He hauled me to the center of the bed, his knees spreading mine apart. Bracing himself on one arm, he lifted his hand to hover over me. It shook. I caught his fingers, and his eyes flicked up to mine. Slowly, I pressed a kiss to his knuckles and cupped him over my breast. He let out a small, nearly soundless moan and bent to kiss where he caressed.
Now his hands began to branch out. They sent shivers of pleasure down my skin and made my thighs wet. I brushed across the soft buzz of his hair while he nibbled and kissed and stroked his way down my body. Sometimes he would pause in a place and lavish it with attention, transforming heretofore perfectly banal spots on my belly or arm into liquid pools of delight. He was discovering me. And while it tugged at my heart for a moment, it also filled me with… It made me feel beautiful anew. Not that his attentions weren’t always fervent, but his new-found enjoyment of me whispered to my hopeful heart that I might have his love again.
“Hey.” He came up to face level and leaned on his elbow. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I answered honestly. I needed to stop mulling flowery emotional fancies. Now wasn’t the time for that. Now was the time for… “I believe you declared some intentions when we were in the cab.”
He traced a finger between my breasts. “Did I? My memory is fuzzy.”
“Ha ha.”
A look of pure innocence playing across his features—betrayed only by the dimple, which could never, ever counterfeit virtue—he said, “Remind me what I said?” He snatched his attentions away and awaited my instructions.
Locking eyes with his, I took his hand and ran it, palm down, along the planes of my belly. I cupped him between my legs and, my fingers over his, pressed him into my pussy. He immediately made good on his husbandly duties. Hips bucking, I rubbed him there and said, more breath than voice, “You were doing this.” I moaned as he added more fingers to the mix, rubbing me in slow circles.
He leaned to kiss my neck, low down on the side, exactly where he knew I liked. Wait—what? How did he—?
“What next?” he asked.
I licked my lips. “You said…”
He slipped his fingers inside me. I held his wrist there, his fingers teasing and reminding me what his cock felt like, thick, hot—
A nip to my earlobe. “What next?”
“Sam,” was all I could reply. He growled, sounding very much like Old Sam, and moved down my body.
Perhaps his memory wasn’t so terrible, for he settled between my legs. His ass perched behind him, sadly out of reach, but reminding me of what I would get to grab onto when he pounded me into oblivion. He hovered over my open thighs and rubbed my clit with his thumb. I arched, and he said, “Jesus, you’re beautiful, Sam.”
Before I could even thank him for this well-timed compliment, he licked the center of my cleft, and I lost my mind. Every flick of tongue, every wet touch sent waves of pure delight through my body.
“How lucky am I?” he mused between driving me mad with desire. He sucked at my clit and pushed two fingers inside me.
Quite of their own volition, my hips strained to embrace his glorious torture.
“Wake up in the hospital to a gorgeous wife with a beautiful”—he kissed my lips—“perfect pussy.”
Oh, God. They shouldn’t be allowed, the things that man did to me with nothing more than a smart mouth and a dirty mind. He drove me to the edge of orgasm and yanked me back again, leaving me a quivering puddle of pure lust. I clutched at his head and shoulders, never wanting his sweet mouth on my cunt to stop, but needing his cock now.
“Fuck me,” I begged him.
“I’m not done here yet.”
I nearly cried, and I fell back onto the bed. I ran my stockinged feet over his shoulders. He grabbed the backs of my thighs and pushed them forward onto me. Thus, he held me down and had his way with me. I forgot my name. I forgot words. There existed nothing but him. Him, him, him.
On the brink of coming, so close I could touch it, see it in the lights behind my eyes, he stopped and took his hand, his everything away. Cold air swirled around me for a brief, terrible moment before he returned to me, completely, climbing across my body to meet me belly to belly, mouth to mouth. He tasted like my pussy, and I held his face to kiss him, open-mouthed and desperate.
He set his forehead to mine and panted one word. “Yes?”
