Home for the Summer

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Home for the Summer

 

Chapter 1

 The breeze has been competing with the humidity all morning and is finally winning. Standing on the balcony, my hips pressed against the black iron railing, I let the cool air tip my head back. With my dress swirling around my ankles, tickling my skin, I breathe in the sweet air, smiling into the breeze. We’re finally here, on Italy’s sunny coast, for the next three months.

We found our small villa last year at the end of the tourist season, and he spent the winter working with the estate agent.  The seaside village is quiet, despite being only a few miles outside city centre. The colorful houses are tucked into the hillside, and palms and shrubs draw zigzag landscapes, ensuring privacy. Looking out at the crystal blue water, it was worth the nine months of headaches and worry. There was still work left, minor repairs and painting which he insists on doing himself. He arrived two days ago to get started while I stayed behind, seeing to the moving details. I hated every minute of it; London might be our home, but my heart is already here.

I hopped a late-night flight available and landed this morning at dawn. I couldn’t stay another minute in our lonely, upscale apartment. I found him sprawled out, asleep atop our antique metal bed and spent long moments looking down at him. His dark, tussled hair made the sheets finer and whiter, somehow. And while his full lips were soft in sleep, they can be hard and determined, in temper and against my skin.  His arm stretched across the empty space, as if he were holding me in his dreams. I wanted desperately to lie down and curl my body around him, soaking up his strength, his steadiness, but I had work to do.

He isn’t an easy man, though he claims he is. He is an adventurer, drawn to living life a moment at a time. He is brilliant and logical, sexy and dangerous.  He is very much his own man, skirting the edges of every day or commonplace.

He lured me in with his patience and singular focus the night we met, and I felt like a snared rabbit, scared and excited. Somehow I caught his attention, an intriguing puzzle he wanted to solve. I’d told him so, churning the words into an accusation, hurling them like a dagger one bad night. He’d grabbed me by the arms then, and pulled me close. His jaw was clenched, his lips drawn tight over his teeth, when he all but snarled that I was never a puzzle, but an answer, that he’d found himself in me. It was an admission he hadn’t been prepared to admit, but one I’d been desperate to hear.

He is the other half of me, strong where I am weak, soft where I am hard. He captured my mind, and in doing so, my heart. From the night our paths crossed, I knew I would follow him anywhere. He was determined to have me, and I was helpless to do anything but submit. I shared my brain first, then my body. A long time later, I shared my feelings. Those pesky, messy feelings that had no place in my life, until him.

I shake my head, sigh and return to the present. I step away from the balcony and return to my makeshift desk, a small wrought-iron table where my laptop sits. I’ve been working like crazy the past month to complete the last of my contracted work. I rub my hand along the back of my neck, lifting the damp, curling strands of hair that slipped free of my ponytail while lowering myself onto the cushioned seat. I grab the hem of my skirt and drag it up my legs, thankful again for the small breath of air. I resent having to work, but he’s been working just as hard, so I push the pettiness aside.  I let my eyes graze briefly over the deep, blue sea beyond the second-floor balcony one more time, then turn my attention to the words in front of me. I’ll never finish if I don’t concentrate.

His lips press against my neck just as I close the computer. I didn’t hear him stepping over the threshold or crossing the balcony. His tongue strokes my quickening pulse as his hands cup my shoulders. I lift my hand to his neck and slide my fingertips into the curling hair behind his ear, closing my eyes. Leaning my head on his shoulder, my lips brush against his skin, damp with sweat, and breathe him in. Immediately, need swirls, low and deep.

His mouth moves down my neck to my shoulder, his tongue and teeth moving across the heated skin, and I moan. “You should have crawled into bed with me this morning. I’m through waiting,” Low and raspy and heavy with sex, his accent, usually lyrical, is a growl. Shivers cascade down my spine.

He traces the small tattoo sitting above my shoulder blade with a single fingertip and raises goose bumps despite the heat.  A low pulse beats heavy between my legs, and I feel the wetness between my legs as his fingers slide across my collarbone before slipping underneath my strapless dress and pushing the elastic edge down. He cups my breasts, capturing my nipples between his fingers to tug and twist. 

He bends low, curling his body over mine and presses his cheek into my belly for a moment before turning his mouth to my skin. He whispers words against my flesh, words I still don’t understand, but their meanings are clear, and my skin quivers in response. My breath catches as he lifts my breasts to his mouth. He scrapes the tender skin beneath them with his stubbled chin as he licks and sucks, and this ravenous need sinks deep. I raise my arms and wrap them around his shoulders and neck, stroking, urging, demanding more. I arch back and thrust my breasts higher, my nails scoring his back.

He stands suddenly and slides his hands under my arms, lifting me to my feet. He pulls me into him, one hand firm on my back, the other cupping my ass. His eyes meet mine; they are black with need and bright with intent. Then his mouth crashes against mine, reclaiming it as his. Only his.  I meet him eagerly, hungrily. His tongue slides into my mouth, rubbing, dueling, and I taste the flavors of his day –the endless cups of coffee and illicit cigarettes he constantly tries to leave behind.

I need him now. Now, in the sun, with the smells of the sea and his skin mingling, my senses overwhelmed.

***

I can’t get enough of her; her skin, her scent, that indefinable quality so uniquely her. She draws me in, mindlessly. Recklessly. Watching her from the doorway, standing at the balcony railing, with her head back and the breeze ruffling her hair, my desire roars. I need her, need to lose and find myself in her body. Her smile. Her eyes. She is a goddess in her white, strapless sundress.

She wants to be a simple woman, but she is not. Her brain is a wild dervish of words and meanings, a private world of outrageous dreams and ruthless logic. She is not comfortable with her emotions, yet she is capable of illogical love.

She captured my attention late one night, a chance meeting on an evening train with a long look and quiet greeting as she slid past me.  From her accent she was American, but nothing like the brash, loud tourists constantly bombarding the city. She was self-contained, content to sit and let people hum around her. She didn’t strike up conversations as Yanks often do, eager to interact with mostly disinterested passengers. Neither did she hide behind a book or headphones. She sat and observed, and I wondered what went on behind her golden-brown eyes. When our eyes met, she didn’t smile, and she didn’t look away. She simply let her eyes rest on my face, and it was as tactile as a caress. She took me in, and when she looked away, I felt alone, a new and foreign feeling.

My stop came and went, but I rode on, and the train slowly emptied. Her quiet demeanor wasn’t encouraging, but neither did it dissuade me. In the near-silent carriage, I asked her to join me for coffee. Her eyes widened, perhaps in surprise or amusement, but she firmly nodded her acceptance. As we settled in the booth of a quiet restaurant instead of Starbucks, I asked her why she agreed. She smiled then, soft and genuine, and my heart skipped at the quiet joy of it.

“You might not understand,” she murmured, her eyes on the vodka she ordered, instead of coffee.

“Try me,” I responded, wanting her to look at me, needing her to see me again, like she did on the train.

“There’s a story inside you. I like stories, and I like learning. I also liked the way you looked.” Her head tilted sideways, considering. “There you were… suit and tie. Dressed up, but slightly disheveled. Looking like you’ve had a long day.  You appeared disinterested, like all the other passengers. But you were focused. You watched,” she paused. “And you didn’t get off at your stop.”  Pleased, I asked her how she knew.

