Victorious(36)

Just as I’m beginning to wonder if he’ll make me wait as long as he did last night, the door opens.

My skin prickles as I imagine him looking at me laid out for him this way. I wonder what he’s thinking, if he’s pleased with what he sees. The door closes, and the snick of the lock sliding into place makes my heart pound. It’s the not knowing, the wondering, the speculating, the desperate desire that make me crazy. It’s a heady combination, as he well knows.

He doesn’t say a word, and if he’s doing anything, I can’t tell because he’s doing it in utter silence. The only sound is that of the low hum of the plane engines. My legs begin to tremble from the effort to hold myself up and open to his perusal. I know he’s looking. I can feel his eyes on me, which somehow makes this hotter than the hottest sex we’ve ever had, and he hasn’t even touched me yet.

The scrape of his zipper breaks the silence and ramps up my already rapid heartbeat. Again the bass drumbeat thumps through me, awakening every part of my body in preparation for him.

By the time I feel air pass over me as he approaches, I’m ready to weep from the relief. Waiting for him to touch me, I break out in goose bumps all over.

My nipples are so tight, they ache, as does my clit, which throbs in time with the drumbeat. Even the soles of my feet are in on this, vibrating and tingling.

Oh God. Is that his tongue on my ass? Yes! Oh my God… I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t do anything but feel as he traces a path up one side and down the other. He touches me with nothing other than his tongue, which is more than enough to make me whimper from the need for more. I don’t even know what I need. I just need more.

Then his hands are on me, holding me open to his tongue. I can’t believe he is actually licking me there. And holy shit does it feel amazing. His tongue is everywhere, circling, delving, coaxing. I’m shaking like a tree in a storm, on the verge of begging him to do anything he can think of to me, as long as it slakes the desperate ache.

And then he’s gone, leaving me hanging on the precipice of something huge. I want to cry from the frustration, from being left unfulfilled and needy. I hear the click of a cap opening and the sound of something liquid. He knew what he was doing by putting me in this position so I won’t know what to expect next.

His finger presses against my back entrance, insistent and determined to breach the tight muscles.

My impulse is to fight back, to deny him, but he doesn’t take even a silent no for an answer. His finger slides in as far as it can go as my muscles tighten around it. Like the other times we’ve done this, I can’t deny the dark, forbidden thrill of it. Before him, before us, I wouldn’t have thought I could enjoy being touched or penetrated there. But enjoy is too tame a word for how it feels to allow him to take me there, to welcome it, to crave it.

He withdraws his finger, and I want to cry out from the loss, but I maintain my silence. Unless he speaks directly to me, I’m not to question him.

He’s back again, this time with two fingers, and the fit is decidedly tighter, less comfortable. The bite of pain causes my clit to throb, which surprises me. How can pain and pleasure coexist?

He strokes his fingers in and out.

I widen my legs and move my ass in time with his strokes. I begin to realize I could come from this and have to remind myself I’m not allowed to.

“Talk to me, Nat. How does it feel?”

“I’m not talking to you.”

He spanks my ass with his free hand—harder than he did last night. “What goes on out there does not come in here, you got me?”

“Yeah.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes,” I say through gritted teeth. I’m still so angry with him.

“Yes, who?”

“Sir. Yes, Sir.”

“Don’t get sassy with me, Natalie, or I’ll have to spank this sexy ass until it’s so sore you won’t be able to sit for a week without remembering how it got so sore.”

I have so much I’d like to say to that, but I bite my tongue. I have a feeling I’ll be sore enough from the other things he has planned without adding that pain to the mix.

“Tell me what I’m doing to you right now.”

He wants me to say the words? Of course he does. “You’re putting your fingers in me.”

“Where am I putting them?”

“In my ass.”

“And what am I doing with them?”

“You’re stroking me.”

“What’s the word I would use?”

Though I’m not a prude about swearing, I’ve trained myself to avoid those words in my career as an elementary school teacher—training that is no longer necessary. “Fucking.”

“That’s right. Now say the whole thing.”

“You’re… You’re f*cking my ass with your fingers.”

“Mmm,” he says, nibbling on my right ass cheek, “I love when you talk dirty to me.”

I roll my eyes, which of course he can’t see. I only talk dirty to him when he makes me.

He gets me to say the words, and then he’s gone again, leaving me trembling and weak with need. I’ve never felt quite so needy in my life. It’s the not knowing what to expect that has me right on the edge, ready to implode. I hear the click of the cap again and the squishy sound of liquid. What is he doing?