Page 25 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

I hate the expectation. The unspoken rule that when a man is stressed or annoyed, a woman is supposed to fix it with her body. Men get to sulk, withdraw, be deep in their feelings, sit in their own fucking misery without a single thought as to how it affects everybody around them, while women get to fix it. Women get to absorb it like the sponge Ace used to clean up the mess in his kitchen.

But that’s what a good woman does.

She knows when to get on her knees, and when to open her mouth.

I know it’s bullshit. I think most women do. But we do it anyway, because we know what happens when you don’t.

At the sound of his footsteps, I put my game face on.

It’s showtime.

He trudges in, stopping short when he sees my naked body sitting at the foot of his bed. His jaw is still clenched, his shoulders tight, but below the waist, he seems happy to see me.

He approaches me slowly, finally coming to a stop an inch away from my face. He’s read this story before; he knows how it ends.

The tension in his muscles shifts from frustration to desire, his breath slowing, his fingers flexing.

Yes, baby. Become normal again.

His hand instinctively grips the hair at my crown. It’s like he can’t help himself. In response, I hook my fingers in the elastic waistband of his gym shorts and tug them down, slowly and seductively. I almost laugh when his dick pops out. It reminds me of the old Jack-in-the-box toy my grandma used to have.

I lean in to kiss the tip. Apparently, this awakens his latent affection for me; he grazes my cheek with his thumb while he stares longingly into my eyes. I feel my irritation slipping away, because this is the exact reaction I wanted. The subtle surrender. His realization that no matter how fucked up his day was, he still hasthis.

I hate that I love it.

As I swirl my tongue around the head, I feel myself relaxing. In fact, my eyes close, and I moan quietly when he throbs against my tongue. It’s not that it feels good to me physically, although he probably thinks that. It’s the other secret thing we don’t admit.

There’s power in this, and it’s thepowerthat feels good.

I never took a psych class, but I do remember learning about Pavlov’s dogs. I’m sucking his dick so I can rewire his brain. He has to associate pleasure with me. He has to associate his best moments, his happiest moments, with me. No matter where he is, what he’s doing, or who he’s with, he has to know that when life gets hard, I’m the only one who can make him feel better.

That’show you keep a man like Ace.

You make yourself the solution before he even knows he has a problem.

“Sssshhhhhhhit…” he hisses as his grip on my hair tightens.

I stare up at him with my best doe eyes. “I’m sorry you had a bad day,” I say. “You want me to make it bet—“

“Yes,” he says before I can finish.

I slide my hands up the back of his thighs, slow and deliberate. His breath catches, and I smile, because I know I have him.

When I suck him into my mouth, he exhales sharply, his shoulders dropping, but only slightly, because he’s still fighting to hold onto the stress.

Stupid.

Men are so desperate to win, they beat themselves. But the way he’s twitching in my mouth lets me know his body has already thrown in the towel.

Good.

His eyes are clouded with lust as he watches me, but there’s something else. Just a flicker of it, and it nearly makes me laugh.

Control.

He’s standing over me, he’s in the power position. It just makes sense that he thinks he has it. But he doesn’t.

He shudders as I up my pace. My eyes water and my jaws ache, but I’m not a quitter. I have to give him credit; he’s trying to be a gentleman. I know he wants to fuck my face, but that’s not his way, at least not the first time. He wants me to think he has manners, because he thinks I give a fuck about that.

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