Finally, she pushed open the fly. Drake was wearing boxers, silk knit in a pale sage green. She looked up at him, uncertain whether she should slide his pants and boxers down or just take his cock out and suck it like a drunk college girl in the shadows on the way home from a party.
His eyes were closed, his expression almost remote except for the half smile. “Take it out.” His voice was dark, harsh, but his hand stroked her hair gently.
She obeyed, taking in the texture of the silk as she did. Drake’s cock felt heavy in her hand, his balls, when she slipped her hand inside the boxers, hairy and coarse and alive. She looked up at Drake again, drinking in his male beauty.
Maybe longer than she meant to, but he was worth studying, even if it meant a firm tug on her hair and a sharp movement that shoved her mouth down onto his straining erection. At the first taste of him, she gushed moisture, wet from the long-anticipated feeling of his cock in her mouth.
Delicious. She swore she tasted that honeyed amber that filled her mind as his cock filled her mouth. She already knew he was well-endowed, but she hadn’t expected him to stretch her mouth this much, as if he was swollen even beyond his usual girth.
Maybe it was her imagination, because she was so hungry for him.
For what might have been seconds or hours, Drake allowed her to linger, taking in his scent, his flavor, his color, working her mouth and tongue around the swollen head, then chasing her spit-slicked hand up and down his shaft. Finally, he muttered, “Enough of that,” and, both hands on the back of her head, began to move her.
He was fucking her mouth. Using her for his pleasure. And she liked it more than she ever would have imagined.
Correction, she loved it.
It wasn’t easy to breathe around that invasion, but it didn’t seem to matter. She always relished sucking cock and enjoyed it when a guy came in her mouth. But this felt different, a bone-deep, cunt-deep need to feel the explosion of Drake’s pleasure. A deeper desire, a deeper red. Perhaps a deeper connection, not from his cock as much from his fierce grip on her head, on the way he guided her. Forced her, almost, only forced her to do something she craved.
He thrust faster. She was drooling now, dripping out of her mouth and onto her hands and Drake’s boxers, even his pants. Some self-conscious bit of her brain was embarrassed by it, but a wilder part liked the messiness, the way it made the moment even more intense.
Drake’s grip on her hair tightened. He moved wildly. She fought the urge to gag, and for a few seconds, Jen hovered on a fine line between depraved delight and distracted discomfort.
Then he grunted, one of those tight, controlled Drake noises she’d come to love in their short time together, and flooded her mouth, salty and musky yet tasting like amber and light. She clenched, driven to the brink by the taste of him. Flames flickered behind her eyes. Pleasure seared her, not quite an orgasm but a blissful release, both physical and emotional. She shuddered and sagged, clutching Drake’s leg for support.
His death grip on her hair shifted to a caress, an absentminded petting as if she was a cat curled up beside him. For a few seconds, he stayed strong, not even swaying. Then his knees buckled. He caught himself almost instantly, but Jen still noticed. And yet he kept stroking her hair, murmuring, “Good girl” in a soft voice that thrilled her. Despite his control, his efforts to retain a calm distance, she could tell he was rattled by the intensity of his orgasm. And for all they’d been playing at objectification, she’d experienced connection as well while he’d fucked her mouth, an intense oneness made ironically stronger by the distancing game.
Drake swayed, and this time he couldn’t hide it. Jen guessed he might not want to admit his knees were weak—that whole crazy control issue of his—even though it was obvious at this point. “That was intense, but I need a bed,” she said through a forced yawn, sounding more wiped than she felt, “or I’ll pass out on the floor.”
At the faked weakness in her voice, Drake snapped back online. “The floor’s not very comfortable,” he said, bending to help her to her feet. “Let’s get you to the bedroom.”
