Page 93 of Naughty November
I write ‘make love to me’ down the inside of his left thigh, ensuring my knuckles graze his balls in the process. His cock jerks. He gasps.
“There’s one more thing I want to write.”
“Is there any space?”
“A little.”
I survey my work. It’s easy to see which words and phrases came first because the skin around them is no longer angry, red, or raised. I find a space close to his heart and write ‘I love you’ in tiny red letters.
I kiss him softly. “I’ve always loved you.”
Jools’s chin trembles. “I’ve always loved you, too.”
I nuzzle his jaw. “And now, beautiful, I’m going to make love to you.” I put my hand over one of the restraints.
He shakes his head. “Leave them. Please? I want to surrender to you completely.”
“You already have.”
“Please?”
Make love to him while he’s tied up and covered from neck to toe in words of love? “With pleasure.”
SIX
JOOLS
The inside of my thigh has stopped tingling, which means my skin must have risen up around the last words Devin wrote. Most of the words and phrases are hidden from me, little more than a blur of red, orange, and yellow, like a sunset on my skin. But I know every word he wrote, and I hold them all within my heart. My heart quivers as he undresses slowly. I’m aching for him. I swear I’ll come undone the moment he touches me. Not that I want to. I want to feel him inside me. Want to savour every second of it.
He’s so damn gorgeous. So perfect. He kneels between my splayed legs and then leans over me, resting his hand beside my head as he kisses me, long and deep. I want to run my fingers through his hair, but the restraints forbid me from doing so. He’d free me if I asked him to, but it’s not what I want. I never thought I’d enjoy the sensation of being trapped, vulnerable, at someone’s mercy, but I do with Devin. I trust him completely. I always have.
“You look so beautiful, Jools.” His voice holds tender reverence.
I smile. “Thanks to you.”
He rests his forehead against mine. His minty breath warms my skin. “You’re always beautiful.”
Coming from him, I believe it.
He squeezes lube onto his fingers and presses one against my hole, applying gentle pressure that makes me gasp and moan. I arch my back, press my head against the pillow, and chase his finger with my hips. I want him inside me so badly.
“You’re needy today. I don’t remember you being this needy in Amsterdam.”
“You didn’t keep me waiting then.”
He nips my bottom lip and then sucks the tiny note of pain away. “It’s sexy. You’re sexy.”
He plucks a toothpick from the pot and moves it to my neck. The words he wrote there earlier, towards the start of our play, must have vanished by now, mustn’t they? Surely, thirty minutes or more have passed. My awareness of time is fragile at best. I have no idea how long I’ve been lying here, bound to his bed, nor do I care. I’m safe, warm, and wanted. What more could I want?
He uses the toothpick to write a new word over my neck. My skin tingles and buzzes like a happy bumble bee searching for nectar.
“What does it say?”
It’s the first time he hasn’t told me.
“Needy boy.” He puts the toothpick down.
I half-smile. “You were always good at patting your head and rubbing your tummy.”