Page 83 of Homestead

“We don’t have time for what you’re thinking,” I tell him in an intentionally playful tone.

“Sure we do. I got this mornin’ to make up for.”

“You can make up for it at bedtime.”

“Maybe I wanna make up for it now.”

I’m torn. Rationally, I know I should let him, but emotionally I’m terrified that one more blow against my tentative control will cause me to fall apart completely. I’ll crumple into a messy heap and blurt out everything to him.

Everything will change. Nothing will be what it was.

And that’s a risk I just can’t take. Not until I have no choice.

So I force down the flutters of fear and give him a teasing smile. “Well, if you think you can be quick.”

“Quick? You want me to bequick?” He’s got a warm chuckle in his tone.

“We don’t want to be late for dinner.”

Still naked, he takes a few strides toward me and scoops me up into his arms. “We won’t be late.”

He carries me to bed and starts kissing and caressing down my body, spending a lot of time on my breasts because he knows that works best for me.

I was hoping he’d get me off with his hand the way he often does, but eventually he’s nuzzling between my legs, hooking my legs over his shoulders so he can really get to work on my pussy.

I don’t stop him. I don’t resist even though my heart is hammering frantically in fear as much as excitement. He uses his lips and his tongue and even his beard to work me up to the edge again and again without ever taking me all the way there.

I’m squirming and whimpering and huffing out pleasure and frustration. I keep fighting his hold on my hips in my urgency, but he doesn’t let me go. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he focuses down on my clit, hitting it hard with his tongue in fast strokes and then eventually closing his lips to apply suction.

I come hard and helpless and messy. I sob with the tidal waves of pleasure and writhe as the spasms overwhelm me. He keeps sucking, sustaining the release until I’m hoarse from my cries.

Then he finally lifts his head, lowering me gently back to the bed. I lie there in an embarrassing sprawl, naked and flushed down to my chest and utterly spent. Unable to take a full breath.

He strokes my quivering belly. “Now then. You should feel better. You really needed that, didn’t you? You always try to hold on to too much without letting it go.” He slides his hand up to my cheek. “You did real good, girlie.”

I burst into tears.

Loud, helpless tears. Right there. Naked on the bed after one of the most powerful sexual experiences of my life.

I can’t help it. I really can’t. Everything I’ve been fighting—and also holding on to—for the past week all comes gushing out with my sobs.

Jimmy is shocked. I know he is, even through my emotional storm. He shifts on the bed and pulls me up so I can cry against his chest. He holds me tight, rubbing my back and murmuring that he has me. That it’s going to be okay.

I don’t know that it’s going to be okay. I have absolutely no assurance of that despite his much-needed words.

Because nothing has changed today except I’ve fooled Jimmy into thinking I’m back to normal.

And nothing might ever be normal again.

Plus pretty soon I’m going to have to explain these tears to him. I have no idea what I can possibly say.

* * *

It’s maybe ten minutes later when I finally stop crying.

Jimmy hasn’t yet demanded an explanation. He’s held me and comforted me and waited for me to settle. But now he starts shifting slightly, adjusting his hips and his arms.

He’s going to ask. He’s going to draw me back so he can peer at my face. He’s not going to take no for an answer.

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