*Mona*
I’m beginning to suspect that I have a tendency to overthink things (and don’t roll your eyes at me, I CAN SENSE YOU ROLLING YOUR EYES!).
Take Abram and his desires, thoughts, and motivations as an example. It was morning o’clock. Or quite possibly afternoon o’clock. I couldn’t be certain without looking at my phone or an actual clock, and this B&B didn’t have one next to the bed. Anyway!
Here we were, nebulous time of day o’clock. In bed. Together. Except, when I woke up, instead of being tangled in each other like I’d been led to believe is standard for lovers upon waking, he was on one side of the bed, facing me, and I was on the other side of the bed, facing him. Also, we were both fully clothed in unsexy yet comfortable pajamas.
Uh, rather, let me amend that. Abram was always sexy. His Iron Man flannel PJ bottoms and no shirt were quite sexy. Whereas my pink cotton PJ bottoms with Albert Einstein sticking out his tongue rendered in cartoon, plus my baggy white T-shirt, were not sexy.
But back to nebulous time of day o’clock.
Blinking, I scowled at his handsome slumbering face. What, pray tell, did this bed distance and lack of tangling mean? Did it mean he’d changed his mind? Or that his subconscious didn’t want me? Evidence suggested I ought to be in service as a femme pillow au extraordinaire. But I wasn’t.
Were they not pillow material?
Twisting my lips to the side, I reached up, beneath my shirt, pushing it up, and tested my breasts. Grabbing and squeezing, I considered the value of a breast malleability quotient scale, where breasts could be tested and ranked for skin softness and general pliability.
Not that I wanted to give women another thing for society to tell them to fret over. But, if there existed women like me, who enjoyed having data to do with what they pleased, then I’d be very interested in a random sample normalized curve of bosom to suppleness ratio, and here is why: The last romance novel I’d read, and the seventeen before that, always included a scene where the hero and heroine woke up embracing, invariably with the man cradled against the female’s chest.
Therefore, why wasn’t Abram cradled against mine? Were they a non-pillowy shape? Not pliable enough? Where had they failed me?
First, an analysis was needed. Then a diagnosis of the problem. I squeezed and kneaded and inspected, endeavoring to think of words to describe them were I a heroine in a romance novel. Typically, racks were described as something like, Her supple bosom, but never something like, Her jagged tits.
Squeezing one and then the other, I closed my eyes and took a moment to diagnose.
Mona’s malleable mounds.
No. That was just lazy alliteration, not an accurate reflection of my boob-truth.
“What are you doing?”
Tensing, my eyes flew open. I gaped at Abram’s raised eyebrows and the sleepy, confused amber irises beneath.
A small smile curved his mouth and his stare brightened with suspicion. “Are you . . .?”
“I’m doing a breast exam.” My voice was much higher than normal, so I cleared my throat, keeping my face impassive. “Always good to, you know, check out the—uh—good old mammary glands and whatnot.”
His eyes narrowed, his lips somehow pursing but still smiling. “You’re giving yourself a breast exam? Now?”
I nodded, trying on my academic face. “Of a kind, yes.”
Abram seemed to be working harder to subdue his grin. “Okay, okay. That’s cool.” Taking a deep breath, he rolled to his back, pushed down the covers and his pajama pants to his feet, and gripped his morning wood.
I gasped.
I sensed him glance at me but didn’t actually witness his eyes on my face. My attention was otherwise engaged. Watching him. Stroke. Himself. And, you know, panting. (Me. I was panting. The panting came from me.)
“Go on,” his voice said. “Don’t let my penis exam distract you from your breast exam.”
I’d never watched anyone touch themselves before. Big, strong hand, long fingers wrapped around his thick shaft, smoothing down and up, down again in perfect rhythmic strokes, a sexy metronome. It was hypnotic.
Clearing my throat again, and obviously still panting, I nodded, rolling slowly to my back, eyes still fastened to his erection. My shirt bunching at my collarbone, I massaged and caressed Mona’s suddenly sensitive malleable mounds.
I had to stifle a groan as Abram tucked his other hand behind his head, giving me a completely unobstructed view of his torso and chest. So unfair.
“Found anything?” he asked, his voice still deep with sleep and his efforts at last night’s concert.
“No. Not yet,” I panted (yep, still panting), my nipples now tight, hard beads against my palms, my stomach twisting and coiling and heating. “How about you?” I made the mistake of glancing at his face and found his eyes on my hands where I touched myself.
He looked almost angry, his eyes—sharp, feral—were at half-mast, his jaw tight. He licked his lips, his tongue darting out, and I had the most intense desire to shove off my pants and straddle his face.
Why don’t you?
“Nothing yet,” his voice scraped. “But I’m not finished yet.” Then he groaned. “Mona, what are you doing?”
His eyes tracked lower, looking pained, and I followed his line of sight to discover I’d moved one of my hands to my stomach, the tips of my fingers skimming along the waistband of my PJs. My gaze flickered back to his, and I tested a reckless hypothesis, dipping my hand inside my underwear and pushing them down my hips.
