“You’re still bruised,” he said. “That’ll take time to heal.”
“Don’t stop.”
“I’m going to be gentle where you’re hurt,” he said. “But everywhere else is mine.”
“Yes.”
“Now, you want your tea?”
“Yes, sir.” Though my body was awake with desire, my voice was husky with heat and exhaustion. My vocal cords hadn’t forgotten that it was close to midnight.
He pressed my mouth open with his thumb and forefinger, as if I was a kitten taking medicine. The teabag hovered over my face, dripping hot liquid over my mouth. I felt hot fluid on my lip and the dry, waxen taste of chamomile tea on my tongue. It traveled down my chin and my throat. I swallowed it like an offering of communion.
“Thank you, sir.”
I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth of dripping tea down my chest. He must have dipped the bag back into the cup because the heat renewed on my ni**les. Lines of molten liquid dripped down around my ribs to my back. I gasped when he put the bag on my belly and dragged it down to the edge of my triangle. I quivered in anticipation. That hot thing, on me. Soft and pliant, yet firm in its burning intensity. But he didn’t. He leaned over, kissing and licking the tea from me. He sucked my nipple gently as his hand stayed on the teabag, which felt as though it was cooling too fast.
I groaned. I had never thought to put a hot teabag on my clit, but it was all I could think about. He had to do it. Had to. Before it got cold.
When he moved his mouth to the other nipple, cleaning it with his tongue and lips, he slid the bag down, pressing it against my clit with the heel of his hand while putting two fingers in me. I yelled. Hot. Not straight-from-the-pot hot, but hot enough. Ten times hotter on my clit than anywhere else, and the fire added exponentially to my desire. Hot tea dripped down my cleft. I shuddered everywhere, spreading my legs wider, pushing into his fingers. His tongue was still at my nipple, and I was bruised, yes, but I wanted him to bite it. I wanted him to hurt me. I was addicted to it.
He pushed his hand against me, heel on hot teabag on clit, fingers in cunt, and he rubbed them in circles. My pu**y drank it. The bag got drier as the tea was squeezed out of it, making it rougher, like crackling leaves in the fall. The little scratches from hot, sticklike herbs drove me to the edge.
“I want to come,” I cried.
“No.”
“I can’t.” I opened my eyes to find him looking down at me.
“You’re mine. No matter what happens. Your pleasure and pain. Your skin. Your lips. Your cunt.”
He pushed the bag and his fingers into me. “Jonathan. You own me. I am yours. God, who else? Fuck. Please. My king. Please let me—”
“Come.”
With a sharp movement, he brought me to orgasm in my kitchen again. I thrust against his hand, screaming, back twisting. He put his other hand behind my head so I didn’t bang it on the cabinet, and when I found myself winding around to the point where I almost kicked out a drawer, he caught me, panting and naked.
“Thank you,” was all I could say.
“You’re welcome.”
“God, I love you.”
“And I, you,” he said softly. “You still want tea?”
“It’s cold,” I said into his ear. “I don’t like it cold.”
“You have it all over you. Let me get you in the shower.”
He took me to my bathroom and got me into the tub. I stood under the water, letting it run where the tea had.
Jonathan got in, exquisitely naked, taut, lean, skin over muscle over bone in perfect proportion. I didn’t know if he worked out. I didn’t know where he’d find the time. He could just be the way he was with no effort whatsoever, and that was all right with me.
“You just dried off,” I said. “And I’m making you get wet again.” I put the bar of soap to his chest and rubbed, working over his shoulders slowly, and back to his ni**les, to his tight stomach. His erection was huge, waiting, a sign of things to come. I stroked it with the soap. I didn’t want to rush. I wanted to take him in fully, in all his beauty, touch every surface, feel every bump and curve.
His eyes went over my body as I washed him. I cleaned his back by putting my arms around him, feeling his dick press against me. He took me by my hair and pulled my head back. The water got in my face, and I smiled. He wet my hair as he kissed my neck. He squeezed too much shampoo into my hair and massaged my scalp. The suds were everywhere. I laughed when they went into my eyes, and he laughed too, pressing his thumbs to my eyes to stroke the suds away. I was covered in shampoo, and Jonathan used it to bathe me, sliding his hands where the tea had gone. He went gently where I was hurt, roughly where I wasn’t, until he got to where the teabag had made me come, and I groaned.
“Ah, goddess....” He slid his hand under my ass, his fingertips slipping into my folds. They were wet but not from the shower.
“Again, please.”
“Put your hands up to the showerhead.” I did, and his followed the line of my arms, cupping his hands over mine, sliding them to the pipe that held the shower head. “Hold that.”
My arms up as if tied, he pushed me against the tiles and put one of my legs around his waist. The head of his c**k sat at my entrance, waiting. I pushed against him, and where his member touched me, my body responded in waves of pleasure. He kissed me, hands at my ass, spreading me apart with his fingers.
“Please,” I said. “I want you.”
“I’m yours.” He thrust into me. It felt like an electric shock through my body, pulsing as he thrust, every inch adding to the pressure. I was full, engorged, all surface area for him. “Look at me.”
I opened my eyes. His hair was soaked. Rivulets of water dripped down the angles of his cheeks and neck as his hips worked into me. He pulled my ass open and slipped in a finger. Just a finger. Exquisite. The pleasure with none of the pain. I clenched around him.
“Soon, when you’re healed, I’m taking this ass again,” he said.
“It’s yours.”
He pushed another finger in, and his eyelids dropped a little. I groaned, feeling stretched and possessed, as though every part of me was under his control and protection.
“Look at me when you come,” he said.
“I’m close.” My arms ached, but I didn’t move them, just held the pipe above me because he commanded it.
“Yes.” He went faster, pushing into me. He used the fingers in my ass**le to draw our bodies together fast and hard as he slapped against me.