“Not before it turned me on,” she grinned with a glint in her eye.
I remembered how that night had ended, with her watching me jerk off.
Smiling, I undressed her slowly—far too many clothes for what I wanted to do. Then I rolled her onto her stomach, pouring her favorite body lotion onto my hands, warming it before I placed a dot on every freckle across her back.
“What are you doing?” she asked, trying to see over her shoulder.
“Playing,” I answered. “Joining the dots. I wonder what picture this will make. Hmm, looks like a sexy woman.”
She gave a husky laugh that made my cock twitch. Greedy bastard would have to wait—this was about Laney.
Although, childish as it sounds, I couldn’t resist using the warmed lotion to write Mrs. Novak across her back. Then I started at her shoulders, smoothing out the tight muscles as she moaned and groaned. My dick was making it hard to concentrate, a third guest at the party, rubbing down her spine, dragging through the lotion as I worked her muscles.
I took the easy way out and headed down to her feet, pressing my thumbs into her soles. But even there, the noises she made, the warm scent of her skin, it was driving me to a new level of madness. I glanced down at my dick, unsurprised to see the head leaking. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the way my balls were tightening and begging for release.
My thumbs dug into the back of her calves. She moaned again and my dick jerked in sympathy.
Her pert little ass made me lose it. Those two soft globes were more than a flesh and blood man could stand.
I pulled her hips upward, forgetting to warn her, so she face-planted in her pillow. Her muffled words barely made me pause as I pushed the tip of my pinkie finger into her little puckered hole.
“I don’t do that!” she snorted, her cheeks flaming as she pulled the pillow from her face and glared at me.
I slid my finger in and out slowly, raising an eyebrow as her mouth dropped open and a soft “Oh!” rounded her lips.
“Just playing, my wife,” I said, leaning forward to kiss the back of her neck.
I couldn’t help wanting to say that again: my wife. The words intrigued me, like a new toy that came without instructions.
“Well, my husband,” she said, a hint of steel in her voice, “you’re not getting anal: exit only! We clear?”
I laughed, easing my finger in a little deeper while circling her clit at the same time.
My husband—even more intriguing.
“Very clear, my love. I’m just playing. Doesn’t that feel good?”
“Yes, very,” she sighed. “But, I’m not . . .”
I slid my index finger into her wet pussy and her words faded away. Her back arched and she shook her honey-colored hair over her shoulders, pushing her ass against my hand so my finger sunk in further.
I could smell the musk in the air as her arousal, my arousal raised the temperature in the chilled room.
There was so much more I wanted to do, to please her, pleasure her.
I slid flat on the bed and tongued her from behind. A sharp gasp outlined her surprise, and I tasted her sweet little pussy for the first time, dipping my tongue inside, circling her clit.
She surprised us both by coming immediately, her small body shaking, eyes squeezed tightly shut.
She collapsed onto her stomach, breathing heavily, then she giggled—such a beautiful sound.
“That was . . . unexpected!”
I stretched out next to her, pulling her heated body against mine, and letting my lips drift up behind her ear.
Even though my cock had been stiff for the last 30 minutes, I was content to rest next to her, pulling the quilt over our cooling bodies.
I was almost asleep when I felt her warm, wet lips close over the head of my cock.
“No!”
I pushed her shoulders roughly, knocking her backward.
From peaceful bliss, I was suddenly back in that Las Vegas bathroom, Sergei on his knees trying to arouse my flaccid dick, Oleg gripping my arms.
I pushed away the darkness, pulling myself toward the light—and turned to see Laney’s frightened face.
“Laylay, I . . .”
Horror, the horror at what I’d done, nearly done, what had been done to me—I retched. Laney shot out of bed, managing to grab a small trashcan just in time. I gripped the cold metal and emptied my stomach. Again and again.
I was only vaguely aware that she’d left the room, but then I felt a cool washcloth against my feverish forehead, my cheeks, my mouth.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I tried to shake my head because she had nothing to be sorry for. It was all me—I was the fucked up one. Not her. Never her.
I lay back on the bed, exhausted and depressed. I’d just wanted to please her, to feel normal, and now everything was a thousand times worse.