She thought she’d been feigning tiredness, but once she lay down in Drake’s arms, her day and her long-term lack of sleep caught up with her. She forced herself to stay awake and enjoy the novelty of Drake being snuggly. Maybe later, she thought as she cuddled down, Drake’s big body curled up around hers, she’d see if she could seduce him into going back on his declaration that she’d had to choose between blowing him and coming herself. But for now she was content to lie in his arms and let her mind wander from image to image, color to color. Once in a while Drake would run his hand over her nipple, or he’d shift in a way that let her know his cock was starting to take interest again, and she’d reconsider the seduction idea. Then she’d drift again.
Drake was talking softly, telling her a story about one of his grad students playing a rather arcane prank on another one. She was trying to pay attention, but the point of the joke was beyond her, though it was clearly funny to Drake’s mathletes. She yawned and snuggled closer, and Drake kissed the top of her head. “Guess you had to be there,” he concluded.
“I still wouldn’t have gotten it. I got as far as geometry in high school and figured I knew enough math for an artist. But I’d have laughed at Andrew flipping out like… How did you put it? A cat whose tail got stepped on…? Even if I didn’t understand why.”
She turned in Drake’s arms and was rewarded with a warm smile. “Math can be beautiful if you look at it the right way,” he insisted. “Artistic, even.”
Jen traced the formula on his arm with one finger. “That’s beautiful math, or maybe I just like the canvas.”
Drake kissed her then, soft but passionate, chuckling deep in his throat as he did. “Oh, Jen,” he said when he pulled away, “what am I going to do with you?”
Jen had a few suggestions. But when she tried to tell them, all she could do was yawn again. “Good night, beautiful,” Drake said softly. “You don’t sleep enough, you know.”
“Too much to do,” she argued, then conceded, “but I am tired.” Without even thinking about it, she rolled over again so they were spooned together in the little bed.
“Sleep. There’s always tomorrow. I’m not going anywhere.” The last words faded out as Jen drifted off.
Light colored by stained glass dyed the sheets as Jen rolled over in bed to find she was alone. For a second, disappointment stabbed her. Why was Drake averse to actually sleeping with her? She didn’t think she snored. Maybe he snored. She’d just decided that was the issue, that Drake made buzz-saw noises, or maybe was one of those people who slept on an invisible rotisserie, flipping over every fifteen minutes or so, and neither wanted to subject her to it nor admit to this flaw, when the bedroom door opened and Drake stuck his head in.
“Coffee’s on downstairs.” Damn man didn’t have the grace to look all morning-tousled. His short hair looked good even right out of bed.
“You’re a superhero.” Jen sat up and stretched, welcoming the light through the stained glass and the sight of the colored light dancing over Drake’s skin now that he’d stepped into the turret. “Your hair always looks good, and you made me coffee.”
His faded Tasmanian Devil boxers might undercut the superhero image, but considering the devil inside them, and the body he was flaunting by wearing nothing but said boxers, she was willing to pretend that when superheroes weren’t in costume, they liked dorky boxers.
“No, if I were really heroic, I’d make breakfast too. I saw bread for toast and that’s pretty much it, unless you want pasta salad for breakfast.” He glanced around the room. “You were right about the window.” He looked at the window rather than in her eyes as he spoke. “Waking up with the light coming through it was nice. Have to check how it looks in the afternoon.”
She refrained from reminding him that in the afternoon, the light would fall on the other side of the house. She was pretty sure he knew that and was just fishing for her a
vailability. “Not this week. I’m flat out enough that you probably won’t see me today at all. I’ll be at the studio other than dog-walking time until it’s time for work.”
“I’ll miss you,” he said, surprising her completely, “but thanks for letting me know. That way I won’t worry. And don’t forget to lock the door.”
She snorted. As she did, she caught the seductive whiff of coffee and rolled out of bed, lured by the promise of caffeine. “I’m hardly likely to forget. Scared the hell out of me to walk in and find you sitting there. I’m surprised you didn’t just jump me and do the scary-intruder thing, though. Tie me up and have your wicked way with me and all that.” She hadn’t meant to say that. It just spilled out of her mouth. But as she said it, she realized her arousal had cranked up despite the early hour, lack of coffee and the tragic need for both of them to get on with their days without stopping for sex. From the gleam in Drake’s eyes, he liked the idea too.
