He rests his weight on one elbow, leaving soft, warm kisses down my neck while his other hand strokes my arm, my side, my thigh. His breathing his coming hard, sending shivers through me as he kisses down the column of my neck, nudging my chin up.
It feels good. It does. I keep telling myself that.
I did fine with the blowjob. Great, in fact. He said only good things. Yes, he did most of the work, but I’ll know a little more next time. And if I could do that, then why can’t I do this?
I can. I can do it. I let him do his thing, moving down my body, pulling down my strapless dress and kissing my breasts. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, and his hands are everywhere, his words, his desire. I’m drowning in it, and I can’t find the surface, so I just lie there while he lets out a soft moan, pulling my nipple into his mouth.
I jerk back to myself, shocked back to the surface with the throb he sends straight to my core with each suck. He tugs the other nipple into his mouth, moaning around it, which makes it even worse. I can feel heat and wetness pooling between my thighs, the pressure from earlier returning full force.
And then he’s pushing me back under the water, because it’s too much, what he’s doing and how much he wants this, how much he needs… I can’t handle it, can’t fight it, so I let myself sink down to the bottom, wishing it was so deep he couldn’t touch me. I can hear the voice that haunts me, distorted like something out of a horror movie when really it was a kind voice with an edge of steel under it.
Don’t be afraid of your own body, Eliza. Don’t fear your own pleasure.
King’s mouth is on my stomach, and I’m shaking so hard he has to feel it, but he must think it’s just the fear of a virgin because he doesn’t stop. He takes my dress down as he goes, dragging it over my hips. He sits up to pull it over my feet, then kneels there, looking down at me.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he breathes.
My legs are shaking. I just stare up at him. I can see the light above, blurry as if through water.
“Are you okay with this?” he asks, a stitch pulling between his eyebrows.
Of course I’m not fucking okay with it. How can I be okay? I’m drowning, screaming inside my head, but if I open my mouth, the water will rush in, so I only nod.
“Have you ever done this?” He pulls my legs onto his shoulders, running his hands from my ankles and along my calves, cupping my knees before he runs his hands down the front of my thighs.
I don’t have the strength to worry what he’ll say, if he’ll be mad. I nod again.
“Good,” he says, giving my legs a reassuring squeeze. “Then you know it doesn’t hurt. I’m not going to make you have sex with me, Eliza. Just relax and let me make you feel good.”
Don’t be afraid of you own body, Eliza. Don’t fear your own pleasure.
It’s like a taunt inside my head, the chants of a hundred cruel bullies on the playground. But there was only one bully, one bully and a bathtub, and the water was too cold and I can’t stop shivering.
I nod.
He slides down the bed, pressing his nose to my underwear and inhaling. “You smell amazing,” he says, his voice husky.
It’s not so bad, I tell myself. It feels good. But I’m not sure, because I’m not here, I’m somewhere else, and the feeling good part is not connected to my brain, only my body. King hooks his finger in my panties, pulling them aside and murmuring again how beautiful I am. Then his mouth touches me. And I shatter.
eleven
King
Eliza shoots out from under me like she’s propelled by something inhuman. I don’t even know how she gets out of my grip, only that one second I’m taking the first taste of my wife, and a split second later, she’s tumbling off the bed. She spins on her heel to face me when she’s halfway across the room, her stance defensive and ready, like she might bolt in either direction if I move a muscle. She stares at me with her bourbon eyes incomprehensible, wild and animal and filled with what can only be described as instinctual terror.
“Whoa,” I say, kneeling up on the bed and holding up both hands. “What’s going on?”
My words seem to bring her a little closer to reason, and she crosses her arms over her tits. “I—don’t—like that,” she says, grinding out her words between heaving breaths.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Then we don’t have to do it. Jesus, Eliza. I asked if you wanted to. You could have told me.”
“I’m telling you,” she says, her voice loud and strong. “I don’t like it.”
I search around on the crumpled blankets and toss her dress back to her before finding my t-shirt and pulling it on above my sweats. Then I hop off the bed and pad into the kitchen area, leaving her to dress in the bedroom while I make coffee and try to clear my head. What the fuck is wrong with me? Yeah, it’s been a while since I’ve had sex, and I’m frustrated as hell that I can’t fuck my wife, but that’s no excuse. She was obviously not okay. She was shaking like a leaf. I told myself it was just first-time jitters, but is that really an excuse?
Even if that’s what it was, I should have stopped and made her comfortable. I’ve screwed up during sex before, but not like that. If I start to doubt it, all I have to do is replay her reaction. She couldn’t get away fast enough. I’ve sure as fuck never had a girl want to get away from me that badly, not even the drunken mistakes or married women who woke up and took one look at me and realized they’d ruined their marriage for a taste of youth.
Okay, so I’ve always been a complete dick, not just tonight.