Abram’s breath hitched, ragged, unsteady.
“Pelvic exam,” I said, just as I brought my knees up and parted myself with my fingers.
His eyes shot to mine, held, his head shifting forward on his pillow, like he was going to do something. But he didn’t. He stopped himself. He glared at me, reminding me of a tiger behind the bars of a cage, making promises with his eyes. If I weren’t trapped, if I could touch you.
I hoped my stare communicated, Why can’t you? Touch me! I was so hot, wet, ready. I was right there, next to him. Why didn’t he reach out? His lack of action clearly frustrated us both.
Instead, he swallowed thickly, his eyes drifting down again, first to my breasts, and then to where my fingers moved between my spread legs, heated, dazed. His jaw ticked. His breathing grew labored. He blinked. Hard. Like he was having trouble focusing.
And then, suddenly, Abram sat up, stood up, pulled up his pants, and left the room. A second later, I heard the shower come on, and my mouth dropped open.
!
So.
There I was.
In bed.
One hand on my breast, the other between my legs.
Bereft.
Listening to my gorgeous boyfriend take a shower by himself. Probably naked! Unless he wore boxers in the shower as well.
Growling, I also sat up, stood up, but I pulled my pants down. Whipping my shirt off, I marched after him into the bathroom, finding him—AH HA! NAKED—in the glass shower. I stopped short inside the door because his back was to me and his back was very naked, and I’d never seen a naked back like his before, if you don’t count shirtless rugby players in spandex shorts (which I didn’t).
Plus, this was Abram’s back. Not anonymous sporty guy’s back. Therefore, it was a spectacular force. Breathing hard, because I was turned on and angry, I placed my hands on my hips, and whisper-yelled, “Why did you leave?”
Abram turned his head, giving me just his profile, and then shook his head, turning away. “Give me a minute.”
I took a step closer, so he could hear me better, not so I could get a better view of his ass because the shower was steaming up the glass. Not because worry had cut through the lusty fog in my brain and told me things between us were not functioning as per Mona-Abram relationship standards.
“Abram. Talk to me. Please.”
He cursed, flipped off the shower, turned completely around while reaching for a towel to hide his glorious engorged erection. The action left me feeling uncertain, so I plucked a washcloth off the counter and used it as a fig leaf of sorts for my vagina, covering my breasts with my arms.
“Mona,” he began, frowning at where I held the tiny square in front of myself. Shaking his head as though to clear it, he started again, “Mona. Last night, you shared yourself with me. I am so appreciative that you trusted me, thank you. And, because of what you shared, I’m doing my very best here, trying to keep my hands to myself. Which—” he glanced down at the tented towel at his pelvis “—I am incapable of doing while you’re next to me touching yourself.”
During his speech, I’d opened and closed my mouth many, many times, mostly planning to object, or question the validity of his logic. Conversely, as I listened and I realized the truth—that he was trying to be respectful and save me a visit to shame town—I snapped my mouth shut.
Glaring at me like I was a roast beef sandwich he’d been denied (the most exceptional of all sandwiches), he cleared his throat, stretched his neck, and waited.
At first, I didn’t know what to say. I mean, he had a good point. But on the other hand, no. Hadn’t he been the one to suggest me taking the lead last night? So why was he—Oh!
“Ohhhhhh!” I nodded, my nods slow and exaggerated. “I get it!”
He gave his head a subtle shake. “What do you get?”
“You want me to dominate you, tell you what to do.”
Abram flinched, sucking in a breath.
But before he could speak, because that was my job now, I tossed the washcloth back to the counter and once again stood before him proudly, hands on my hips.
“Abram, my love, please step out of the shower.”
He lifted an eyebrow over narrowed eyes, his lips parting and his jaw shifting to one side, a spark of something in his stare that had me grinning. Was that defiance? How wonderful.
Eventually, he did it. He stepped out of the shower, letting the towel shift to his hip where he gripped it in one hand.
His eyes struck me as sardonic and so did his tone as he asked, “What now?”
“We’re going back to the bed.” I mean, obviously, right?
I watched as he took a deep breath, like he was steadying himself. With reluctant movements, he began using the towel to dry his skin.
“No,” I said, frowning.
“No?”
“Don’t dry off. I want you wet.”
He blinked again, like my words landed somewhere sensitive. His grin a tad incredulous, but also amused, he nodded and placed the towel on the edge of the tub. My gaze dropped to his erection and I licked my lips, the electricity of excitement making me restless.
Crooking my finger as I backed out of the bathroom, I motioned to him. “Come on.”
Turning, I didn’t wait to see if he would follow and crossed to the bed, standing at the edge of it, waiting for him to appear and nervously worrying my lip.
With the males of my previous acquaintance, providing directions before and during intercourse had felt a bit like giving a lecture, or explaining how to make poached eggs. But with Abram, I was a bundle of nerves, wanting to make this good for him, wanting to make it amazing like he’d done for me.
