Love to Love Her YAC (29 page)

“Should we get the check?”

Blake – Thursday, 8:45 PM

I
can tell Rhiannon
doesn't know what to make of dinner.  She was quieter than
usual during the ride back—almost brooding—and she didn’t speak
except to comment that I should have left a light on in my
apartment.

Presently she ambles toward me as we stand in
my dark bedroom. “You really got me riled up back there,” she
murmurs into my neck, drawing me closer so she can wrap her arms
around my torso.  I let her help me as I shrug off my jacket,
but I catch her hand as she begins trying to unbutton my shirt.

“Whoa, whoa,” I say, holding her hands in
mine before gently returning them to her sides.  

“Don’t even tell me you were being serious
back there,” she retorts, a hand on her hip.  She looks to me
for answers; I just smile.  Clearly this isn’t what she had
expected.  “Wait… You
were?”

“I already told you,” I say, sitting down in
the overstuffed club chair opposite my bed, “it’s all about you
tonight.”  She snorts and rolls her eyes.  I only gaze at
her in anticipation; she glares at me.  Despite her irritated
front, I can tell she’s nervous.

“
Fine!”
she exclaims after a beat or
two. She tosses her hands in exasperation.  “All about
me?  I can do that.  With
pleasure.
”  She
glares daggers at me.  For a moment it seems she’s about to
ask more questions, but suddenly her demeanor changes.  She
smirks and saunters a little closer.

“Since you’re the boss,” she says, “you’re
going to need to tell me what to do. What you want from me.” I can
tell from her inflection she’s deriving a kind of perverse
satisfaction from the situation. Suddenly I feel like anything
but
the boss – I haven’t completely lost control, but she’s
definitely vying for it. It isn’t a change I was expecting; my body
stirs in response to her assertiveness.

“I already told you,” I tell her, my voice
coming out a bit choked. She’s inches away from me, and I feel as
if we’re frozen, suspended in time. I want so badly to reach out
and touch her, and it takes every shred of my resolve not to.

“Yes…” she whispers, “but I want to hear it
again.” Her fingers toy with the satin straps of her dress; she
lets one slip down a little over her left shoulder. “You weren’t
very specific.”

I can hardly swallow. All I can see is that
finger. “Take it off,” I tell her, aching to reach out and do it
myself. She raises an eyebrow, prodding at me. I clear my throat.
“Off,” I reiterate, louder this time, struggling to reclaim some
sense of command. “I want you to take it off.”

Seemingly satisfied, she wordlessly draws her
hands behind her neck and slowly, ever so slowly, pulls at the
strings to untie her dress. The deep blue satin slides down,
whispering against her fair skin. I watch its descent, or perhaps
more accurately what’s beneath its descent. First the swell at the
top of her breasts is revealed, then the dress catches when the
pink of her areolas are exposed. The dress catches at the curve of
her hip, and she watches me with a sly smile on her face as I drink
in the vision of her bared breasts. The sensation of the fabric
sliding against her seems to light a shiver at the base of her
spine, causing a wave of fine bumps to prickle out over her skin
and her nipples to harden.

She tugs lightly at the material covering her
thigh, causing the dress to continue its agonizingly slow
trajectory down her body. I hear my heart pounding in my ears at
the sight of her navel, then the top of her panties. A final shrug
sends the gown cascading into a pool around her feet.

Rhiannon drops her hands to her sides; her
face is shadowed with an expression of uncertainty for a split
second, but then she runs her long fingers up against her skin to
the sides of her breasts and back down again. She casually hooks
her left thumb in the top of her panties and twists it playfully
from side to side, stroking over the elastic. My eyes are riveted
on that hand.

“You like watching, don’t you, Blake?” she
teases, her voice soft and light. Her tone makes me wonder whether
this is affecting her as much as it is me.

This moment is so much more than I’ve ever,
in my entire time knowing her – scratch that: in my entire
life
– thought to fantasize. My wildest dreams tend to
follow the usual plot – that is,
sex
. Sex in a bed. Sex in
the back seat. Sex in public somewhere.

But this is something entirely different.