I bucked my hips and nearly lifted us both off the bed. He laughed. A thousand witty comebacks jittered around my head, but I couldn’t seem to find words. He slid inside me and, finally, my head and my heart melted into total contentment. Not for long. Slow and sexy, he moved out and back in again, his pelvis angling up and filling me with unadulterated pleasure. He moaned and kissed me, looking as lost in bliss as I was.
He clutched and stroked me with his hands, and they seemed to want to touch as much of my skin as possible. It was hot and slippery, and for a long, long time he just plain fucked my brains out. He held me down from above for a while, then he put me on my knees and gripped my hips to pull me onto every hard inch of him.
With every new act, he told me what he enjoyed. I wasn’t sure if he wanted to reassure me, or just wanted to talk dirty, but damn, was it effective. What woman doesn’t want to hear how sexy her hair is when he fists it, how good she feels inside, how glorious her ass looks when he’s behind her? He said it all with such wonder, such worship, that it seemed like he was experiencing everything for the first time. No—even better. Because the first time we’d been strangers full of lust, and only the promise of something more. Now? I could almost believe that he knew me very, very well.
When I could take no more loving torture, I flipped us both other and climbed onto him. He sat up and held me by the ass while I rode him. His lips found my breast, and he teased my nipple on every upward thrust. I took his face in my hands and stared at him, close—close enough that his breath washed my mouth in sweetness.
I was almost there, grinding on him, digging my fingers into his shoulders, his back. He smiled up at me, watching me, he always loved to watch me, and said, “Yes. Yes. Give it to me, baby.” His hips thrust into me faster, harder, and I did, nearly drowning in the orgasm, screaming it into the hot air of the bedroom while I held his head to my breasts.
He turned me onto my back and arched his hips into mine, his ass rising and falling, so fucking sexy, and he came, hot, hard, quaking. He cried out my name, and tears sprang into my eyes as I held his shuddering form to mine.
The urge to talk it out, to analyze leaped to my mouth, but I pressed my lips together instead. Tonight was for the joy, not for the thinking.
We snuggled together, me resting on his shoulder, warm and content. He rubbed my back and pressed soft kisses into my hair until I fell asleep.
Chapter Six
Insert Sex Pun Here
Int: A quaint cottage nestled in the woods—day
Angle On: Snow Samantha, a beautiful maiden, er, woman fair. She awakens upon a bed strewn with wildflowers, the sunlight bathing her in a glow that makes her look ten, er, three years younger. She shakes her flaming red hair loose and bursts into song.
Snow Samantha (singing):
My prince has come,
The deed is done.
I sing in sex puns
When I get laaaaiiiiid!
Angle On: Snow Samantha twirls out of bed and lands on a pair of bunny slippers. They are actual bunnies. They lift her lithe form and hop nimbly across the hut with her on their backs. En route to the bathroom for a morning wee, a pair of warbling birds braid her hair with ribbons of satin.
Angle On: Snow Samantha perches gracefully on the toilet.
Snow Samantha: Oh, my animal friends, did you see my beautiful prince when he visited my lonely cottage yester eve? His royal tights looked so good on his royal scepter.
Bruce the Bunny: We didn’t see, but we heard.
Dirk the Bunny: Windows close as well as open, you know.
Snow Samantha: Oh, you’re so funny, animal friends. Did you se
e when he bent me over and pushed my leg into the air, and then he—
Tracie the Warbling Bird (warbling): Stop! Yes, we saw. Holy sunflower seeds, did we see. Amy hasn’t stopped regurgitating since!
Angle On: Amy the Warbling Bird barfing.
Tracie the Warbling Bird (warbling): I mean, she regurgitates into her kids’ mouths all the time, but this time it’s from disgust.
Snow Samantha: You know what, Tracie? You have a shitty attitude. I miss Amanda.
Tracie the Warbling Bird (warbling): Amanda flew into glass! Deal with it, Samantha!
Angle On: Snow Samantha, determined not to let pissy Tracie ruin her sex high. She bounces into the living room upon her bunnies, ready to spend another fulfilling day exploiting forest creatures and thinking of Prince Sam naked.