She laughed and leaned forward, crossing her arms on the table in front of her, and something in my stomach knotted, a reflex to her relaxed casualness.  “You glanced at the doors as they opened, then down at your watch. When the doors closed, you sat back. Stretched out. You made the decision to stay where you were. I was curious why.” I looked at her, raising an eyebrow.  She shrugged and sat back, then flashed a mischievous grin. “And you charmed me with your invitation.”

I laughed at the unexpected admission. Looking pleased with my reaction, she freely admitted, “I liked the way you asked me. Leaning forward, your elbows resting on your knees.  You looked me dead in the eyes.”

 “Why did you invite me?” Her simple question had a thousand, no-so-simple answers.

We talked and walked that night. She gave away precious little about herself, yet something in her called to me. More than a chance meeting, it was recognition. Now, all this time later, whether she’s in the next room or across the city, she does the same. It is not her beauty or her intelligence, though they are considerable, or even her sense of humor, what was lightning quick and just as hot and sharp. I move through my day, taking meetings and phone calls and dealing with a million obligations and problems, but she is there, calling me back to her. I’ve busted ass the past two days, was restless the past two nights, painting. And waiting. For the next three months, we’re in Italy; she’ll turn her attention to her writing, while I content myself with small projects around the house and getting in her way.

I felt her this morning, standing alongside our bed. I thought it a dream until I woke and caught her scent. I showered then padded across the kitchen tiles, shirtless and barefoot, ready to share a cup of coffee with her, but she’d set only one mug next to the espresso machine, not two. I gritted my teeth at her warning. I was to stay away until she finished her work. So I made my coffee and finished the painting.

I saved her office for last and was pleased with the results. The light from the high windows reflected off the soft, cool walls, making the naked floor gleam, dark and rich. I can see her here, moving from windows to desk to shelves, her feet shoved into her ridiculous-looking slippers, her hair messy. We bought the house for her; she has a need to escape the busy and noise, the distractions and demands. Secretly, I bought it for me, so I can have her for myself. I wonder if she’ll allow me to take her here; perhaps against the thick wooden door, wrapping her legs around my waist as I sink my cock into her waiting heat, or her riding me, my shoulders and heels pressing hard into the polished floor as she shifts and slides, taking me deep.

But I’ve reached my limit.  I push the sheer curtain aside and move across the small balcony, catching her by surprise as she finishes her work. My mouth and hands move over her sweet, warm skin, tasting the damp skin on my tongue, feeling her shivers. My hands cup her breasts, and my cock grows hard as her nipples pebble against my rough palms.

I grab her shoulders and pull her to her feet, forcing her to stand on her toes as I cup her ass, tilting her hips. I press my hardness into her, her soft belly a warm cushion. I kiss her, pushing my tongue into her mouth to rub against hers. She tastes faintly of juice, tart and sweet. Her arms wrap around my neck, her fingernails scrape my scalp as her fingers bury deep in my hair.  She moans, soft and low. I slide my hand to her ponytail and pull hard, snapping her head back. I run my mouth over her check, jaw, and down her neck, nipping and sucking my way to her breasts. She bows, offering herself. Using my lips and teeth, I torment her flesh, ignoring her whispered pleas to slow down, to let her catch up.

I pull back and slowly straighten. Her eyes are dazed, her lips moist and swollen. I lead her to the balcony edge, and taking her hands, I place them on the hot iron railing and order, “Don’t let go.”

I sink to my knees and let my mouth and chin run down her spine, exploring the bumps and hollows. Needing to feel and touch all of her, I lift the hem of her skirt and tuck it into the elastic band now on her waist. Grabbing her hips, I pull her into me, curving her back. She is exposed, her ass pale in the sun. I need to taste her. I trace her soft, wet skin before sliding a finger inside. Slowly, sinking deep. She whimpers softly as my thumb rubs her clit, moistening the tender nub with her wetness. My mouth is on her ass, nipping and kissing the smooth skin as I slowly tease, slowly ratcheting her desire and need. Her breathing is jagged and thready, but I won’t allow her to peak, yet. Won’t allow this first, delicious orgasm to overtake her.

 I catch her small sigh of longing as I withdraw my finger, and sooth her with gentle strokes along the backs of her thighs. When she settles, I reach for her again, parting her gently and press my face between her legs. My tongue moves over her clit. She gasps; her legs quiver as I trace the swollen flesh. I close my lips over the bundle of nerves, drawing her in my mouth. Her breathing comes in great gasps of air as she moves against my mouth, pushing and retreating.  Her taste explodes in my mouth, sweeter now, hotter on my lips. I feast on her.

***

My nerves are strung tight; my chest burns as breathing turns to sharp gasps.  His mouth moves over me, his tongue thrusting inside me, fucking me. Standing on my toes, trying not to push back against him, it is useless to fight the swelling tide - the urge to move, to mate, to fuck takes over. My fingers curl around the railing, holding on for support and a measure of control. The hard edges bite into my palms as his tongue dips and strokes.

 He knows every inch of my skin, knows how to draw every ounce of pleasure from my body. He slows again, blowing a slow, steady stream of air over my clit. My chest tightens; a strangled sound escapes the back of my throat. In desperation, I reach behind me and grab a fistful of hair, pulling him hard into me while I push back. His afternoon stubble scrapes my soft skin as his tongue pushes deeper.  Bursts of desire explode through me, my muscles strain as his mouth and fingers move over me, in me.

He stands, his mouth leaving me suddenly, violently, and I yell in protest and reach for him.  He grabs the bunched dress at my waist and pulls it over my head, dropping it on the warm stones. He pulls me against him, my back against his chest, his cock pressing into the small of my back.  His strong hands cups my jaw and turns my face as his lips find mine. I taste my body on his tongue, his lips, and sink into the kiss as his flavors and mine mingle. “Be patient, love. Wait for the pleasure.”

I whimper at his words, helpless to do any more than ride the violent waves of passion. I feel his heart racing against my back. He kisses my neck, my ear, while his hands roam, cupping my breast, sinking his fingers into my body.  His mouth finds mine again, rough and demanding.

“Ride my hand.” His voice is dark and thick. Commanding.

I need to explode. He is an expert, knows how to build my desire, flashes of heat and smoldering flames. Helpless to anything else, I move, rubbing my clit against the hard butt of his palm while his fingers drive deep inside me. With an arm above my head, wrapped around his neck, I grab his wrist and will him not to pull away as I rock against him. His hand grows damp as I slip over it.

But he won’t allow me to continue. I sob as his hand leaves me. Turning me, he wraps his arms around me. “Wrap your legs around me, love,” he murmurs.

His lips meet mine as he lifts me to him, and my legs wrap around his hips. I am hot and wet and out of my mind as he enters, swift and sharp, full and deep. I bury my face into his neck as he sets me on the edge of the small table. He is no longer patient, can no longer pretend patience. His cock stretches me, and the fullness brings me to the edge, again.

“Please!” I cry. I am ready to beg, to plead with him not to stop, not to leave me. To let me come. For him. To please him.

