Page 54 of Space Oddities

Again I bob, and again, until my throat is relaxed and I can go deeper still, swallowing once I reach the bottom, rubbing the tip of his cock with my throat.

“Fuck. Yes. Fuck.” Each word is punctuated with another jerk of his hips.

Through slitted eyes, I see Ian’s wallet half falling out of his pants pocket. I know this moment should be about him, that I should ignore the throb between my legs, but…

I snag his wallet, grabbing the condom inside. Thank heavens Ian is such a boy scout, always prepared. With one last deep suck, I pop my mouth off him, surging up to kiss him before he can process that I’ve pushed him farther into the closet. One hand sliding down the latex, the other pushing my leggings and panties off my hips.

Suddenly Ian takes over, spinning me around, pushing my shoulders down until I’m bent at the waist. I have enough sense to spread my legs as far as they’ll go with my leggings at my knees before he surges inside.

My scream could shatter glass.

This is not lovemaking. This is not even sex. This is grunts and slapping. Two animals rutting against each other. Running from something. Chasing something.

Both his arms wrap around me, pulling me up and back until my socked feet leave the floor. Thrusting deeper and deeper. I don’t know how he is doing it, but it feels sogood. He’s hitting a spot I didn’t know something other than a curved mechanical assistant could reach.

“Trish, Trish, Trish,” Ian chants over and over as he pounds into me.

I have no purchase, no grip. My body in Ian’s arms is simply a tool to help him banish his demons.

We come. Him grunting, me screaming, both our bodies convulsing almost painfully as pleasure rips through us.

I have enough consciousness to push us toward the open doorway as we stumble to the floor, our spent bodies falling out into the bedroom in a sprawl of loose limbs and heaving breaths.

Ian exhales in a huff, blowing tendrils of hair out of my eyes. “Exposure therapy is the best.”

Fourteen

Tethered

Ian

Life is good.

Leaning back in my oversized club chair in the corner of my home office, I prop my perfectly polished Brioni dress shoes on the ottoman, contemplating why being kicked out of my own bedroom feels so satisfying.

I came home twenty minutes ago to Trish getting ready for tonight’s fundraiser in my room.

Correction,ourroom.

Since Trish took over my exposure therapy, her stuff, previously strewn about the guest room, has moved into the master. My bathroom vanity is covered with bottles, sprays, makeup, and a vast assortment of hair tools. My closet (which I can no longer enter without getting a hard-on) is stuffed with the bright colors of flowing fabrics, numerous heels, and half-opened drawers of lingerie. When I asked Trish how all of this fit in her trailer, she laughed, saying, “Why do you think I don’t cook? All my cabinets are for shoes.”

It makes sense why she is so tiny. The woman exists on coffee, sandwiches, and occasional takeout.

Shifting in my seat, I try to will down the semi that rises at the memory of Trish sitting on the previously unused upholstered vanity stool in the master bathroom that the interior decorator had insisted completed the space, her face clean of makeup, slightly shiny from the shower she just finished. When she crossed her legs, the two sides of the dressing gown fell open, showcasing her short, slender legs.

The thin virgin wool of my Armani tuxedo pants leaves little to the imagination. And I’m pretty sure arriving at a black-tie fundraiser with a kickstand in my pants would be frowned upon. Speaking of.

“We need to leave if we’re going to get there on time!” I yell upstairs, not used to having to wait on someone but loving it.

“You’re not trying to rush me, are you?” Trish’s southern accent calls down, sounding even more lovely when she speaks in sing-song.

“Wouldn’t dream of it!”

“Good boy.”

And damn if I don’t preen under her praise like the dog I am.

It’s easy to be happy when you come home to a sexy woman waiting with a smile and aHow was your day?I don’t even mind when that conversation turns to talk about my therapy sessions and claustrophobia. I’m in awe of how much Trish cheers me on. Of how much she cares. I’ve never had that.

---