Angle On: Prince Sam bounds into the cottage, wearing a cape, tights, and nothing else.
Prince Sam: Snow Samantha, the most beauteous booty in all the land—I woke up in your arms this morning consumed with bliss. So I caught a wild fried chicken for your breakfast.
Angle On: Prince Sam holds up an entire chicken battered to golden perfection.
Snow Samantha: Wait, did you say ‘beauteous beauty’ or ‘beauteous booty’?
Prince Sam: What’s the diff?
Angle On: Snow Samantha runs slowly, very slowly, into Prince Sam’s arms. The orchestra swells. Except for the flute player. She’s out sick today.
Snow Samantha: Fried chicken!
Prince Sam: Snow Samantha!
Angle On: They intertwine their arms, legs and tongues. Mostly her tongue around his tongue, and also the chicken’s leg. The forest creatures flee.
Prince Sam: Our coitus last evening was the best I’ve ever experienced, and not just because I’m canonically only allowed to boink weird women who talk to animals and live in the forest.
Snow Samantha: And I’m grateful you’re not too inbred, as I’m canonically only allowed to boink princes.
Angle On: Seven diminutive men with giant beards barge through the cottage door.
Tipsy the Diminutive Man: Hey! It’s that lady who breaks into our house and eats all the Cheez-Its.
Farty the Diminutive Man: For the last time, get out!
Angle On: Snow Samantha and Prince Sam ride into the sunset on his horse. Then they get busy on the horse, who is named Dorothy and would very much like a new job.
* * * *
I awoke in my husband’s arms. This is not such an unusual thing for a woman who is married, but for me, and for this particular man, the moments of normalcy were truly exceptional. I turned blurry eyes up from my vantage point on his shoulder to take in his soft face, his pretty man eyelashes. Every day his hair seemed to come in more, and the worst of the bruising had gone. The bags under his eyes, so much deeper as of late, had begun to recede—he was sleeping more, thank goodness. We certainly slept well last night.
Damn.
I say dayum.
I felt like a princess. A very dirty princess. That may have been the best sex we’d ever had. There was once in that spa bathtub in Amsterdam—we nearly flooded the room… And that time we found ourselves alone in a gazebo in an LA park in the dead of winter—the twig injury was so worth it.
Although…wouldn’t living with a bunch of forest animals be super unhealthy? Maybe my fantasy was impractical. Did the bunny slippers clean their own droppings, or—?
“You’re freaking me out.”
I gasped and dropped my head onto his pec.
He chuckled, yawned, rubbed his head—adorably mmmmmm—and asked, “What on earth were you thinking about?”
“Bunny poop.”
His eyes narrowed, and he ran a hand over his confused face.
“I mean I was thinking about how pretty you are.”
“Uh-huh. Well, stop—you’re going to stare a hole in my head. Oh, wait…”
“I am not responsible for your first head hole.”
“So you say.”
In one move, he turned me onto my back with his head on my shoulder, and settled in to cuddle thataway. This was a favorite move of Sam, as he had one hand free to roam at will, which he now took advantage of. ‘Our Hands Roam’ could be the family motto.
I could not say that I minded his wandering caresses. I leaned my breast into his ministrations. “Speaking of holes…” I dangled romantically.
“Which holes would those be?”
“Mine.”
He unwound the arm under my head and leaned on his elbow. “Yours, huh?” Smoothing the tangle of hair from my forehead, he said, “I think…”
“Yes,” I prompted with an adorable grin.
“That is to say…” He cupped my hip and pulled me closer. “Bunny poop.”
“That’s only hilarious when I say it. I’m a professional funny person.”
“Fine. Then I’ll say, in all seriousness—that was the best damn sex I can remember.”
I turned to fully stare at him—his eyes held a hot spark that I had totally put there. “Huzzah! I win!” Of course, five years of his sex life were AWOL, but I chose to accentuate the positive.
Chuckling, he yanked me into a hug and rolled me on top of him. “I think I win. Are you done fishing for compliments now?”