And this time he doesn’t stop. The sounds of damp skin sliding and slapping cling to the air around us. He changes angles and leans forward, bracing one arm on the table while the other angles my hips. His dark eyes are intense, his mouth hard, as he focuses in on me. Only me.

“You are so tight, love,” he rasps, seductively. “I love how your body shows me how much you want me, how much you love my cock inside you.” My pussy clenches in response. He lowers his mouth to my breasts, brushing his lips and teeth over each nipple before pulling the overheated flesh into his mouth.

***

I’m crazed. Her hot, wet pussy traps me tight; the lush drag of skin against skin pushes me closer to release. I tilt her hips higher, knowing the moment the head of my cock hits her sweet spot. Her heels dig deep into the small of my back. I leave her for a moment then sink myself fully, bumping her cervix. I thrust hard and fast, burying myself over and over. Her legs tremble, her breathing as jagged as mine.

“Now, love,” I whisper. I want to feel her shivers as her walls clamp around me. She responds immediately, now that she’s been given permission, and her nails rip into my back and shoulders as her orgasm rips through her. Her back arches, and her low wail fills the air.

I am helpless to respond, and I pour myself into her. I drop my face into her neck, whispering love words, how proud I am of her, that she is mine.

Long, long moments later, as our bodies cool in the soft breeze and our breathing steadies, I raise my head and kiss her softly; her brow, her nose, and finally her mouth, now lax. Resting my forehead against hers, I whisper, “Welcome home.”

Chapter 2

I come awake slowly, easily; content for the moment to nestle in his arms, his warm stomach pressed into my back and his leg tucked between mine. I open my eyes and watch through the bedroom window the first, weak rays of sun scare away the last edges of night. It is the cool sea breeze that woke me, and I smile as the gauzy curtains flutter like delicate fingers waggling hello.

In the diluted light my eyes wander, touching on the big and small pieces we brought with us - my great, great grandmother’s cedar chest, his grandfather’s mantle clock.  The warm patina of old wood glows softly as the pale, gold walls soak up the morning light. The care and attention paid to this room shows in every curve and corner. It’s a stark contrast to our London bedroom, with its cool colors and clean lines.

Easing out of his arms, I roll towards him, tuck my hands beneath my cheek and watch him sleep. I looked forward to this moment, to waking up to the scent of the water instead of a blaring alarm clock, knowing I won’t need to get out of bed the moment my eyes open. To do as I am doing now. He has relaxed here; the tension lines around his mouth and between his eyes have gentled. He is an intense man and able to shoulder responsibilities and stress so well that I neglected to look, failed to pay attention to what was in front of me. It wasn’t until we found this house, quite by accident, that I understood what he needed - a retreat from the constant cacophony of noise and people and distractions. When we toured the house, I instantly pictured a life here, saw him puttering through the rooms, fixing things - hammering and nailing and painting and getting in my way.

Just as he needs to take care of me, I need to do the same - shelter, protect and care for him. He doesn’t make it easy, but then, I don’t, either. We value and crave our independence, our autonomy, and yet we found our missing pieces in each other, those, which make us whole, make us better together than on our own.

I bite my lip as a wicked thought crosses my mind then smile. Why not? It isn’t often we wake together, even less often I have the opportunity to wake him.  I shimmy out of my cotton tee shirt and matching shorts, careful not to jostle the bed and wake him. Cool air races across my torso, pebbling my nipples.  I scoot down the thick mattress, taking the sheet with me. Reaching out, I put my hand on his hip then stroke the outside of his thigh and nudge him onto his back. With my body pressed against his, he doesn’t wake but moves and settles, one arm over his head, the other falling onto my pillow. My eyes rake over him - his body is perfect, used to movement and work. He was once harder, leaner, with a personality to match. Years later, he still fascinates me, captivates me.

My hands itch to feel him in my hand, to feel his cock grow heavy in my mouth, on my tongue. I am eager to taste him, to take him - slowly, druggingly, to have him wake, swollen and deep in my mouth, overwhelmed with no opportunity to take over, take control.

Steady and smooth my palm runs over his abdomen, to his hip, then down his thigh, up the inside. As he moves then settles, I glance up before continuing, making sure I haven’t startled him awake.

I slowly lower my cheek to his skin to feel his warmth, breathe him in. He rarely lets himself be pleasured before I receive mine, but this morning, the choice isn’t his. The need to give to him, to make him mine beats wildly under my breast. My mouth waters with anticipation. I press a soft, open-mouthed kiss above the coarser hair on his lower abdomen before moving lower. 

The mushroom-shaped head is smooth and silky against my lips. Opening my mouth as if receiving Communion, I lift him reverently with my lips and tongue and draw him in. Slowly, gently, my mouth closes around him. My body responds to his taste; my pussy feels wet, empty. I swirl my mouth and lips over the ridges and silky soft skin then draw him deeper, until his cock grows heavy. I need all of him and take him deeper still, relaxing my jaw and throat as he lengthens and stiffens. I lift my body and move between his legs, my shoulders nudging his legs apart.

His thighs and stomach tighten under my hands as he awakes. He grows harder, thicker. His cock slips between my lips as I glide over him, until just the head is snug in my mouth. I suck gently first, then stronger, until my mouth surrounds him like a wet glove. He hisses sharply and buries his hands in my hair. Worrying he’ll pull me up, lay me down and take over, I press his hips down into the mattress then move faster - driving him on, giving no reprieve, no chance to think, just feel. His hands tighten around my hair, then gentle as he gathers my hair away from my face. I look up at him; his eyes are hard and intense as he stares at his cock in my mouth. He cups my cheek and his thumb traces my lips surrounding his cock, taking away the wetness dripping down to my chin while fighting the urge to thrust further, deeper, harder.

He groans and throws his head back as my lips brush the base of his cock, the hair tickling my nose. I inhale, his scent an aphrodisiac, and begin moving faster, sucking harder. His winds his fist around my hair and takes control of my mouth, pulling and tugging, guiding and demanding.

My eyes close as I fuck him, greedy to taste him, to have my mouth full of his cock. He tugs sharply on my hair and huskily orders me to lift; it’s then that I feel his leg pressing hard against my side. I raise myself off the bed, and he pushes his leg under me until I am straddling it. Immediately, I tilt my hips and position my clit against the top of his knee.  My body rides the edge of pleasure and torment. The need to come, to take pleasure while fucking him, claws at me. But the need to give pleasure, to make him weak with it, defenseless against it, spurs me on.

His leg pushes against my pussy, sliding over my sensitive flesh, and the hard bone rubbing my clit distracts me for a moment. I squeeze my eyes tight until I regain control. My hand moves in tandem with my mouth, stroking and sucking, bathing him with my tongue and lips, drawing him in deep, while my clit rubs deliciously against him.

He finally loses control and fists my hair, pushing my head down hard and burying himself deep in. I gag slightly as again and again his cock bumps the back of my throat. His voice is thick and raspy, praising my lovely mouth, my slippery tongue, my soft lips.  He is going to come, and I need to taste him, to swallow every drop, to feel him pulse as he gives me what I need. He does then, in a heavy spurts, filling me. His accent is thick, heavy with satisfaction and praise.