“Thought about it, but you might be carrying glass,” he said drily, “and I’d hate for you to drop one of your creations. But if you leave the door open again, I’ll do it.”
Jen shrugged and without even considering it, said, “Don’t worry about me dropping artwork. I’m leaving my new pieces at the studio so it’s all in one place to pack up for the Solstice Craft Show.”
Their eyes met. Drake smiled, a small, cool, wicked smile, and she realized they’d just made a date.
A twisted date, but a date.
“And once this show of yours is over,” he added, “I’m going to do shibari on you. A long, slow tease, with ropes. Plan to take the day off.”
Make that two dates.
Chapter Fifteen
Jen locked the house that morning and several days after that. She didn’t want to provoke the “intruder” game accidentally—that would definitely be something she and Drake would want to set up in advance so she didn’t clock him with a lamp. But she kept thinking about that, and about other sexy things they’d so far talked about but not tried. Extended scenes, trying more of Drake’s intriguing pain toys. Role play. Shibari bondage.
Fantasies were about as close as she was getting to sex at the moment. Might as well make them good.
This particular week, she was home just long enough to sleep a few hours between the bakery, dog-walking, the food co-op, and the studio. She’d deliberately managed to run into Drake one morning when she stopped home to drop off the marked-down produce she’d picked up at the co-op and take a nap. She had high hopes of skipping her nap in favor of play, but Drake took one look at her, gave her a lingering, delicious kiss, and said, “Come on, I’ll tuck you into bed. Alone.” When she tried to protest, he insisted, saying that it would hurt his pride if she fell asleep midscene, and she was clearly ready to do so.
With an hour’s nap, she felt good as new, but when she tracked him to his lair, the lair was locked and his car gone. Disgruntled, she headed to her kitchen to do useful things to her produce, since it was all at the point where it had to be used or frozen right away. And there wasn’t much this week, so she had to make the best of it.
The simple tasks gave her plenty of time to imagine Drake doing things to, for and with her that were probably illegal in certain states. By the time her gnarly carrots were cut into sticks, the slightly limp kale steamed and tossed with her last salad dressing, the overripe strawberries picked (half the edible ones going into her mouth, the rest sealed into a container for nibbles at the studio), and her mushrooms sautéed and frozen for a time when she’d actually be home to eat, she was wet and twitchy with excitement. And she had an idea to surprise Drake. He was teaching his “mathematics for musicians” class (she still hadn’t figured that course name out) this afternoon. A good time to set up a surprise, with time to anticipate and fantasize—and for him to plot and scheme—before tomorrow, when she’d actually have time for the scene she hoped very much he’d set up.
Just to make sure Drake didn’t come home for lunch and catch her, she walked the dogs, then stopped by to see Melinda and Rafi for a last pre-baby visit. As she hung out with her friends, though, Jen kept her eye on the time. She was on a schedule. Luckily, her friends were used to her always having too much on her plate at once, and her abrupt departure raised no eyebrows.
Until she offered a few vague but still suggestive words of explanation. Then Rafi’s dark eyebrows and Melinda’s pale reddish ones flew up.
“It doesn’t freak me out that you’re bolting so you can set up a sexy surprise for your new guy,” Melinda said. “That’s fun. I’m curious as hell, in fact.”
Jen opened her mouth to give a slightly bowdlerized explanation. Rafi and Melinda were nothing if not open-minded about sex, as long as everyone involved was having fun, though she wasn’t sure they really needed to know she was leaving sex toys on Drake’s bed as a not too subtle hint.
But Rafi flailed his hands like a panicked Muppet. “We don’t need details! It might scare Seneca,” he added, moving one of his hands to Melinda’s swollen belly, where little Seneca was peacefully spending his or her last few days before entering the world.
