Angel
Dare stormed toward the door when someone knocked on it and ripped it open so hard I was surprised it didn’t come off the hinges.
I looked down to my hands in my lap. After he shut the door, he was pouring a drink and going out to the little balcony off our room and lighting that cigarette. It was lit before he was out the door.
We couldn’t even talk about this here, in case our room was wired by Kruna. We already knew that a good portion of the clothes in the room were wired by the task force.
I went to the bathroom and shed my clothes and got into the shower.
Half way through rinsing out my conditioner, I felt him come in.
He wrapped his arms around me and buried his face into my neck. I held him tight.
His grip went tighter.
He looked into my eyes. I looked at his mouth as he mouthed “I’m sorry.” He looked wrecked with guilt.
I shook my head and put my finger to his lips to shush him. I didn’t want him to be sorry.
His hands moved down to my hips and he winced. I looked down. Both my hips had purpling fingerprints from the Townsend room, when he’d gripped me really hard.
“Fuck,” he dropped to his knees and kissed each hip tenderly and then looked up at me, his eyes sorrow-filled.
I crooked my finger to ask him to come back up and when he did, I looked deep into his eyes and then put my lips to his and said low, but not so low he couldn’t hear and if someone else heard it, it wouldn’t be too bad.
“I love you. I love you, Master. So much. Thank you for marrying me, for getting me off the floor, off my knees, for being everything I need. I would kneel on broken glass for you, on hot coals, no hesitation. Anything for you, Dare. Absolutely anything.”
He looked at me with such love and also such pain, that it scored my heart in a way that was both painful and beautiful.
He lifted me up and put me against the tiled shower wall and brought me down onto him, sliding inside me.
And then he gave me what I can only say must’ve been his version of sexual healing. He made love to me slowly, sweetly, with painstaking attention to every inch of my body.
“I love you so much, my baby. My Angel.” He licked along my shoulder up to my earlobe and then carried me back to the bed and he went down on me, bringing me to the brink of an orgasm, then easing off.
“Beg,” he ordered.
Fuck, that was hot.
“Please,” I begged.
“Please what?” He gave me a sexy and intense expression.
“Please, Master. Please let me come.”
“You didn’t come in there,” he noted.
“No. My orgasms are only yours.”
And then a look crossed his face and I saw regret.
“You got it, Angel. Come, my baby. Such a good fuckin’ girl.” He threw the blanket over us to cover me and sucked hard on my clit, shoving two fingers into me and hooking to hit my g-spot.
I squealed in delight, and rocked against his mouth, not even trying to be quiet.
Fuck whoever might be listening. They could listen and get off on the sound of us [you’re welcome, mofos!] or they could turn their listening devices off.
Afterwards, I was thinking, as he held me tight, looking deep into my eyes with such emotion, that when we got some privacy, I’d try to ease his mind and just assure him that what’d happened was really no different than us fucking to porn. That’s how we’d view it. And that’s all it was. He didn’t touch anyone else; neither did I. We saw what we saw and we did what we did. End of story.
I touched his face. His expression was broody, dark, angry. I couldn’t convey my thoughts without words right now; he was too in his own head. Beating himself up, undoubtedly.
Dare got sexually aroused at a vision of a naked women orgy. What hot-blooded man wouldn’t? I got aroused by deciding, when I felt him get hard, that I would take care of him and fuck my husband in a room filled with people from my nightmare. I was convinced it was the best way to get through that.
For once, here at Kruna, I’d made my own decision about fucking someone and that decision included who I would fuck and how I’d go about doing it. So what that nine people had been there to see it happening. I was kind of in awe of how therapeutic that actually was.
The Townsend room was a play room. I’d reiterate to him, somehow, that some of the rooms would be like that. I could give him a signal going forward so that he’d know. Any room that had a surname sounding name was a play zone. Maybe we’d take a beach walk in the morning and I could tell him that.
I looked up from my place cuddled up against him and saw, despite the darkness, that his stormy beautiful eyes were fixed on the ceiling; he was looking torn up.