Page 22 of Your Sharpest Edge
I had to change the conversation because I was getting hard thinking of the taste of her sweet core on my tongue.
“Come on. Let’s put a movie on.” I gestured to the TV in the living area.
I heard her feet as she got up, but I didn’t hear her follow me, so halfway to the room, I turned around.
“What’s wrong?” I asked when I saw her leaning over the counter, fumbling with the ends of her long, blonde hair.
“Yo-You never answered my question.” She was standing in the middle of the living room, her arms around her body.
I raised an eyebrow at her. “We’ve done a lot of talking tonight. You’re going to have to help me figure out what I didn’t answer so I can figure it out.”
I took a step backward and leaned against the edge of the brown leather couch, crossing one leg over the other for stability.
She shuffled on her feet, gripping the edge of the marbled countertop. “Does my... you know what... taste like pineapple?”
I paused, letting her words sink in before I erupted into laughter again. “That’s what you want to know?”
She nodded.
“You’re married. You tell me”
She shook her head. “I obviously don’t know what my own...partstaste like.”
She said it like it was fact, but if she were with me, I’d be smearing her wetness all over her lips so she could taste it, forcing it onto her tongue to show her it tasted sweeter than any fruit. But I wasn’t with her... nor would I ever be.
“Has anyone ever tasted you?” I asked, trying my hardest to keep my interest as factual as possible.
Think about something boring like cutting paper.
“No.”
I winced as my hands went behind me to the back of the couch, and I gripped the leather. Although that wasn’t doing much because the sweat on my palms was making them slip.
“H-how does one do that?”
I stretched my neck to the side, my patience for this “just friends” thing waning. I could very easily throw her over the countertop and taste her so she knew exactly how it’s done... especially with a man who would treat her the way she was supposed to be treated. Someone who would cherish her and never let her go to fuck around behind her back. I would never ever physically lay a hand on her or let anyone else touch her if she were mine.
I let go of the couch and uncrossed my legs, trying desperately to think of mundane tasks like printing paper or cutting origami snowflakes while I turned around and willed my boner away.
Unable to look her in the face, I responded slowly. “Ask your husband to teach you.”
I couldn’t bear to see her expression, whether it was in question or surprise. I needed to shift this conversation because we were walking down a risky path, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop if we continued.
“Let’s watch something you want this time.” It was her only response after a few silent seconds, and I was thankful that my anger or frustration at the situation managed to settle my boner.
She walked around me and plopped onto the couch, kicking up her feet on the ottoman.
I shrugged, joining her on the other side, pulling the ottoman a little bit toward me.
“Hey,” she said jokingly.
“Share it with me. I’ll put it in the middle.”
“Ugh, fine.” She shifted, stretching out across the couch and taking up most of it, leaving me with barely any space to lean over and try to show her what she was doing to me.
Nope. Not going there. If this was Dirks, would I be wanting to show him my boner?
I suppressed a chuckle. No fucking way.