Not being able to touch her, experiencing
this sort of shifting control, relinquishing my privilege of being
an active participant – this moment is entirely new. In my
fantasies, the peak of my own excitement always trumps the dream
itself. Now, though, I find myself very much in the midst of a
fantasy over which I have very little control. The feeling of
powerlessness is both daunting and deeply stimulating.

Even as I yearn to touch her, I remain
powerless, immobilized – I want to see what happens next. I’m
enjoying
the pain engendered by inactivity, the frustration
and anguish of withholding. It’s the promise of the pure explosion
that will undoubtedly ignite when I finally do step in that makes
the torture both wholly pleasurable and completely worthwhile.

Apparently weary of awaiting further
instruction, and before I can even process what her next move is
likely to be, Rhiannon hinges at the waist and pulls her panties
off. She leaves them crumpled on the floor next to her dress.

Holy God.
This is new – she’s
completely…bald.
Fuck
. How can I be expected not to touch
her
now
? My eyes flicker up to her smug expression for the
briefest of moments; I’m certain she’s one hundred percent aware of
the degree of my torment, and she seems to be reveling in it.

I’m suddenly acutely conscious of just how
clothed I am in contrast to her nakedness – yet still I do nothing,
except clench the arm of the chair a little tighter. She continues
to stand before me, listening for the next step.

“Lie down,” I say, my voice hoarse. “On the
bed.”

Ever obliging, she turns slowly and steps
from the puddle of clothing encircling her feet. She allows me time
– horrid, excruciating time – to enjoy the spectacle. The sway of
her hips and the contours of her backside are quickly becoming too
much.

Rhiannon – Thursday, 9:15 PM

I
lower myself onto
the gray flannel bedspread; the warm fuzziness of it is in sharp
contrast to the smooth, cool silk of my dress or the warmth of the
hand I long to have touching me.

Blake’s gaze hasn’t strayed from my body for
one second. A part of me is nervous, but the larger part is really
getting off on the whole experience. I can tell he’s itching to
do
something – although what that something is I can’t
guess. His remarkable sense of restraint makes me wonder, but his
body betrays him; his physical arousal is readily apparent. I want
his clothes off, too, but something tells me he isn’t taking
requests.

“Lie down,” he repeats, his voice winning
back some of the conviction he was lacking a moment ago. I’ll admit
I like his masterful tone, but I like him watching me even more.
It’s a bizarre mixture of bowing to his will while simultaneously
maintaining total control of the situation. He may be the dictator,
but it’s
my
actions that are driving the scene. Really he is
completely at my whim.

My gaze remains locked on his as I lift one
leg up onto the bed and scoot myself backward, then stretch the leg
out before me. His hooded expression makes him appear as if he’s in
actual pain.

He crosses one leg over the other and leans
his head in his hand, a poor attempt at relaxing his achingly stiff
posture. “Let me see you,” he says quietly.

Obediently I let my legs fall part into a
butterfly, bringing my heels together and using my hands to flatten
my knees against the mattress. I sit up straight, lengthening my
spine, and cock my head to one side. He closes his eyes and exhales
a long, deep breath before reopening them. I’ve never felt so
comfortable or downright
sexy
being so exposed.

“Now what, Blake?” I ask, dropping my voice
to a huskier timbre that calls to mind the glamorous pinup girls of
old Hollywood.

“Now…I want to watch you touch yourself,” he
says, his voice so low as to be almost inaudible.

I leave my left hand planted on my knee and
glide my right up my thigh, over the outside of my hip and up my
ribs before cupping my right breast and thumbing my nipple. I
linger there only a moment before pushing my hand the rest of the
way up the back of my neck and into my hair, my elbow peaked above
my head. Next I move my left hand, trailing my fingers along the
inside of my thigh this time and up past my bellybutton. I clutch
at my left breast, brushing my fingers over the freckle beneath my
nipple while arching my back and thrusting my chest forward.
Finally I rest my hand against my ribcage and look back at Blake
expectantly. He’s leaning forward now, bracing himself against his
knees while his fingers curl like talons into his pant legs.

“Where do you want me to touch myself?” I
ask, tempted to make him beg for it. He seems as if he would be all
too willing to roll over right now if I asked him to.