“Would you believe he had a biology degree from Cornell?” Melinda smiled indulgently at her nervous husband’s superstitions. “Your sex life doesn’t bother me. What’s freaking me out is you’re sleeping with someone with a schedule predictable enough you could pull off this kind of stunt. But it’s a good kind of freaking out. Your last few lovers were…well, flaky.”
“But I’m flaky,” Jen retorted.
“No,” Rafi said gently, “you’re an artist. Your schedule may be strange by the standards of nine-to-five people, but you work your ass off.”
“And the last few guys you’ve dated were ones who could fit in a bootie call whenever you had a scrap of spare time,” Melinda said, squeezing Jen’s hand, “because they didn’t work at much of anything.”
“Including relationships,” Jen concurred. “Drake may be more of a regular citizen than I usually meet, but it has its merits. He may not get the whole life of an artist, but he gets that it involves work and respects that. He buys decent coffee, the good organic dark roast stuff. And best of all, he’s not stoned all the time, so he remembers what he’s doing in bed.”
Rafi Muppet-flailed again.
Jen took that as her exit cue and made her good-byes. It was high time to get going anyway.
Drake was in class now; no chance of an unexpected stop home.
That gave her time to place the riding crop, a hank of bright green rope and the blindfold she both loved and dreaded on the bed. She carefully arranged one of her few pieces of lingerie next to them. On top of the arrangement, she put a note on pale yellow paper, written in a green pen that almost matched the rope: Tomorrow night, please? I’ll actually have time.
The rest of Wednesday passed in its usual blur. But while Jen was in the middle of creating the earth-goddess piece she’d sketched on Sean’s sandwich wrapper, her phone chimed its text signal. She wasn’t at a point that she could stop and check it, but her ears perked up regardless. She didn’t get many texts—the ugly font that her ancient cheap phone displayed annoyed her, and her artist friends understood her irritation—so there was a fairly short list of people it might be from.
One of her parents, which would serve her right. She hadn’t called home in a while.
Or Drake.
That thought sent a crimson thrill from mind to clit, but she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. This piece was important. If she got it finished to her satisfaction, it would be one of the centerpieces of her display at the Solstice Craft Show, along with its companion Green Man. Even if she didn’t sell them at the show—larger, more expensive pieces often took longer to find the right buyer—they’d attract attention. And the more people who came to her booth to look at a beautiful piece that they might not be able to afford at this time, the more people would walk away with vases, paperweights, suncatchers, and smaller sculptures.
It wa
s getting late by the time she was able to take a break. Soon it would be time to catch a quick nap on the saggy old sofa, eat the minestrone and bread she’d brought for dinner, and head on to the bakery. She thought longingly of her own bed but fought off the thought. In the time it would take to bike home and cook a more enticing meal, she could make another simple vase. And the comfortable bed would make it that much harder to get going again.
Not to mention the temptation of spending the time seeing what crazy things Drake might do to her body, instead of actually sleeping.
She checked the temperature of the glass, heating up for the next layer on the earth-goddess piece, then picked up her phone. Please, she prayed to no deity in particular, please don’t let the text be more marketing spam. The problem with a cheap pay-as-you-go phone was that every payday loan and credit scam on earth managed to find your number.
But it was from Drake. Simple, straightforward and full of promise: Yes. Tomorrow. Be home by six if you can.
Maybe she’d have to eat dinner before she got back to glasswork. For some reason, her hands seemed shaky.
And her pussy was definitely twitchy. But the reason for that was obvious.
Perhaps she should have waited for tomorrow to start planning, to give him the note. She’d wanted to give them both time to anticipate. But the anticipation might just kill her.
The next day passed in a blur of gray busyness enlivened by a rosy ache of desire and flame-colored spikes of need. Between the bakery, dog-walking, running some errands for a client in Cayuga Heights, an elderly woman who sometimes paid her to pick up prescriptions and library books, and the usual studio work, Jen didn’t have a lot of time to daydream about the night ahead. But when she broke for a late lunch (more minestrone and another slightly stale roll), she let her mind wander to possibilities.
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