I feel his frustration behind me, his body tightening and coiling at my lack of response.
Connor rarely simmers. Our back-and-forth banter releases his pent-up conceitedness, his narcissism that needs to be fueled and acknowledged, and without my reply, his irritation pools and pools.
I’m afraid my vagina does not understand tonight’s mission.
Ignore thy husband.
I delicately set every decorative pillow in the middle of the bed. Already dressed in a black sultry chemise, a slit up my thigh, I’m prepared for se—sleep.
God. I cannot have sex tonight. Get in the game, Rose.
I think I’m tangled in the midst of it.
I climb underneath the puffy comforter about the same time Connor exits the bathroom, shirtless but still in black slacks. I try not to hone in on his body for long or his styled, wavy brown hair.
In my peripheral, I catch him inspecting the pillows along our bed with agitation and then he unbuckles his belt, his movements rough and controlled and extremely audible. The clack of the metal clasp. The whisk of the leather leaving his pant loops.
I press my cheek to my pillow and reach out to my end table, switching off my lamp. I dip my hand underneath the comforter, splaying my palm on my thigh. I ache to go a little higher, a little closer to my panties, for stimulation…
I listen to him too intently, hearing him step out of his slacks. In effect, I imagine Connor in his boxer-briefs, his bulge noticeable, maybe even already hard beneath them.
My fingers stroke my bare thigh, diving beneath the silk of my chemise. I’m dying to touch my clit, but I fear that he’ll hear. Even married, I still masturbate, but not as often and never while next to Connor. He’s never even seen me do it. My skin heats the longer I tease myself, my hand so close to my panties…
The bed undulates with his weight, and I hear each pillow being tossed onto the floor. Normally I stack them delicately on the chaise in front of our four-poster bed. I can’t even curse Connor out for maltreating my pillows.
I could crawl out of bed and put them in their proper place, but my squeezed thighs and the pulsing inside of me has carnal demands, not clean ones.
I’m literally too horny to move.
I fixate on the wall, my back turned to him, and I wait for his lamp to flicker off. An eternity must pass and I sincerely wonder if he’s reading a book just to annoy me. It’s 2 a.m.—we both need sleep. Or sex.
That too—but only I can quench my own arousal tonight.
Ignore thy husband.
With this in mind again, I slowly turn and realize that he is, in fact, propped against the headboard with a book in hand. Not to annoy me though. His brows are cinched in frustration as he flips the page, focusing on the text. Reading is his attempt to stimulate his brain in ways that I’m not.
It’s not working either. He shuts the book roughly and then locks eyes with me, his lips beginning to rise. “Venez à moi.” Come to me.
Oh no. Not happening. At least not how he wants. I plan to turn off his light for him. I break eye contact and then scoot closer, stretching over his lap to reach his end table. I inhale as he grasps my ass, his fingers dipping quickly between my thighs and skimming my panties.
I hurriedly shut off his lamp, bathing us in semi-darkness, and I go to move back to my side of the bed.
Right as I pass, he clutches my face and kisses me forcefully, stealing all oxygen from my lungs. I ache and pulse and then wake up, pulling apart and pressing my hand over his mouth.
“There are rules,” I pant, trying to catch my breath. “Don’t fuck with them.”
My eyes already orient to the lack of light. His displeasure crosses his features. I gave him an order. In bed, I never play this role. I don’t like it, and while it’s not ideal for either of us—we can’t diminish the stakes of our games. He knows this.
He’s just not used to failing.
I peel my hand off his lips, remove his wayward fingers from my panties, and then slide back to my end. I fluff my pillow, waiting for him to speak.
“Do you even know how wet you are right now?” he asks.
I freeze.
“Your panties are soaked, Rose.”
I don’t doubt it. I hope he notices my fiery glare, even if it’s not plastered to his face. I lie on my back, scooting fully beneath the comforter with my arms disappeared beneath it. I’m a stiff board, mummified. If brazen enough, I can also be a satiated woman.
I shut my eyes to block out Connor from my peripheral, but his domineering aura still shadows me. I feel him in the same position: propped against the headboard, his knee bent. His mind is at constant work to find a solution in order to achieve his desires.
“I never said how you felt the first time I put my cock inside of you.”
My chest collapses in a deep breath. He’s trying to arouse me enough that I succumb to him and allow him to dominate every inch of my body.
I’m not that easy to crack.
It’s a part of why he’s with me. He loves the challenge, and he thinks I won’t touch myself while lying next to him. But I’m as stubborn as he is dominant.
“When I slid into you, Rose, you were so tight that my cock swelled from the pressure.”
The first time I had sex. I never asked if I was that tight, but hearing that it affected him increases the pulse. It hurts, screaming for a hard, fast entry. My left hand kneads my breast and my other descends down the front of my panties.
I hesitate only when I dive into my mind, wondering if he’s watching or if he’s concentrating on other things. Like what, Rose, the ceiling, the floor?
When he speaks again, it goads me to continue to my clit, thinking that he’s more focused on his words. “You were used to toys but you weren’t used to the warmth or length of my erection, which fit perfectly between your thighs. In and out…in and out.”
I swallow, my fingers rubbing the sensitive bud. My toes already curl in anticipation, and the wetness creates easier friction.
I want him. In and out…in and out.
I buck my hips once and then freeze. The silence solidifies me. If he’s not speaking, then he’s watching. Is this a bad thing?
It’s partially unsettling, partially arousing, partially I-don’t-fucking-know-what.
I have to see what he’s doing. I can’t let my mind draw irrational conclusions, so I slowly turn my head. He’s in the same sitting position against the headboard, arm resting on his bent knee, and yes, his gaze is locked on me.
I glare on instinct, fire returning to my hellish eyes. Look away, Richard, I speak through them.
“No.” His singular word holds more weight than anyone else’s could.
I have three options.
1.) Go to bed horny.
2.) Continue masturbating with Connor watching.
3.) Succumb to my husband’s wants too easily and let him fuck me.
The second option is the best one, even if it’s difficult. I stare at the chandelier above our bed, and I quicken my fingers. I want to come so fucking hard. I try to remain still, but my legs quiver at the overwhelming sensations, my skin heating with sweat.
In and out…in and out, I imagine Connor pumping between my legs, spreading them wider—
The comforter tosses off my body, revealing my source of pleasure, hand beneath my panties, chemise rolled to my breasts, my nipples exposed as the straps have fallen off my shoulders. I’m so close to coming.
“Richard,” I half-pant in want of him, right inside of me, and I half-warn in threat of him right inside of me. I sit on two polar ends of yes and no. Too complicated for an ordinary man.