“Touch your pussy,” he growls. An urgency has
taken root in his voice that surprises me. Still, determined not to
cede control, I force myself to continue to move slowly. I unravel
the fingers of my right hand from the hair at the back of my head
and move my left behind me; I prop myself up using my left arm.

My right hand circles my opening, tickling
the sensitive skin of my inner thighs; I’m teasing myself just as
much as I am Blake. He’s scooted to the very edge of his seat now,
poised as if he could spring from it at any moment. I marvel at his
self-control.

Finally I use my index and ring fingers to
spread myself apart, exposing my clit, which is already slick with
wetness. When my middle finger contacts the warm, sticky flesh, a
jolt of heat spreads outward in shockwaves with my finger at the
epicenter. I arch into it, stroking up and down as I toss my head
back in rapture.

A minute or two passes before I think to look
back at Blake. He’s breathing heavily from the exertion of holding
himself back as he watches. When I look into his eyes his gaze
shifts from my hand to my face, and he nods almost imperceptibly,
inciting me to continue. In response I spread my legs even farther
apart and plunge one finger inside myself. I swirl it around
several times, then withdraw the finger and stroke my four fingers
in a circular motion across the outside, moving quickly while
pressing repeatedly against my clit with the first knuckle of my
middle finger.

“It feels so good, Blake,” I murmur as I lift
my gaze back up to meet his. He looks positively ravenous; my heart
skips a beat when I notice he’s pulling his shirt out of his pants
and beginning to unbutton it.

I moan as I feel myself nearing my climax,
and my head rolls backward again. I’m within seconds of reaching my
own personal state of grace when a hand grabs at my wrist and
flings it aside. My head snaps forward, and I narrow my eyes at
Blake, angry at him for interrupting at just the wrong time. His
liquid, flaming eyes are anything but apologetic, though. He stands
at the foot of the bed, shirtless, his fingers flying deftly over
his belt buckle as he unfastens it. Once loosened, he jerks the
belt free of its loops in one abrupt, fluid movement and nimbly
unbuttons and unzips his pants. He’s free of those as well within a
matter of seconds, and all I can do is gape at him and his nearly
intolerable magnetism.

When I glance down at Blake’s crotch, it’s
almost as if I can see his swollen cock
ticking
inside his
boxer briefs, ready to detonate at any second. He’s pausing –
oh
God, why is he pausing
?

Blake – Thursday, 9:30 PM

A
long trail of
expletives is running through my mind as I look down at Rhiannon
splayed out before me, peering up at me with clear
need
in
her eyes. I can’t remember ever being this turned on before in my
life.

Her eyes drop to my crotch, where my hard-on
is straining to be released. I follow her glance downward and
notice the head is visible above the waistband, desperate to escape
the confines of my boxers. I bend down and give Rhiannon’s shoulder
a slight push, urging her to lie back against the comforter. She
lounges back, but her gaze continues to flicker between my face and
my dick.

“Do you want me to fuck you, Rhiannon?” I ask
as I hold myself above her, feeling her breath and the heat
radiating off of her without actually touching her. I’m growing
weak with want, and I can feel my resolve diminishing, melting away
into oblivion.

“Yes,” she whimpers. Her hands are fisted at
her sides as if she’s determined not to touch me until I’ve touched
her first.

“Say it,” I urge her. I try my best to sound
more gentle and yielding than I really feel; my patience is running
very thin.

“Fuck me, Blake,” she moans.

Jesus Christ
,
yes
. I grab the
waist of my boxer briefs and yank them down with superhuman speed.
My dick falls forward, no longer trapped in submission. I grasp it
at the base and touch Rhiannon’s newly smooth skin with the head,
causing her to cry out and thrash against me. I drag the tip
through her wet folds, then increase my speed, up and down, going
half-crazy from my own building sense of immediacy.

In the second before it seems Rhiannon can’t
hold out any longer I still against her, eliciting a wrathful
expression from her that makes me smile a little. My mind races in
time with my heart as I back away off the bed and peel her off the
mattress with me. Once we’ve risen from the bed I cover Rhiannon
with a dozen fevered kisses, all across her shoulder blade and up
her neck and around her mouth. She buckles her hands behind my head
and elongates her neck, allowing me maximal access to her flushed,
sensitive skin.