Page 51 of Every Version of You

“Use one hand to touch yourself,” I command. “Be a good boy and stroke that big, heavy cock for me. But don’t you dare come.” His right hand wastes no time flying down below my line of sight, and when his shoulders relax and his moan reverberates through my cunt, I know he’s begun stroking. “That feel good, baby?”

Shit. I didn’t mean to say that. Baby is too personal a nickname for us. For me. Sure, what we’re doing right now is arguably one of the most personal things you can do with someone.

His eyes catch mine with every ounce of thrill showcased like priceless displays in a gallery. “Yes, Ma’am,” he smiles, those deep glorious dimples making me forget everything I’ve ever thought up to now. Nose nuzzling against my clit, he closes his eyes and sighs. “Yes, I can be your baby. Please.”

Shit. This vulnerable submission from him is unsteadily potent and heady. Power rockets through my being at his words and touch, his expression.

I want him to be my baby too.

We have rules and a timeframe and boundaries for a reason—but what was that reason again? Right. So that when this is all over, I can step away without hesitation or heartbreak.

But I’ve always been in love with him, haven’t I? It’s going to hurt regardless. I’m hoping it won’t hurt any more than the constant underlying pain I’ve put myself through loving him all these years. Ignoring that feeling became a habit. I only hope my heart can handle that reset.

Baby.

Fuck boundaries. Fuck rules.

Chase this feeling, the hormones inside me whisper in a tiny voice. Him, they encourage.

“Yes, baby,” I cry out with closed eyes, my second orgasm catching me off guard as I lose myself in the imagery of us. As Rafael and Angie.

Together at the beach.

Together making dinner.

Together salsa dancing.

Together in bed on a lazy Sunday with kids climbing over us, giggling and bouncing.

“Thank you,” Rafael hums, kissing my sex delicately.

My mind and body are floating too high to comprehend reality. Did he just thank me for dragging him away from his friends, demanding he make me come, and calling him a slut all while denying him an orgasm?

Yes, he did, the hormones giggle. Do you think he could call you Mommy next time, they ask.

Alright, they’re fired. Officially out of control.

“What?” I ask, then look down at him, his head leaning against my inner thigh and both hands gliding against my legs until they reach my backside and rest there. “I’m the one who should be thanking you.” I move my hand to cup his square jaw and gently push him so he’s sitting on the backs of his feet, then lean down and place a slow kiss to his perfect lips. The taste of my cum evident inside and outside his mouth. It coats everything from his expensive smile to the five o’clock shadow that darkens and defines his handsome features.

“The pleasure,” he hums against my lips, “was all mine. Can I help relieve you some more?”

“Hmm…tempting. Let me wash you first,” I say, keeping the kiss going.

“You wanna shower with me?”

“Not just shower with you, baby. I want to wash you.”

He hums again, his smile against my own. “I like when you call me that.”

Breaking our affectionate kiss, I slowly stand and hold out my arms for him to do the same. “Is that the subby name you’d prefer I call you?”

When he stands, his erection makes itself known by poking me in the stomach and we make our way to the bathroom. “I…” he hesitates. “Yeah. I love being called your little slut too, though. I like both. I love the mix of degradation and praise.”

Opening the expansive door to the walk-in glass shower, I turn the chrome handle and let the water warm up, then promptly take my damp shirt off. Rafael smiles and watches me—like he’s been doing it for years instead of a handful of times. I stand next to him in only a white, soft-yet-supportive tank-bra, while he helps me peel out of it, and our bodies immediately gravitate toward each other—our hands slowly searching, learning each other intimately like it’s the only thing we’d ever want to be educated in.

“Well then,” I murmur, my fingers tracing over his collarbone. “Let me praise you a little more. You were incredible today, baby.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re sex-drunk,” he smirks, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear.

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