Page 76 of Untying the Knot
Pulsing.
Wavering.
Hoping and praying he doesn’t pull away.
And when he pauses, I nearly scream, but when I glance down, I watch him place a gentle kiss right on my clit before he pushes me over the edge, making me scream into the silence of our house.
His mouth continues to work against my clit, so fast, exactly where I need it that I feel like I’m coming forever until my body slowly falls from the high of my orgasm.
“Fuck,” I whisper as I cover my face with my hands. When he stands up, I feel him move around the bed until he’s right next to me.
He tugs on my hand, forcing me to look at him and the very large erection in his pants. When our eyes connect, I notice the anger is gone and in its place is a soft, desolate, and controlled voice. “Thank you for tonight, Myla. I love you. I always will.” His appreciation never reaches his eyes or his beautiful smile but rather falls flat off the tip of his tongue before he moves away toward the door.
“Your shorts,” I say to him, feeling desperate for him to stay.
“Drop them off. I need to take care of things.” And then he leaves and heads up the stairs.
He’s going to take care of things . . . I know exactly what that means.
And I don’t know why, maybe because I still love him despite everything going on, maybe because I feel lost without him, but I want to hear. I want to listen to the moment he comes, knowing that this will be the last time we’re semi-together.
I rise from the bed, tie my robe back up, and grab the laundry basket I folded for him before all of this went down, including the lucky shorts.
I take it up to what I used to call our room and notice the door is not fully shut. Then I hear the shower. He’s going right to work. I sneak in and place the laundry basket on the bed before slipping in next to the opening of the bathroom. I lean against the wall and peer toward the shower where I spot his naked body immediately. He’s hunched over, one arm propped against the marble tile, the other pumping his cock. His back muscles are tense, his ass is clenched, and his powerful legs hold him up.
I wet my lips as my eyes focus on his long, thick cock and how his hand is working over it. I’ve seen this pattern so many times. Watched him make himself come over and over again while on FaceTime when he was at an away game or when we were trying to make each other come by masturbating. He always gives himself two strokes, then rubs his thumb against the head, then back down. It’s the motion that makes him come the hardest and fastest. And from his pace, he’s right there.
I grip the wall, watch intently, and when I hear his first moan, my legs clamp together, ready for round two.
“Fuck me,” he says, his hand flying faster now as his dick looks just about ready.
I want my mouth on his cock so bad. I want to be the one who makes him come. I want to be down on my knees, sucking him, creating the delicious moans that float up through his throat and vibrate against the tiles.
And I’m mad that I’m not.
I’m mad at him.
I’m mad we’re in this position.
I’m mad that this is the last time I will hear him come.
I clench my teeth as tears start to well in my eyes.
I wish there was a way to fix this, to make it all better, but I know that’s not a possibility. I’ve tried. I’ve attempted to focus his attention on us, but it hasn’t worked. Nothing has worked.
“If you’re going to watch, might as well make me come,” he says, pulling me out of my thoughts. He faces me, beads of water cascading down every muscle. Then he turns off the shower and steps out onto the mat, his cock at full mast, his hand gripping the base.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Giving you what you want, a show.” He leans against the closed shower door, dips his head back, and pumps hard on his length. Over and over again until his moans grow louder. His hisses pierce my very soul, and he’s biting on his inner cheek, ready to explode.
I should leave.
I should not be watching this.
Yet, it’s all I can do. I can’t tear my eyes away.
“Fuck . . . ah fuck, Myla.”
