American Queen

I turn and he catches my wrists in his strong hands, moving both above my head. “Keep those there,” he says as he lets go and takes a step back to look at me. The posture has my chest jutting forward, my breasts pert and high, and my stomach stretched taut, and his gorgeous cock thickens and stirs. He doesn’t take it in his hand though, and neither does he touch me. He simply takes in every shadow and curve of my body, every inch, every secret and public place.

Finally, when my nipples are hard under his gaze and my cunt wet and swollen from wanting him, he comes close to me. He fingers the ends of my hair, idly, almost like a horse buyer does with a horse’s mane. “This is all mine now, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I pant.

“This hair and these tits and that pussy—all mine.”

“Yes, Ash, all yours. Please—”

He gives me a stern look. “When I want you to beg, I’ll tell you.”

My cunt is so tight it hurts. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good,” he nods, looking back down at my hair between his fingertips. “On your knees.”

I kneel, the cold tile hard on my knees, but I ignore it, enraptured by the man in front of me. His hands are running through my hair, smoothing and stroking it, and then it’s only his left hand while his right slowly fists his cock. Slowly moves from the root to the crown, as surely and deliberately as Ash does anything. I’m lit on fire by the sight of that hand, strong and big and scarred. There is the faintest dusting of dark hair on the back, only near the wrist, hair a shade lighter than the black hair leading like an arrow down from his navel. Everything about him—legs shoulder-width apart, muscles in his arm flexing as he strokes himself, that insatiable dick ridged with veins—is so male and rough and greedy.

“That hair,” he says, wrapping it tighter around his hand. I begin to feel the tug on my scalp, but I don’t mind. I want my hair pulled, I want my eyes to water, and more than anything I want to see Ash come.

He wastes no time, his hand working hard and fast, his eyes searing trails from my face to my tits to my bare knees on the tile and finally landing on the skein of blond hair circling his hand. He lets out a low exhale, the furrowed lines of his stomach tensing, and then those dark eyelashes flutter as he comes, aiming not for my tits or my face, but for the hair he’s so obsessed with. I watch in hungry fascination as he erupts, thick and hot and long, my gold hair now seeded with the white pearls of his climax.

I could stay like this forever, I think dizzily. On my knees, marked by him, beside him.

But we don’t have forever. I have to fight off a serrated bite of frustration as I remember how limited his time is and will be for years to come. There will be no days where I’m his only focus. No long lazy mornings in bed, no time spent without an eye on the clock. I’ll never be anything more than a ten-minute mistress when he’s married to a nation.

I reach for his legs and bury my face in his hip, trying to hide my thoughts, and he lets me for a moment, stroking my head and allowing me to nuzzle against him. My wet desire has receded in the wake of this desperate need to be close to him, to reassure myself that he’s real, that right now, in this moment, he is mine to press against and I am his to use and pet as he sees fit.

After a long minute like this, he tugs my head back by my hair—gently this time—and searches my face. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask me what’s wrong, and he doesn’t need to. He gives a small nod to himself, as if he saw what he expected, and then reaches for my elbows to guide me to my feet.

“Stay there,” he says. In a few seconds’ work, the water is on and warm and he’s guiding my head under the spray. He doesn’t let me do anything myself—he wets my hair and then massages in the shampoo. Rinses it and then massages in the conditioner. I relax and let his strong fingers do all the work, washing away the traces of his orgasm.

The shampoo and conditioner are for women’s hair, brand new, and I wonder if he had them sent for as early as yesterday afternoon. As early as a few days ago, when I told Embry I’d meet him. And I’m about to remark about how skilled he is at washing a woman’s hair when I remember that he’s a widower. He was married for years. Of course he’s done this before.

And of course I’m not jealous of a dead woman. Of course not.

In any case, he’s as efficient as he is gentle, and within a few minutes, we are both washed and clean and wrapped in towels. I sit down on the bed and watch him get dressed, the act of fastening cufflinks and knotting his tie almost as erotic as anything else we’ve done in the last twelve hours.

I’ve almost worked up the courage to ask when I can see him again when he turns to face me, fixing a silver tie bar into place. “I hate this as much as you do, you know,” he says, looking at me. “I hate squeezing you into the margins. I hate that I can’t give you all of my time. All of myself.”

He walks over to the bed, tugging at my towel, rendering me naked and damp. Goose bumps erupt everywhere, my nipples hardening into stiff furls. “You deserve more than me. You deserve a whole man, not a man who can only give you scraps of himself.”

“I’ll take whatever you can give me,” I say, shuddering with pleasure when he runs a pensive finger down my neck to my nipple.

“I know,” he says, and his voice sounds almost sad. “But it isn’t kind to you. Lie down and spread your legs.”

I shift on the bed, opening myself to him, the act of such wanton obedience still triggering a wave of modesty and shame. But I cling to the shame, delight in it, and let it guide me.