It was what he’d asked me before he dunked me in his bathtub.
My answer hadn’t changed.
“Yes.”
He nodded and uncapped his water bottle before adjusting it so that it was within easy reach from the bed. Why? Did he produce an exceptional amount of semen? Enough to dehydrate him? Enough that he wouldn’t have the wherewithal to uncap his drink afterward? Would I have to fetch him electrolytes? If there weren’t any in the house, I would have to walk into town, which was a ten-minute walk?—
“What are you thinking about?”
“Electrolytes. Also, I’m worried I won’t be able to come again,” I confessed in a rush. “You’ll act fine with it, and you’ll say the right things, but you’ll be disappointed.”
“You don’t have to come, Lyssa.”
“Yes, that’s the right thing to say.”
“It’s true.”
“But I want to come. That’s the whole thing.”
“If it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t ….” He picked up my hand and pressed it to his chest. “I promise, you’re still going to have the best fucking time you’ve ever had without your clothes on. That’s the Mike Holliday guarantee, baby.”
I stepped backwards and tumbled down onto the bed. His eyes tracked the bounce of my tits hungrily.
“I don’t want the Mike Holliday guarantee, and don’t call me baby.”
He studied me, chewing his lip. I was worried he had changed his mind, but abruptly, he seemed to come to a decision. He ditched his jeans and briefs and crawled over top of me. His weight over me was delicious, even when he carefully held himself on his elbows. But I didn’t want careful. I wanted him to body me into this mattress.
That was my problem: I veered between wildly horny and anxious to the point of distraction. I felt bad for Mike. I was a rollercoaster.
He didn’t seem to be feeling bad though. He kissed me leisurely, ignoring my pathetic little tugs to get more of his weight on me. The press of his thick, ready cock was impossible to ignore, yet he seemed determined to do so, kissing me slowly, like we were teenagers under some bleachers.
Cocks were kind of ridiculous though. Thick, turgid, winking worms—in a good way? Sometimes. And sometimes no. Like how worms served an ecological purpose—cocks served an erectional purpose? Only if you liked cocks though, and the specific one winking at you at the time. Which I did, I liked Mike’s cock, but now I was worried that thinking of it as a turgid worm was an association that would cement in my head and forever repulse me?—
“Where’d you go this time, Princess?” Mike asked between kisses.
“Winking worms.”
At that, the kissing stopped. Who could blame him?
“What?”
“Cocks.”
His lips against the soft skin under my clavicle stretched, and I felt his laughter before he could fully muffle it with another kiss.
I tensed. “Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m not,” he said, doing exactly that.
Laughing at me because I was ridiculous, I was eccentric, I was the furthest thing from sexy and too much bana—a sharp twist of my nipple jolted me.
“Ow!”
Mike’s mouth latched around the sore peak, his tongue soothing the sting. “Come on, Princess. Winking worms was funny. It surprised me. You’d laugh if I said that.”
That was true. As he dropped kisses down my neck, I thought about our first time. “Maybe you should choke me? Maybe I can only orgasm when you’re choking me. Maybe that’s my kink.”
Mike pushed up on his arms and stared at me. I looked from his left pupil to his right, trying to figure out what the fuck he was studying me for, what he was wanting to see.