He pulls me from him, and swiftly sitting up, he reaches for me. Sitting me on his lap, my legs straddling his thighs, he reaches between my legs and cups me while his other hand wraps around my neck and pulls. His mouth drags over mine; thrusting his tongue past my lips to mate. He shoves two fingers inside me, and his mouth muffles my scream as he plunges mercilessly, as relentless as my mouth a few moments before. His thumb rubs and presses into my clit, and I orgasm swiftly, brutally, my entire body quivering, shaking.

 Endless heartbeats later, he lies back, taking me with him, until I am splayed over his body, my cheek covering his heart. Reaching low, he pulls the sheet up and covers us.  He cups my chin and lifts my face to his mouth, his kiss gentle, thankful, then grins and falls back onto the pillow. Hearing his heartbeat still racing, I’m content once more to be held.

It was a fine way to begin my first day at home.

Chapter 3

The theatre fills as we take our seats in the private box. Her eyes take everything in as they sweep the cavernous room — the contrast of modern and traditional — from the rich, gleaming wooden balconies and seats covered with their vibrant upholstery to the recessed lighting overhead. Seeing her face so expressive, so receptive, tells me how relaxed and delighted she is, and the tense muscles between my shoulders ease.

There had been phone calls this morning. The first was from Elizabeth — her charming, flirtatious, emotionally manipulative mother. She handled it well, but telling her mother she wasn’t welcome to visit right now hadn’t been easy. Liz had a way of being loving and manipulative simultaneously. She first tried cajoling, then moved on to guilt. When neither achieved results, Liz became emotional. She’d handled it well, until her sister Sandy called. Liz hadn’t wasted any time complaining about the lack of love and attention, so her sister joined the mix, demanding to know why Liz couldn’t visit; since she left, all the familial responsibility had landed on Sandy’s shoulders, and she needed a break. Never mind that Sandy has her own house, her own life and family, and wasn’t in Liz’s back pocket or at her beck and call.

Hours after the calls ended, my irritation persisted, which is why I called in a favor and scored tickets for tonight’s performance of Verdi and Puccini at Teatro Carlo Felice. And not just tickets, but a private box. I walked through the house to her office and leaned against the doorframe. She was sitting at her desk with scattered sheets of paper in front of her, tapping her pen against her lips, as if hoping something would come to her so she could write it down. I didn’t want to disturb her if she was working, but as she looked as if she was either praying for inspiration or temporary amnesia of the morning’s events. I rapped softly on the open door. She merely raised her eyebrow when I told her we’d be leaving at six pm for the theater, but I felt her skepticism and saw a hint of worry in the small crease on her forehead. Small parts of her worry that what she imagines in her mind won’t measure up to the actual event. Her world of imaginary versus reality sometimes caused her to waiver, but right now, that was not the reason for her tiny, worried crease.

“You won’t be disappointed, I promise,” I said softly. “You need the distraction.”

She smiled sadly and stood, crossed the floor wearing her ridiculous-looking bedroom slippers, and hugged me. I wrapped my arms around her and stroked her hair. That her family didn’t understand her and thought only of themselves hurt her, but she was an amazingly strong woman, and she found a way to love them without being dragged down by the family dynamics. I rocked her gently, bent to kiss her ear.

“I didn’t pack anything to wear for the theater. You’re not going to make me go shopping, are you?” she asked, only half teasing. I have a mother and two sisters, have been around females most of my life, but never before encountered one who hated shopping as much as she, unless she was buying shoes or bags. I laughed and squeezed her tight.

“No. I saw the red dress in the back of the closet. Were you trying to hide it, or forget about it?” I teased. She’d bought it on impulse several months ago but never had the courage to wear it.

“Oh God. You want me to wear that?” A nervous laugh escaped, tinged with a hint of self-consciousness.

“Definitely the red dress,” I murmur, already feeling my cock swell at the thought of her wearing it.

She eased out of my arms while managing to rub her belly against me. I looked down at her and saw the little worry line disappear as her smile grew. My swollen cock was no surprise to her, yet she always responded as if it were, that she had no idea what effect she had on me.

“Oh yeah?”  She smirked.

“Mmmm… yeah. And wear the sparkly heels. You know the ones…” She laughed then, leaned in, and kissed me lavishly, her tongue sweeping across my lips and into my mouth. I pulled her hard into me, cupped the back of her head and took control. She broke us apart before we ended up on the floor. Her dark clouds were gone.

“I need time to get ready if I’m going to wear that dress,” she said as she turned and headed towards the stairs. As she reached the second-floor landing, she leaned over the railing and called down, “And if I’m wearing that dress, you’re wearing your black suit.”

I groaned meaningfully. She knew damn well it was my least-favorite suit. In my opinion, it was just a bit snug in the thigh and crotch, which is exactly why I would be wearing it tonight.

She wore a light, filmy wrap over her shoulders, but removes it and drapes it across the back of her wide, cushioned seat as she sits and crosses her legs. She looks amazing in red, and more than one pair of eyes are looking up at her from the orchestra seats below. The dress is cut in a deep V, exposing smooth, golden skin and the swell of her breasts. While the dress is long and caresses her legs, the daring slit up the side teases me with flashes of firm, smooth flesh.

The lights finally dim, and all at once, the music begins with its swirls and dips, seducing. The sweeping lifts and dramatic crescendos hurl like a roller coaster, barely recovering one’s breath before losing it again. I watch her; she’s not a spectator here, content to let the scene unfold around her. Her face is glowing, and I doubt she’s aware she is dancing in her seat. She is so fucking beautiful in moments like this, she takes my breath away. She catches my eye and reaches for my hand, tangling her fingers with mine as she turns her attention back to the stage.

I look down at our hands nestled in her lap, feel the silky material of her dress against the back of my hand, the warmth of her skin beneath it. I want to slip my hand inside and touch her heat.

I grab the armrest of her seat and pull her closer to me. Her sharp look is returned with a bland one of my own as I lift my hand from her lap to rest it across the back of her chair. I rub my fingers across her bare shoulder just as the music ends and Intermission begins. The lights come up, and I ask her if she’d like a glass of champagne. She shakes her head, then rests her cheek on my shoulder, content now to become a spectator and watch the movement below us.

“Has it measured up?” I ask as I rest in my chin in her hair. Her answer is little more than a soft purr. She lifts her head and brushes her lips across mine.

“Most definitely. I know what I wanted it to be, but my expectations were paltry compared to this.”

“I’m glad,” I murmur as I lower my lips for another kiss. She pulls away slightly and opens her mouth when her eyes dart down to where her face rested moments before. A quiet “Oh,” escapes her mouth.

“There’s makeup on your jacket,” she says fussily. “Take it off.” I don’t care about the damn jacket, but to please her, I do it. She reaches down for her small purse and takes out a small packet, what looks like a moist towelette, and I shake my head at the strange things she stuffs in her bags. The overhead lights soon flicker, signaling Intermission was ending. She hands me the jacket, but I wave it off, murmuring to her to leave it on her lap. I wrap my arm around her shoulder and pull her to me. She sighs and settles, but soon begins to fidget.