“Never.” I pressed a kiss to his lips. “Well, maybe for now. I’ll need more later, though.”
He made ostentatious grumpy noises of faux-outrage that, naturally, I ignored. I often find it best to ignore the grumpings of men. If we did that more, there would be no world wars.
To turn that frown into something else, I scooched down his body until I arrived at his hips. And his erection. Ah, morning wood—all the benefits of an erection without the work. It’s the lazy sexy person’s favorite thing.
I curled my fingers around it—oh, it was soft. Not soft as in un-hard, but soft as in silky skin to stroke. Our stupid conversation ended then as he snuggled back into the pillows with a big, fat grin.
A lot of our stupid conversations ended this way.
My wicked deed was done in short order—he’d been ready to go, and I knew just what he liked. Stroke the bottom. Suck the top in long, wet, loving detail. He clawed at my hair, grabbing onto a bunch and tentatively directing my head. I let him, his body arching gorgeously underneath me, on and on, and he shouted when he finally came.
This was all part of my plan. He might not remember me. He might not love me. His hair might never grow back over that gross skull hole. But I was good in the sack, damn it, and that’s a perfectly valid way to keep your amnesiac husband interested. I think I read that in Good Housekeeping.
“You’re amazing,” said he.
Point— Samantha’s sexy mouth.
He crawled to me, a sexy panther stalking his partner jungle cat—I’m not prey, damn it. Not anymore. “May I reciprocate?” he asked, uttering the three sexiest words a man can use.
My stomach growled. Loudly. He pulled me into his lap. “Which do you want more—food or oral sex?”
What a question! This was a debate for philosophers, not for the ordinary likes of me. “Food, then sex. I need the nutritional energy.”
“Damn right, you do. Okay, you snuggle back in. Here’s the cat.” He jumped off the bed, scooped up Taco from where he’d been glaring at us on the carpet, and deposited my new buddy next to me. “I’m making breakfast.”
He’d never made me breakfast. I usually cooked, if there was cooking. Mostly, we were a takeout couple. Occasionally I got a sandwich from him, some grilling, or just a giant bowl of Cheez-Its, but this was new. New Sam! “You are?”
“Yeah. I can operate the stove—the doctor said so.”
He smacked me on the lips and left. To go make breakfast for me.
To go make breakfast…for me? Maybe he’d done this sort of thing all the time before he’d dated me, and thereafter had got less generous with the pancakes. Hey—what was wrong with me? I deserved pancakes, preferably with smiley faces on them! Or in the shape of a uni
corn—I saw a guy do that on the Internet.
“Taco, why hasn’t he ever done this before?”
Taco jumped off the bed and wandered from the room.
I threw myself across the covers out of angst, but also to reach my phone. Ellen would help. Ring. Ring.
“Hel—”
“I got laaaaiiiiid!” I sang in the manner of a princess.
A pause. “Hello, this is Ellen’s phone. I’m her fiancée, Nicolette.”
Okay, play it cool, Samantha. “Heeeeey, N. Sorry about the laying business. Is E. there?”
“You should apologize for the singing.” She sighed. She was always sighing when around me. “Just a sec. Good job on sex. With Sam?”
“Yes!”
“Well, better luck next time.”
Boy, that lady hadn’t liked Sam since she’d figured out he was a major criminal and failed to arrest him. You just can’t win with everyone.
“Sex!” screamed Ellen into the phone.
“With my vagina,” I replied.
“Nice. With Sam?”
“That joke wasn’t funny the first time. I have a question, though.”
“Shoot.”
“Is it weird that he’s making me breakfast this morning, but never ever did that before his head became all bashey?”
Ellen rolled her eyes at me. I could hear the click-whiz-pop of annoyance from eight blocks away. “Are you seriously bitching about getting laid and then getting breakfast?”
“But what does it meeeeean?”
“It means one should never underestimate your ability to regress to tenth grade.”
I did not like that answer, so I asked for another.
The Wrath of Dimple Page 9