Page 20 of Dirty, Bruised Martini
He doesn’t control my body or my mind.
I’m free.
Free to leave our bedroom. Free to run through this house. Free to go anyplace I need.
Which was anyplace you were. The need for you so immediate and fierce my body ached.
The pounding bass bombarded the foyer. Angry words lashing out from behind the walls. A furious beat I don’t think anyone could keep up with at a club.
I knocked on the door but of course you couldn’t hear me. So I pushed down the knob. Only a few seconds passed for me to absorb your agony. The vulnerability you evoked with the empty bottle on your desktop. The exhaustion of your head falling backward against your chair. The suppression of reality with your eyes clenched shut. The punitive, almost violent pull of your fist up and down your cock. Stroking in opposition of the rapid rhythm. A slow tandem with the quick pulse, flicking across the head with your thumb.
I watched when I shouldn’t. I should have left. I should have given you the privacy you deserve. Not disappointed you again with the failure I am. It should be my fingers, my mouth, my pussy pleasuring you. But I couldn’t. I can’t. Not yet. Despite how much I want to. So I simply stared at you abusing yourself all alone. Not as if I could look away.
Unable to stop staring at your magnificent erection. Your guttural moans. Your hard swallows.
So captivated by your beautiful misery, I almost missed your gaze burning into me. Heavy and desperate as you stared at me and my eyes finally met yours. I couldn’t hear you over the music, but I read your full lips perfectly.
“Do you want to watch?”
I wanted to do so much more. But all I could do was nod.
I think about my cock when you lick your lips.
Your head mimicked my nod. A slow and understanding bob that we were going to watch together as I fucked myself. Almost exploding in my hand when you agreed. You seemed paralyzed. A magnificent statue. Your pink skin glowing. Washed in moonlight from the large windows gazing over the city. Yet I could see the pulse racing in your throat. Your gorgeous plump lips parting as you sucked in air that I wished was my dick gliding between them. The heady darkness of your expressive eyes as they locked with mine.
My grip tightened along with my balls. Imagining it was your dainty hand wrapped around my cock. That your cute ass was sitting on my lap and your gorgeous tits were shoved against my chest. While I fingered your sweet pussy and sucked your greedy tongue with my mouth.
Now all we could give each other was our hearts. Yeah, I sound like a fucking girl, but it’s the damn truth. The absolute fucking truth.
I couldn’t control myself anymore with you there. So close, yet too far. All strawberries and sunshine and sweetness. I pulled harder. My mouth uttered words I couldn’t stop.
Rosy girl.
Harder. Lightening up my spine.
Giselle.
Harder. Inferno blazing in my thighs.
Mine.
Harder. Twitching in the veins bulging across my forearm.
All fucking mine.
Harder. Bucking of my hips to drive the head deeper into my palm.
Always mine. Never anyone else’s but fucking mine.
Fuck! This time you nodded hard and certain. A small quivering of your lips I could barely catch before I finally read the word I wanted to hear since I got you back.
Yours.
Neither of us breaking the spell between us as the hot, white streams gushed over my wrist and flooded down to my zipper. Pooling on my black pants while my body pulsed and strained. Taut with relief and gratitude. God damn, I love you rosy girl.
I can’t stop thinking about last night.
I think I want you to touch me. I think I want to touch you. But I don’t know how to tell you. I don’t know what I’ll do—what you’ll do—if I change my mind.