“This isn’t comfortable,” she hisses. “The armrest is digging into my side.” She starts to pull away when I grab her arms and lift her onto my lap. She stifles her gasp.

“What are you doing? Let me up!” She attempts to push my hands away as I settle her legs across my lap. My arm is around her hips, holding her snug against me while angling my seat for privacy, should the inhabitants from the box across from ours become curious.

“Shush,” I whisper in her ear. “Don’t draw attention to us.” It is the one thing guaranteed to keep her still. She doesn’t like drawing attention to herself. She slowly relaxes and settles against me as the orchestra plays the opening strains of Puccini’s Nessun Dorma. I move my hand from her hip to rub her back, gentling her, calming her so she enjoys the performance while music lifts and swells around us.

“Put your arm around me,” I coax. She shifts slightly and raises her arm and rests it on the back of my seat, her hand on my neck, her fingers running through my hair, and settles the other on my chest, over my heart. She nuzzles close and kisses my chin. “Thank you for this,” she whispers.

I drop my hand to her lap. The slippery dress shifts and slides under my palm. I find the slit in her skirt and wrap my hand around her muscled inner thigh, my cock growing heavy as I make contact with her skin. I stroke her from mid-thigh to knee and back up again.

As the orchestra moves from one piece to the next, she shifts. “Slide down in the seat a bit, will you?” I slouch and spread my legs. She does the same, and my hand slides higher up her thigh. She lifts her head, and her eyes widen as my fingers slowly slide up her inner thigh to the edges of her panties.

“No! Not here,” she whispers indignantly, but she can’t keep the laughter out of her voice. I chuckle into her hair. She should know better.

“Why not here? Romance is in the air,” I argue reasonably. My fingers skim the lacy edges, teasing, before running my fingertips over the silk swatch of material covering her. I trace the seam of her pussy and press slightly on her clit. Her quick, indrawn breath pleases me and makes me hard, uncomfortably so in my pants.

For the moment, it satisfies me to stoke her passion slowly, degree by degree. The jacket partially shields my busy hand, and she does well in hiding what is going on underneath it. Anyone interested in looking will certainly see, while not entirely appropriate behavior, nothing scandalous, merely a beautiful woman enjoying an evening full of music and romance, cuddling with her lover.

She pants softly against my neck as I continue teasing her.  Hot puffs of air dampen my skin as I cup her, and pulling the material to the side, I slide my finger over her pussy, gently opening her folds and moisten her clit. She is hot and slick and ready for me. Her hand on my neck tightens for a moment as she fidgets in my lap, allowing me greater access.

Music fills the room, but it is only background noise now. She is hot and incredibly wet. I thrust a finger inside her waiting pussy to stretch and ready her, then a second finger to fill her. My thumb finds her clit, and the firm, little nub is slippery under my skin. Her whimpers fill my ear as she shifts on my lap, trying to draw me deeper.

“Absolutely no moving. This is my pleasure. You took yours the other morning.”

Her laughing groan fills the box.

“No noises, either. The concert is almost over.” Her pussy tightens around my fingers in response.

I bury my fingers deep and press against the upper, spongy wall of her vagina to find her sweet spot. The deliciously soft walls enfold snugly around me, and I withdraw slightly then thrust again, pressing along her wetness, mimicking the short, swift thrusts of my cock, as my thumb moves over her clit. My hand rocks against her, but I move no more than my wrist as her panting increases.  Her fingers dig into the fabric of my shirt as her pussy traps my fingers, drawing them deeper, tighter into her, just as she does me, until I don’t know where my body ends and hers begins. . I hook my fingers slightly and rub that spot high inside, knowing just how to stroke and tease, to make her thighs quake, her breath shudder, and beg for release.

“That’s right, love,” I whisper, my mouth pressed to her ear. “You want to come, don’t you? You’re so tight, so ready for it. Come for me now. That’s my girl. Come.”

The music swells around us, and the majestic notes fill the cavernous room.  As the music overtakes the air, she cries out, her voice lost. She pushes herself into my hand while her body twitches and trembles. I pull her close and kiss her. My fingers gentle, but I am slow to remove them, reveling in the small spasms. All to soon, I ease my hand out from her dress as my hand slides up her back to cup the back of her head. Her face is flush, her eyes bright and shiny.

“All right?” I ask gruffly between soft kisses. She nods weakly, but her smile is angelic.

She takes a few deep breaths to compose herself, then leans against my chest and joins in the applause for tonight’s performance. As we stand, I take the coat from her lap and put it on, my cock’s outline visible. Her eyes widen at the bulge pressing against the material I smirk as I button the jacket then take her hand. As we join the throng leaving, I lean down and whisper, “The night isn’t over, yet. We’ll deal with this in the car.”

Chapter 4

I barely notice the cramps in my fingers as they fly across the keyboard. Never before has writing been as effortless, as seamless as it’s been since Italy. And while the sabbatical was the excuse I’d given him for wanting to relocate for the summer, it is an added bonus that all the pieces are falling into place, as far as the manuscript is concerned.

I’ve been trying to reread the last few pages I wrote for the past ten minutes, but the words on the screen are blurry, and no amount of blinking and rubbing my eyes are bringing them back into focus. Giving up, I hit ‘Save’ and close the laptop before pushing my chair away from the desk. I find my slippers under the desk and shove my feet into them. He despises the furry frogs, which means I won’t be throwing them away for another three months. He doesn’t know about the pink piggy slippers I’ve hidden in the back of hall closet, and I giggle thinking about the look of disgust that’ll be on his face when he sees them.

My knees protest as I try to stand, and I groan against the stiff joints. I’ve been in front of the computer screen for so long it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness around me. The room comes into focus, and I frown at the deep shadows lurking. He’d come in to check on me earlier; it must have been hours ago. As I wrote, the sun had set, and now the only light in the room is the banker’s lamp on the corner of the desk. I push my fists into my lower back to ease the nagging ache, then bend and stretch to loosen the knotted muscles. I still hear my words playing and tripping over themselves in my brain like a foreign language on repeat. I need a hot shower and a cozy bed.

I shuffle across the room and open the door, and darkness greets me. The house is quiet; I wonder where he is. He’d been watching the football match earlier. Confident enough to wander around the house with the lights off, I make my way to the staircase and silently climb upstairs.

A sliver of light outlines our bedroom door. I put my hand on the cool wood and slowly push it open. He's lying on the bed with his laptop beside him, and the light from the screen spotlights his nakedness. He’s stroking his cock, just two fingers and his thumb. His eyes are hard and dark as they concentrate on the screen.

He doesn't hear or pay attention to me, and I don't know if he realizes I’m there. I’m mesmerized watching him; he has beautiful hands, wide palms and long, thick fingers. His breathing becomes labored. He thrusts into his hand, once, twice, as his fingers curl around his cock. The thick pad of his thumb grazes over the mushroom head, smearing the pearls of filmy pre-cum.

