Page 57 of Healing Hearts
I heat up the leftover casserole, and I sit at the table. When she goes to walk past, to head into the living room, I catch her wrist, and I tug her between my spread legs. She cups the back of my head, and she doesn’t make any noises of surprise or dissent.
“Is this okay?” I murmur, looking up. If she tells me to keep my hands off, I’ll rein myself back in.
“Yes,” she says, her voice hushed.
I drag my palms up her outer thighs, under the hem of her dress to cup her ass. She leans into me, into the contact, and I hear the smallest sigh of contentment. She likes having my hands on her. I lift up her dress, and I kiss a line along the top of her panties. Her fingers dig into my scalp, and I think she’d let me do more, if I pushed.
Instead, with superhuman self-control, I remove myself and tug her dress back down.
“I’d have you for dessert, if you’d let me,” I say.
“One more week.”
That just means one more week of self-gratification and cold showers for me.
When I get out of the shower and hear swearing coming from behind Emily’s door, I knock lightly, mindful of waking Amir up.
“Can I come in?” I call softly.
There’s an obvious commotion, more swearing, and something thuds on the floor before she calls for me to come in.
“You okay?” I ask when I push the door open gently. “Sounded like you were having trouble with something.”
“No,” she says, her voice high pitched and strained. “Everything is fine.”
I step closer because Em’s version of fine and most people’s aren’t always aligned. And then I see the lube on the nightstand. Then I focus on her face, and I see what I should have noticed the minute I walked in. She was clearly in the middle of something.
“Are you having fun without me?” I ask, a little surprised.
Her cheeks turn pink, and she seems momentarily at a loss for words. “One more week.”
“I am very aware of our timeline,” I say, closing the distance to the bed. “But if you need some satisfaction in between, I’d love to be the one to take care of you.”
“My batteries died,” she whispers.
“I’m good at changing batteries,” I say, “but I’m even better at eating pussy.”
And I swear, she melts, turns to absolute liquid in the bed.
“Lock the door,” she says.
She doesn’t have to ask me twice, and I’m back at her side of the bed, drawing back the covers to see her nightgown around her waist, and she’s bare. I get on my knees, and I tug her toward me, turning her on the bed. She comes willingly.
“I could not love this view more,” I say. “Fuck one more week. I’d do this every day if you let me.” Then I lick a line up her, and she shudders, clutching the blankets.
“You got me so turned on downstairs, I could hardly stand it,” she says, moaning when I cover her with my mouth.
“Don’t worry,” I say, “I’ll make it all feel better.”
I love the taste and feel of her on my tongue, and the way she lets out panty moans and throaty noises of pleasure when shestarts to get close to reaching her orgasm. We might only do this once a month, but they are marathon sessions, and I feel like I know every sigh, every pitch and tone she makes when she’s turned on, ready to rocket off the bed when I get her to the finish line.
When I slide two fingers into her as I work her over, she cries out and then covers her mouth, letting out a loud groan of pleasure. She can be loud, so doing this with Amir sleeping a few rooms over is probably irresponsible.
That’s the tricky part about wanting her, though. I have no self-control once I start.
“Maybe put a pillow over your face,” I say.
“Oh, god,” she says, but she grabs one and presses it to her face.
