The next morning after breakfast, while he's dressing, I tiptoe over to the bedroom drawer, opening it by inches, take out the birth control pill package, pop one out, and place it in my mouth. As I take a sip of water, he's standing at the closet door, his eyes locked on the package I didn't have a chance to put away.
There it is—the reason I tried to hide it from him. An undeniable sadness shows in his eyes as they fixate on the package. It started when I was in the hospital, when they told me that, due to my condition, I had to start to take birth control pills. Every day there, he'd watched me take them with the same sorrowful expression. If I forgot, he reminded me. Once, he brought me the pill himself, but when I reached for it, he hesitated, guilt and sadness written all over his face.
Something about these pills—packaged in plain boxes with no labels or instructions, delivered only once every six months—upsets him. I asked him once why the packages were bare, and he simply pointed to the MM Corps logo, as if that explained everything. I researched them—they're just typical birth control pills. He wasn't sad when I told him I don't want kids. He didn't answer me either when I asked if he wanted them.
I put the package away and slams the drawer shut. The sound seems to snap him out of it. His eyes flutter to me as I walk over and throw my arms around him. "I already miss you. Can you not go?"
A soft huff of air escapes his amused smile. "Put those panties on," he orders.
Obediently, I go to the bathroom, find the now-dry lace panty, washed and hung up last night, and put it on. But he's not in the bedroom. I find him standing next to the sofa. His eyes motion for me to sit down, so I do. His hands part my legs. I bite my lower lip as he lowers himself, kneeling on the floor. His teeth pull the lace to one side as his tongue goes to work. The licking and suckling motions make me convulse when I climax. He places the lace back over my wetness, continues to suck and tease, making me have multiple, continuous orgasms again and again. His fingers dab the lace over my juices.
"Should I wash it?" I ask.
"No," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Let it dry." He hooks his finger onto the spot and fully extends it, repeating the motion as my insides clamps onto it. He draws out my climax.
"But—"
"You'll wear it until it dries," he adds, then moves the lace to the side again. His lips and tongue lick, swirl, suck, flick, lap, nibble, and engulf, creating a vibration that makes me sink into the sofa, eyes rolling back as I scream while holding on for dear life. The simultaneous movements of his finger and mouth make me beg him to slow down as I reach my peak, but instead, he thrusts his tongue into my mouth and plunges another finger in, speeding up. I shoot out. The overflowing wet his blue shirt.
It's been an hour, my body is limp as I lie down, feeling the ultimate release while I try to catch my breath. He stands, the tip of his tongue glides across his upper lip, then his lower one. His fingers deliver my juices from his chin to his mouth as he swallows make my mouth thirsty. The bulge protruding in his pants sends new desire coursing through my body. His tongue glides down his long middle finger before he dips it into his mouth and his lips clean up my juice.
When those smoldering eyes meet my lustful gaze, he smirks as those brown orbs become predatory. I push myself up, but before my foot touches the ground, his hand holds me down. My insides ache as he drags the lace off my body, holding me captive with that commanding gaze while he stands, unbuttons, and removes his shirt.
Exhausted, I lay there impatiently waiting for him. His phone lights up again on the table, and I know it's Jason calling. Ignoring the phone, he thrusts in. My hands grip the edges of the sofa as I gasp at his demanding penetration. The soreness makes it even more pleasurable. He grunts and finishes. His withdrawal is more tender than his lust. He orders in my ear, "Keep it inside."
I close my legs and try to keep his juices intact. When he goes to the shower, I rush to get him a new set of clothes.
While I help him dress, he straps on his watch, and says, "Put that in my suitcase."
I glance in the direction of his gaze and see the drenched lace panties on the table.
Grabbing a sandwich zip bag, I seal the panties inside and place it underneath two of his suits before closing the carry-on luggage. Our breath mingles as his fingers touch between my slit, his essence coating my still-swollen arousal, and he asks, "How long before I'm gone?"
I grab onto his arms as my body weakens under his soft teasing. My cheeks burn as I avoid his eyes, and I murmur, "Twenty-one hours... and eight minutes."
The corners of his lips lift into a proud, satisfied smile before they brush against mine. He's happy that I miss him they're gone.
His words caress my cheek, "Did you touch yourself when you felt me?"
He pinches my chin, and I nod into that intoxicating aroma of amber mixed with his essence and those unyielding eyes.
"Did you fantasize about me while you pleasured yourself?" His sultry voice matches his stare as the words tingle on my other cheek.
I nod, clutching his arm tighter to steady myself.
He withdraws his fingers and steps back, his eyes growing intense as his face becomes serious. "Did you climax?"
I nod, but when I turn my head to avert his intensity, he holds it in place by my chin.
"From now on, you're not allowed to masturbate," he orders.
I frown and pout.
His lips press together, and his nose flares for an instant as his eyes darken. I nod, yielding to his dominance. His face softens, and he adds, "You're not allowed to fantasize about me either."
I pout harder, making a whiny face that I know he thinks is cute.
His eyes sparkle as he smiles. He murmurs into my ear, "When you feel me coming out of you, you can smell and taste me."
"But I'll–" I start to protest, but one look from him silences me. This is not negotiable to him. Not at this time, anyway. I bite my lower lip and nod. He places a kiss on my cheek, takes his phone and luggage, and leaves. It looks like we have a new goodbye routine.
Why does he seems more possessive? What's changed?