I want to go to him, lean down and taste the slick drops. I should let him know I’m here. Should I clear my throat? Climb on the bed beside him and join him, covering his hand with mine? I do neither. I do nothing but watch and bite my lip to keep my silence. I slide my hand over my breast and tease my already hard nipple. I pinch it once, twice, before lowering it to my pussy. I cup myself and rub my fingers against my throbbing clit.

I stare as his hand moves harder, faster. He grips his balls with his other hand, pressing his fingers into the smooth flesh underneath.

He comes, spurting over his thickly matted stomach. He closes his eyes and throws his head back as a long groan fills the room.

Watching him, I push and slide my fingers over my wet flesh. His eyes open as he turns his head towards me, his lips curling into a grin as he watches me and my busy hand. 

“You should have joined me instead of just watching. You always like to watch.”

Smiling, I cross the room, removing my short, cotton shift along the way, and crawl on the bed between his splayed legs. Bracing my hands alongside his thighs, I lower my head, prepared to taste and clean him.

“No.” His voice is hard and firm, like a parent denying a child a sweet before dinner.

I look up at him, watchful, looking at his face for a sign as to his mood.

“Off the bed.”

I climb off, and as my feet hit the floor, he swings his legs off the bed. His white, thick semen slowly trickles down his stomach. He ignores it, but I can't take my eyes off his wet, sticky skin.

“You want to taste me? Clean me? We’ll do it my way.” His voice is cool, in control. He jerks his head slightly towards the bed behind him and my eyes follow, looking at the laptop and the scene playing out on the screen.

I know what he wants. What I now want. I correct my posture, pushing my shoulders back so my breasts thrust forward as I clasp my hands behind my back. Gone are thoughts of a hot bath and cozy bed.

He carelessly walks over to the closet and opens the door, returning a moment later. Moving behind me, I feel silk wrapping around my wrists, binding them. It’s not uncomfortable; only snug enough to allow no freedom of movement. I try controlling my breathing while my heart beats wildly.

His lays his hands on my shoulders, balancing me as I slowly kneel on the hard wood, the only padding a woven wool carpet, then moves to stand in front of me.

“Now you may clean me.”

I do, from his abdomen to his thighs. I lick and suck and clean his flesh, tasting the salty, earthy flavor of him, breathing in the scent of his warm skin. I know to stay away from his cock until he offers it to me.

“Enough.”

I correct my posture; once again kneeling and ramrod straight — shoulders back, breasts out. He reaches out to stroke me; his fingers glide along my neck and collarbone, then move down to my breasts. He cups them in his hands, feeling their weight. My eyes are trained straight ahead, not down at his hands or up into his eyes.

He pinches my nipples before curling his fingers around them, pulling and twisting and tugging. The slight pain is nothing compared to the lighting-hot bolts of pleasure shooting straight to my clit. It throbs, needing attention, but I know better than to try and clamp my thighs together to ease the ache.

He takes a half-step back, releasing my nipples after one last, hard pinch.

He takes his cock in his hand, wrapping his fingers around the base, already semi-hard. He leans forward and brushes the soft, sticky head over my lips, my cheeks, my chin.

“Open.”

I open my mouth and push my tongue past my teeth and lips. He rests his cock there, just on the tip of my tongue for a moment, so I may feel the weight of him.

“Anticipation,” he murmurs.

He begins moving, slowly at first, sliding across my tongue. My top lip skims his velvety skin. I open wider, inviting him, challenging him to take more. He accepts. With his hands on his thighs, he doesn’t allow any part of himself to touch me except his cock. He thrusts deeper into my mouth before pulling back.

I close my mouth around his flesh, my lips trapping him snugly. I roll my tongue over him, then draw him deeper. He is in control, but I set the pace, my mouth and jaw working to take more and more until he bumps the back of my throat. I cough, but the sound is muffled by a mouthful of hard flesh. He pulls out to let me recover, but my mouth follows him. I’m greedy for the taste of him, all of him.

His control snaps; his hands clutch the back of my head, holding me still as he fucks my wet, hot mouth. My lips are shiny with wet, my eyes bright as I look up into his eyes.

He stares at my mouth as I take him, accepting each hard, fast thrust. His eyes are small and bright as he watches himself disappear in my mouth. His hand reaches for me, and he cups my cheek while his thumb grazes my bottom lip, wiping away the dripping saliva.

His fingers curl into my hair, pulling it tight to my scalp as he fucks me, and I concentrate on breathing while my mouth and tongue move over him, greedily taking more.

He pulls out so abruptly that I pitch forward slightly. He leaves me to balance myself this time as he steps back. His breathing is harsh, his chest heaving, as he takes back control. He stands with his hands on his hips, his cock rock hard and slick with spit. I need him — his hands, his mouth, his cock. On me. In me.

I try to control my unsteady breath; my nipples are hard and tight, and my pussy is wet and aching and empty. I know satisfaction is coming, but I don’t know when. I’m on edge and focused.

He reaches for me, pulling me up and into his arms. He kisses me hard and fast, his tongue plunging into my mouth, taking possession. I stand there, helpless; with my hands bound behind my back, I’m unable to hold him while my legs tremble. He lifts his head and peers down, his eyes raking my face. A satisfied smile crosses his lips.

“On the bed. Face down, ass up.” My heart leaps in my chest. We have not played this way since leaving London, not for weeks before leaving. I lean forward and quickly brush my lips across his, then step back before he admonishes me for taking liberties.

He grabs my hips and helps me onto the bed, positioning me to his liking. With my cheek resting against the mattress, his laptop is in front of my face, and on the screen, the woman is now naked and bound to an ornate, straight back chair. Her thighs quiver as the man kneeling between her outstretched legs sucks her clit. Her face and neck are flushed, and the sheen of sweat covering her glistens under the lights. She looks down at him with wild eyes as his mouth and fingers overwhelm her. Her orgasm is intense and powerful to watch.

My breath tightens in my chest. The video is ours, one we filmed while vacationing in Spain. Remembering that weekend causes my pussy to tighten. Sensing my distraction, he slaps my ass, and the small sting causes me to gasp, pulling me back in the moment.

“You are beautiful to watch, love,” he says, his voice firm, measured, and again in control. His knee spreads my thighs slightly wider while his hands stroke my ass and hips.

He presses a hand into my shoulder blades, pushing me further into the mattress while the other snakes between my legs to cup me. His fingers slide between my swollen flesh, wet and slick with need. He lifts me, moves me where he wants me before catching my clit between two fingers, squeezing and jerking gently. A guttural moan fills my ears. He alternates between petting and teasing, building heat and fire before banking them, leaving me sobbing and gasping.

“There now. What a lovely view I have,” he murmurs. I feel his cock rubbing over my wet skin, the head bumping my clit as he strokes. His thrust catches me by surprise, sharp and deep, buried impossibly high inside me. My muscles tighten instinctively, trapping him. I cannot move against him, can’t match his thrust with one of my own. With my hands bound and resting above the small of my back, each hard slap of skin on wet skin shoves me further up the bed, my shoulders sliding along the cotton sheets.

He grabs the silk between my wrists, holding them like reins as he rides, bucking against me as his free hand digs into my ass, spreading me for a better view. I sob, plead for an orgasm, but they fall on deaf ears. He changes the tempo, speed and depth as he fucks me; the rhythm is for his pleasure, not mine.