The main impediment as far as I could tell was my libido. I was already so incredibly turned on. Therefore, I concluded, I would just have to take things slow, get him worked up with foreplay in order to ensure his orgasm was pleasurable.
Go slow. I nodded at the assertion.
He appeared in the doorway, and I straightened. Realizing I’d been twisting my fingers, I stopped, scratched the back of my neck, and then pointed to the mattress. “Lie down. In the center.”
Saying nothing, Abram strolled to and stopped just two decimeters in front of me. His eyes on mine, making my heart beat like crazy, and I recognized something about myself. The fear was back. Just like before, it made everything brighter, colors sharper, my skin too tight, my breasts heavy, so heavy, sensitive.
Huh.
But before I could give this realization much thought, Abram’s eyes dropped to my mouth, heated. He swayed forward, like my lips were magnetic. The way he looked—again, like a tiger pacing in a cage—sent a sharp thrill from the top of my skull to the base of my spine. I shivered.
I actually owned a pair of tiger-print underwear and matching bra, and I’d brought it with me. Note to self, wear sexy tiger underwear today.
His eyes cut back to mine. His jaw worked.
“Lie down,” I whispered, holding his gaze.
He did.
He lay down. In the center of the bed. His body visibly tense. His hands balled into fists. His muscles flexing. And his gorgeous penis. Sigh.
Swallowing the thirst, I climbed onto the bed, now on all fours, and crawled to where he lay. Nudging his legs apart with one of mine, I placed a knee between his thighs, my hands on either side of his torso, and bent to lick the water from his chiseled abdominal muscles.
Oh yeeeeah.
Desire pooled low and insistent in my belly. He flinched, then groaned, his penis pressing tenaciously against my stomach, hard and hot, smooth like silk. I gripped it. He was rock hard.
I felt dizzy. My sex clenched around nothing, reminding me of how neglected it was, how empty, and—
Yeah, you know what? Forget taking it slow.
Impulsively, I straddled his hips and lowered myself, sucking in a relishing breath at the delicious, stretching invasion. This, clearly, shocked the hell out of him because his hands came to my thighs and squeezed.
“God. God. Mona—”
I bent forward, bracing my arms on either side of his head, and took his mouth. He groaned, immediately opening, chasing my tongue, obviously fighting the urge to take over as I rolled my hips, using him to rub just the right spot.
Abram’s hands were moving, sliding up my sides, cupping my breasts, rolling my nipples between his fingers, and then tucking themselves beneath my arms to lift me higher so he could suckle one, and then the other, lavishing both with wet, hungry kisses.
Tingly, hot tendrils of electricity played tug of war between my pelvis and nipples, stretching, curling, making me slightly insane. The urge to sit up and ride him more completely was overwhelming. I needed him deeper, I needed more force, faster.
Placing my hands on his stomach, I straightened away, eliciting a frustrated growl from his throat, his eyes piercing as I shifted, using the hard plane of his stomach as leverage while also feeling him up.
“Say something,” I demanded, because why the hell not? He is mine to command!
His lip curled into a feral smile, a baring of teeth, sending a renewed fissure of alarm down my spine to the back of my legs, making me hot. So hot. I was sweating with exertion and the thrill of uncertainty. I loved it and I was so close. I could feel the start of it, the deep ache teetering on satisfaction.
Abram’s covetous eyes caressed a scorching path from my lips to my breasts and then further south, obviously watching us where we mated. “Thank you for the view,” he said, his voice like gravel, his hands sliding to my hips. His fingers flexed into my bottom like he wanted to help lift me, help me go faster.
“Do you like watching?” I asked because I really wanted to know for some reason. It was essential that I know. Another shiver. I couldn’t catch my breath.
“I like watching you.” His hand came around to the front of my thigh, his thumb slipping between my folds. “I like this.” He circled my clitoris and OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD—
“I like watching you come on my cock,” he said through clenched teeth, sounding a little sinister.
His statement was well-timed because I was coming. So. Hard. My hips jerking, searching, seeking, needing to prolong the fullness and friction. My body igniting. I couldn’t think, but intrinsically I knew he was coming too.
His hips pistoned, rolled, inelegant searching, just like mine. His head pressed against the pillow, exposing his neck, his powerful form in sharp relief. His hands moved away from my body, gripping the bedsheets and pulling. I heard a ripping sound. I ignored it, bowing forward above him, my hand on his heart.
Then I collapsed. I just freaking fell right on top of him, limp, my mouth at his neck, greedily gulping air as his hips still worked, seeking the last bit of his pleasure from my body. A moment later, I felt him go lax, also breathing like he’d just run a marathon. I felt fingers thread into my hair, grabbing a fistful to angle my head for a kiss.
Somehow, both of us breathing hard, our bodies completely spent, we were still able to kiss. Maybe because it was sweet. Tender. An unhurried, soft meeting of lips and tongue. Abram smoothed his hand down my back to my bottom, stroking it. He made a little sound in the back of his throat, something halfway between a growl and a hum.
Or maybe that was me.
No. That’s him.
I fell asleep, right there, naked, on top of my purring tiger.