re doing. Not what you’re saying.”

“She put her hands on me. I can’t tell you how long I waited for her to touch me again.” He put his hand between my br**sts and moved it down my belly, touching the diamond in my navel and circling it before he drifted down to my crotch. He brushed against my snatch only long enough to feel the dampness then moved to my thighs again.

I moaned and pushed against him.

He pressed his hand flat against my snatch, letting me do the work of grinding against him. “And I kissed her. I admit it. I couldn’t have stopped myself. She said, ‘Make love to me Jonathan, like you used to.’ So I threw her on the couch.”

I scrunched my face because I didn’t want to show I was upset. I wanted to enjoy him and his touch and not hear what happened that had kept him from making love to his ex-wife. Had she pushed him away at the last minute? Or had the boyfriend walked in? I didn’t care anymore. “I don’t want to hear it,” I said, staring at the exposed beam on the ceiling.

“Too late.” He picked up his glass of Perrier and placed it on my chest. “Don’t let this fall.”

I couldn’t look at him or the glass would tip. An icy cold patch formed at the center of my sternum.

He kneeled between my legs. “She smelled like I’d always remembered. Like cut grass.” He kissed the inside of my thigh, licking away the juices from my pu**y as he made his way upward. “And I thought, ah, I remember this smell. And I was kissing her, but…” He stopped and kissed my clit once. “I realized I didn’t want her. And the cut-grass smell?” His tongue went from my pu**y to my clit and back.

I moaned again, louder. He pulled me open. The air itself was a physical pressure on me, and I wanted him, just this once, even if it would be the last time.

“The cut grass smell wasn’t love. It was gratitude. I felt like I was kissing one of my sisters.” He gave my clit a suck, a fast, light thing that got a cry from me. “Then I thought of you, and I knew I had to get out of there. That was the end of that.”

With that, he put his tongue on my clit, breathing hot breaths, wiggling his tongue until I thought for sure I was going to tip the glass. I felt gratitude, too, and it smelled nothing like cut grass.

“Kissing is cheating,” I said. “Even if you had to do it to get over her.”

“Yeah. But I figured if I got my lips on your cunt before I told you, you’d forgive me. I think we walked in here with the same strategy.” He slid his fingers into me. “If that glass drops, I stop, and you go home with a baseball.”

“I don’t forgive you.” Cold condensation dripped off my chest and down my sides.

“I know.” He pushed his fingers in as deep as they’d go and used his other hand to expose the hard nodule at the top of my snatch. “You have a beautiful cunt, Monica.”

I had not a second to think about how that word was foul and disgusting from anyone else’s lips before he put his tongue to my clit and all thinking disappeared. Three strokes with the tip and a suck. Four strokes and a longer suck. Pushing fingers in and out, stretching me, while he licked me again, then he jammed his fingers all the way in and gently used his teeth on my clit.

“Oh, God,” I shouted. The pain was sharp but immediately followed by a pleasure I’d never experienced, as if the nerves were exposed raw by the bite and made more alive by the gentleness that followed.

“That a good ‘oh, God’ or a bad ‘oh, God’?”

“Great, good, f**king God.”

He did it again, pressing his teeth a little harder and adding a suck to the grind of his teeth. The pain and pleasure coexisted, moving from opposite poles to the center of me. I writhed enough to shake water from the glass and onto my belly, but not tip it.

He sucked my clit through his teeth, and I filled his mouth with stars.