I tighten my pussy around him, loosening and clamping soft, wet walls around his cock until his breathing is shallow and harsh. With one hard tug on the silk, he buries himself deep, over and over. Slick, damp skin slaps against each other, until the orgasm tears through my body. I gasp and cry as hot waves of pleasure crash over me. Semen drips down my thighs as he slows, pumping softer now, shallow thrusts that gentle and soothe. My face is damp with sweat and tears, and I gulp air as my heart continues to race.

I don’t remember him untying my wrists or him moving on to the bed beside me, only him lifting and settling me onto his chest while his hands massage my shoulders and arms before moving down my back.

“I thought you were watching the game,” I murmur against his skin. He kisses my hair before laying his cheek against it, his fingers stroking long lines up and down my back

“I was. The match only ended a few minutes before you walked upstairs.”

I pick up my head from his shoulder and raise an eyebrow.

He smiles. “I checked in on you only a few minutes before. You were practically sleeping at your desk. I knew you’d be up soon, if the house was quiet enough.”

He kisses me again, a long, slow sweep of tongue and lips.

“Was this an attempt to wake me up or put me to bed?” I ask, unsure if he is unhappy with the schedule I’d set for myself.

“I’d say it was both.”

They are the last words I hear as I drift off to sleep.

Chapter 5

I wake bit by bit, the room and the day coming into focus by degrees.  Still drowsy, I turn and reach for her, but she’s not next to me in our bed. Sitting up slowly, I stretch, remembering she hadn’t come up before I fell asleep. I scratch the scruff on my face, not bothering to look out the window to see it’s still pissing raining. Sighing, I stand and turn towards the door, stubbing my toe against a bedpost. Swearing, I fall back onto the bed holding my throbbing foot.

I dress then hobble down the steps and into the kitchen, or what is left of it. After two days of rain, two days of her spending all her time behind that closed door, I realized I needed something to do and decided to do some remodeling. After two days of demolition and more torrential downpours, the kitchen is barely recognizable. I limp over to the lone, intact counter and pour myself a cup of coffee. At least she made enough for me.

I’ve neither seen hide nor hair of her, and I have a bitter feeling she’s punishing me for the noise.  She probably has her headphones on and cranking Eminem or Ed Sheeran or Mumford, writing and shutting me out completely. On the first day of demolition, she opened her door and calmly asked what my plans were while eyeing the toolbox sitting in the middle of the floor. I’d assured her it was only a small project. 

The second day began the same, until I needed the sledgehammer. She hadn’t been impressed. Her office door bounced open and she flew out like a fury, her hair wild and eyes flaming. She scanned the room, narrowed her eyes on the offending tool and returned to her office. Moments later her stereo pounded out the heavy beats of Eminem. The floor vibrated, but I shirked it off, not offended. The sledgehammer was doing the same thing. The next few days were no better.

The morning progresses well until my hand slipped and dropped the crowbar on my toes, the toes I stubbed this morning. I see stars while blood rushes to my foot. Suddenly, I’m irrationally pissed off.

“Do you think you can turn that goddamn music off for one fucking hour?” I holler from the kitchen.

She must have heard me. She responds by opening the office door and whipping me the finger. No pity for my wounded foot. No offerings of pain pills or ice packs.

In the half-demolished kitchen, I’m contemplating diving off the balcony and end my misery. What the hell had I been thinking? I’ve no idea. Installing new cabinets and counters normally aren’t big jobs, but this isn’t London, it’s Genoa, where every project takes three times longer when your Italian is rusty.

The absurdity of the past week strikes me in the gut - the pissing and moaning and bickering over the noise, the lack of cooperation and the goddamn rain. I lean heavily against the wall and throw the tool of almost-mass destruction on the floor next to me.  In all our years together, we never spent this much time together. We talked about it, fantasized about it, even made jokes about how we’d spend all our time together in bed, surrounded by books and plates with half-eaten meals on the floor. 

But this is it, our time together. It was going smoothly until this week. We were happy and content, our days filled with sunshine and projects and sex. But then the weather turned, and so did our dispositions. Now, we are short tempered, snarly and intolerant. And worse, the transition was made so easily that I am unsure if it’s due to the circumstances or if the insults and nasty innuendos had been storing up for just such a time.

Pulling out my phone, I call the contractor we used last winter and made arrangements for him to finish the kitchen. With the call made, I scribble a quick note on piece of scrap paper and slide it under her door, then head off towards the stairs. It’s time to pack.

****

I see a piece of paper slide under my door, and I heave a frustrated sigh but go over and pick it up. I quickly scan the note and smile, leaning back against the closed door. Christ, we really need time away. Away from this house and the fucking rain.  It felt good to fight and bicker with him. To know we could, that it was inside of us all along. We rarely disagree, much less argue or fight. He would never lower himself to pitch a fit, nor he is not one to vent. A pursed mouth, a creased brow are his telltale signs of irritation. Off and on over the years I wondered if we didn’t just bottle up all of our disagreeable feelings, but as it turns out, all it takes are times of duress and a week of rain, and we can be as miserable as anyone else. We are just like every other couple. Well no, not like every other. He and I both know we are far from the typical couple.

I leave my office and head towards the steps, purposefully ignoring the catastrophe behind me. As I enter the bedroom, I see he already has our suitcases standing in the far corner. Standing in front of the armoire, he shifts through his shirts and pants. He made no mention of our destination, and I’m not in the mood to ask. It really doesn’t matter where we are going, just as long as we leave the rain and this house behind.

Within ten minutes he has his clothes laid out –crisp, white button down shirts and smartly creased gray slacks, soft, cotton pull over shirts and well-worn denims and a bathing suit. My raise my eyebrows slightly over that addition.  He is neither a sun worshipper nor water lover, but as I am both, I am not going to quibble.

I take my cue from him and open my closet, taking out dresses, a halter-top and skirt, some thin, cotton tops, pencil trousers and shorts. If he is talking, I’m can’t hear him; my head is buried in clothes.  I grab four bathing suits and the backless romper I bought online and hid in the back of the closet. I pitch shoes, from sandals to heels, behind me, laughing with childish glee as they thump and bounce on the floor behind me.

I straighten and stand back to stare at the contents of my closet another minute, mentally picturing the clothes I took out and what I might have missed. Sighing, I close the closet door and turn. Next to my pile of clothes is a suitcase. A packed suitcase. While I was debating halter-top versus silk blouse, he finished packing. I set my hands on my hips and glare at him across the bed. He smirks.

Disgusted with his efficiency, I start moving things around, organizing and coordinating jewelry, shoes, and bags.  He leans against the door jam, watching as I mutter and push piles of clothes around for a few minutes before grabbing my shoulders and pulling me away from the bed, and out of the room.

“Come on.”

I turn to tell him what I think of his pushiness, but before I say anything he kisses me, hard and fast.

 “There’ll be time to pack. Later.” 

He owes me, and he knows it. Best not open my mouth. He reaches down and takes my hand, leading me to the newly remodeled bathroom. It had been a disgrace, but now it’s one of my favorite spots in the house, quiet and soothing. The only feature in the bathroom I barred him from removing was the tub – a huge, high-back soaker tub. The tub was probably designed to bathe a few children at a time, or two healthy adults.

