Page 68 of The Butcher's Wife

Warmth floods my panties at his masculine, borderline arrogant, confidence.

I turn to his cock and give it an experimental tug, his hips chasing my hand’s path, and my clit pulses at his eagerness. I slip one hand between my legs, over my leggings, and dip my head forward to lick the slit of his cock.

Ocean saltiness explodes across my tongue. We moan in unison, and then I go back for seconds and thirds. I suckle at the head, tugging lazily at his shaft, drawing out the sensations for him with long, slow movements.

My nipples prickle painfully against the knitted fabric of my sweater, and I soothe myself with an echoing circling against my clit, dulled by the layers of clothes on top.

“Reginetta,” he groans after several minutes of me teasing him. “Let me touch you.”

I glance up at him. Pain and desire are etched into every line of his face.

I release his cock and lean back—he sighs, reaching for me.

How far will he let me go?

“Did I tell you to move your hands?” I murmur, searching for the hem of my sweater with my fingertips.

His arms snap back behind him, and he chuckles darkly. “No, you didn’t,reginetta.”

“That’s right. I didn’t.” I feel more myself than Ieverhave. I’m the version of myself that’s been passed through a hundred filters, leaving behind the heartbreak, pain, and insecurity to distill into the purest essence of me.

I pull my sweater over my head and toss it to the floor.

Dom releases a gruff sigh, looking like a barely restrained wild animal, muscles flexed with a light sheen of sweat across his face and chest. I rub myself at the sight of him, that he wants me as badly as I want him, and in the same way.

“Tell me when you’re about to come.” It’s the only warning I give before I suck his cock into my mouth.

He fills my mouth up entirely with only a fraction of himself, and instead of trying to force myself to deep throat him like I know he’d enjoy, I do the things I feel like doing, things that pleaseme. I run my tongue up and down his shaft like I’m licking a popsicle, I suckle the head, and I stroke him with both hands threaded together. All the while, I slowly soak into my panties until I’m slipping back and forth on the ottoman. It doesn’t help that Dom groans broken utterances above me the entire time.

He begs. He pleads. He persuades. But he doesn’t move his hands.

“Reginetta, give me a turn. You know I can make you feel good. Let me taste you, angel. I’ll take care of you. You can use my hands again, do whatever the hell you want. God, you look so fucking sexy. You’re making me so hard, you’re making me fuckingcrazy.Reginetta, I’m going to?—”

I pull off of him with a pop.

He’s panting. His belly flexes as he curls inward, his head bowed. He looks like he’s hanging on by a thread. I had felt him thicken, tasted the pre-cum on my tongue.

I blow a stream of cool air onto his cock, and he winces, his thigh muscles spasming.

“You’re doing so good,” I say.

When he groans, more wetness gushes into my poor underwear. He is so good, though. I just want him to see that I know that.

I wrap my hands around his cock and push the foreskin further back, that wonderful contradiction of hard and soft weighing in my palm.

He rocks forward. “I’m going to…”

I release him.

We play this game several more times—or I play, and he suffers.

Until he warns me too late, and white-hot cum splatters over the corner of my mouth, my chest, my belly. His breath is ragged.

“Reginetta…”

I run my finger along his mess, collecting it on my finger. “You made a mess.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound very repentant, although that’s hardly something new. He’s not a man who experiences guilt like the rest of us.