Page 11 of The Couch Where It Happens

“Do I have to repeat myself?” Even as I raised one eyebrow, I wondered at my attitude. I’m pretty sure the only previous time I’d asked that, I’d been speaking to a cat. “Everything off.”

I saw desire in his wide pupils, and maybe nervousness in a little squeeze of one eye and a dip of his head. Without letting his gaze fall from mine, his hands covered his buckle, then he pulled it from the loops with a softshhhof worn leather gliding across smooth cotton. I broke the connection first, drawn to stare at the light brown hair that swirled around his nipples, grew to a thicker line in the center of his chest, then disappeared over his ribs. The promise of that hair reappeared below his navel to descend into his boxers. He bent forward as he pushed his pantsand boxers down together, using the bulk of his upper body to block my view of the waiting prize.

When he straightened, he held the jumble of pants and underwear in front of himself, and I wondered if he was uncomfortable, but the flush on his cheeks and the increased rise and fall of that rock-slab chest made me think he wasn’t. At least not uncomfortable in a weird way, but rather in a needs-to-fuck way.

I pointed to the couch, a two-person love seat upholstered in a green hunting-dogs print. The contrast of that fussy domesticity and his masculinity pushed me to take this further, faster. “Put your clothes there.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He blinked slowly and licked his lips before he gathered the rest of his clothes from the floor and stepped toward the couch. His buttocks were the hard globes of a guy who knows how to use all the gym machines. When he moved, a dimple came and went in the side of his thigh where his muscles contracted. A good tush for the push, my Yaya might have cackled to her hairdresser.

“Don’t forget to fold them.” Hot damn, my voice actually snapped. “I don’t like a mess.”

I stood behind him. I already was a mess. I could feel my clinging panties. My armpits were damp, and my hair stuck to my forehead. And I really, really wanted to be even messier with him.

“Yes, ma’am.”

That phrase again. It made me think he liked this game, as did the deliberate way he folded and stacked first his khaki shorts, then his oxford, and then the T-shirt. The boxers, he folded into a rectangle, then again into a square, and centered them on top of the pile.

If I stretched, I could lay my hand on the small of his back when he bent forward to remove his socks, but I did not. Better to let him wonder whether I would.

The ballfucker made a production out of balancing with his fingertips on the couch and lifting a knee. In the silence, I could hear the barely audible sound of his fingers pulling the white cotton over his fucking huge foot, and then the soft thud of his sole on the wooden floorboards.

My breathing was so much faster than his undressing, I swear I could have written a sonnet to each of his vertebrae in the time it took him to switch to the other foot, remove the other sock. I’d never seen back muscles like his. Back muscles, who has those? They were indecent, and they needed to be explored, but for some bullshit reason, I waited for him to finish.

I wanted to slap my hand on that round butt and tell him to speed it up.

Then he matched his socks and folded the fucking tops over, because he knew. He knew I was watching and waiting. He could hear the rasps coming from my mouth.

“You’re dawdling.” The word tasted decadent. Try using it with the man in your life.

“I’m being thorough.” His voice cracked.

My hand itched to spank the curve in front of me, to let him know I didn’t approve of his so-called thoroughness when we had shit to get to. I was annoyed by my own clothes and getting pissed at his slowness, but I kept my palm by my thigh, an effort that deserved summa cum laude.

Before I could decide how to respond, he straightened and reached those arms over his head with interlaced fingers. I heard the tiny pop of a shoulder joint. When he curved to the left and stretched all the delicious muscles wrapping the right side of his torso, he looked like corrugated concrete.

Fuck. Me.

Then he turned to face me.

“Holy shit.” I said it, and you would have too, because I doubt that appendage could have fit in a freaking shoe box.

His hand shifted, almost as if he wanted to cover himself, but that would have been a crime. His cock stood out from the brown hair at his groin, thick and long and gorgeously round at the end, a beautiful monster. The veins were darker lines pulsing along the shaft, and the rim was a proud circle I wanted to trace with my fingers and my tongue.

“I see why you left the party before clothes came off.” Too many years of reading can make a woman lose her mind when she faces a king-fucking-pants-cobra in the wild, and then she spouts weirdness.

His lips trembled as if he might laugh, but his arms were straight down at his sides, his fingertips curled under. Maybe a woman in his past had freaked out when she first saw his glory. “Do I need to leave?”

“You do not.” I don’t have small hands, but even though I wasn’t certain my fingers could encircle him at the base, I’d sure give it a try.

He waited.

I knew what I wanted to watch him do with his big hands, but my mouth was too dry to say it until I swallowed. “Touch it.” Getting the first command out made the next one easier. “Put your hand on your cock.”

His eyelids lowered, and we were back in our game. Time seemed to slow as he lifted his hand and wrapped his fingers around his shaft. The head stuck out from his fist, and I fought to stay on my feet as he pulled toward his groin and then toward me. I tried to look at his throat, at his broad chest and light brown nipples, at the whole man, and take in this moment. But I could only give his face and shoulders a glance, because hishand on his shaft wasn’t just everything, it was the only thing. I watched him stroke.

“Like this?” He watched me.

“Faster.” I longed to feel that hand on me, grip that cock with my own hand, learn how his skin felt and how his weight would press into me and what that rim of pleasure was going to accomplish inside my pussy, but I wanted to see this too. My breasts were so heavy and ready for touch, but I couldn’t stop looking at his hand and his engorged shaft. His cockhead flushed dark as it emerged from his fist, then the light reflected off a bead of liquid on the tip, and I couldn’t continue staring.

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