I put my hand on his hip as I follow behind, nudging the door shut with my foot. Stopping in front of the tub, he turns on the faucets, adjusting the water as I sit on its side, watching for a moment the water slowly puddle in the long, deep basin. He kneels and slowly removes my fuzzy slippers and socks, leaning in to kiss me as his fingers unbutton my shirt. Leaving it hanging open, he slides his hands under my ass, lifting me to my feet. While his warm mouth skims my exposed skin, roaming over my stomach and hips, my fingers comb his hair and hold him close.

He opens my jeans, and as he strips them off, his mouth follows. I whimper as his crafty tongue laps at me. He parts me with his fingers and swipes my clit with the tip of his tongue. His tugging and licking, drives me up, swift and sharp. He drapes my leg over his shoulder, opening me to him, as his hand moves to the small of my back, pulling me closer, steadying me.

 His fingers thrust into me, and I shriek as he fills me suddenly and completely. My fingers grip him as he relentlessly takes more and more. The orgasm whips me, causing my legs to shake and pussy quiver. His growls fill the room, blending with my breathless moans as I spill into his mouth. He gentles his mouth and murmurs his pleasure as I slowly come back to earth. 

Slowly, we disentangle. He stands and slips my shirt from my shoulders. He cups my cheek in his large hand as his eyes roam my face. His intentions are there; to care for me, pamper and spoil, and in an instant, the rainy, irritating week disappears.

**

Because it pleases her, I let her undress me while my tongue rubs against hers in a slow, melting kiss. Her scent is on my face; her taste on my tongue. She responds heedlessly, recklessly, her hands rushing over my body, jerking and pushing clothes down and over. Her frustrated moans fill my mouth, and I swallow them hungrily as she peels away the last stitch of clothing, and I pull her to me so my hard flesh presses into her soft belly.

Steam billows from the tub, filling the room as we kiss. We pull apart slowly, druggingly, and I help her into the tub. I sink into the high-backed tub and stretch out before I take her in my arms. She snuggles against me, brushing her soft, smooth back against my chest. She turns to me, and I cup her face, brushing the hair off her check before capturing her lips.

The steamy water laps against us as we shift and settle, and neither of us feel compelled to speak. It feels good to have her in my arms, the flavor of her filling my mouth. She is my calm, my haven. Scenes from the past few days run through my head, and I start chuckling. She turns her head to my cheek, nuzzling and murmurs a content, “What?”

I push water over her breasts, letting my fingers trace over her warm, fragrant skin. She purrs softly.

“This past week. We were idiots.”  She snorts, but the corner of her mouth lifts in a grin.

“I was making such progress until the rain began,” she said. “I wasn’t planning on it raining. Why did I think it never rained here in the summer?”

“Because we were told it only rains one day a month during the summer.”

Water sloshes as she turns quickly, her irritation quickly rising. “That’s right. That’s what we were told. Someone lied to us. I don’t remember who it was. When I remember, I’m going to say something to them.”

I’m thankful she can’t see me grin as I ease her back against me. Apparently, more time in the tub is needed.

“That they were wrong?” I offer helpfully. Her back stiffens as she starts to lean forward, but I pull her shoulders against me.

“Settle,” I order gruffly in her ear. With a small huff, she leans back, my thighs feeling her indignation and she digs her fingers in. A bit more distraction is needed.

My palms skim down her torso, seeking her nipples, rubbing and tweaking until they are firm nubs under my fingertips. Her shoulders sink into my chest as her fingers draw lines and circles on my thighs.

Slowly, quietly in the cocoon of our bath, our lazy fingers and mouths indulging and soothing, we talk about the past week, our frustrated goals, our intentions and miscommunications and our surprising plunge into passive-aggressiveness. Her giggles stir the water as she relates her diabolical schemes, both for her book and for me. I tug her hair playfully.

“Nasty bit of baggage, aren’t you?” I growl, slipping my hand beneath the water to pinch the side of her ass. She wiggles, sliding back and pressing her rounded flesh tight against my cock. It responds appreciatively. My hands wrap around her thighs and spread her legs, draping them over mine. She rests her head against my shoulder and presses her face into the crook of my neck as I trace her slippery soft skin, parting her, finding her. I want to go slow, but she isn’t having it. She reaches beneath the water and covers my hand with hers, pushing my fingers into her, rubbing her clit against the palm of my hand.

She slides away suddenly and water sloshes over the side of the tub. She twists to straddle me and sit, thighs spread, across my legs. My hands slide under her ass to lift her to me, capturing her nipple in my lips and pulling it into my mouth. She reaches beneath the water to wrap her fingers around my hardening cock. I position her and she sinks down slowly, her silky hot flesh snug. I groan as I thrust, quick and sharp. For a few heartbeats, the only sound in the room is dripping water and shallow breaths.

And then we move, rocking slowly, measured and controlled. She smiles as she rolls her hips, enjoying the challenge, her mouth and hands compensating for the restrictive pace in the deep water. She buries her fingers in my hair, and grabbing, she pulls my head back, exposing my neck to her lips and teeth. My control breaks. Wrapping my hand around her waist, I stand.

I step out of the tub and set her on her feet, in front of me facing the tub. With a hand on her hip and the other on her back, I lean her forward until she is bent over the tub. Dripping water onto the carpet, I take her ass in my hands, squeezing and lifting to expose her pussy and tight little hole.  Taking my cock, I rub it along her hot skin, clit to ass, before thrusting home. She moans, loud and low. Her knuckles whiten as she grips the side of the tub. She meets my thrusts, pushing her ass against me. The sounds of skin slapping against damp skin, thighs to ass, balls to pussy, drives me hard.

Seeing her bent over before me, the curl in her back, the arch of her neck, fills me with pride and wonder. To have her, shuddering under my hands and body, moaning and lost in the reckless haze of passion and need, drives me. I feel my balls tighten. It is forever a struggle reining in the need ripping through me.

“Cum for me, love. I want to feel your beautiful pussy quiver for me.” Her head drops to her hands as she pushes back harder. I bend over her, wrapping my arm around her abdomen and my pluck and tease her clit. She explodes, her stuttering breaths urge me to fuck her faster, to cum for her. Her legs tremble against my thighs as she tightens around my cock.

My hips slow as I cum, filling her. With my chest heaving, I curl over her back and kiss the bumps of her spine, my voice low and rough as I praise her, thank her, rejoice with her. As my strength returns, I gather her to me then step into the tub once more. I grab the detached showerhead and rinse off. She lays her head on my shoulder as I carry her downstairs into the living room and settle us on the couch.

She laughs quietly. “The bed is a bit full. That suitcase isn’t going to fill itself, you know,” she reminds me as her mouth skims my shoulder.

I feign a disgusted tone. “Don’t worry, I’ll pack for you. I always do, don’t I?”

She didn’t hear me, as she was already asleep. I wrap us in the thick blanket on the back of the overstuffed sofa. Time enough to pack in the morning. I needed this more, I admit to myself, and close my eyes.