Free The Things That Make Me Give In by Charlotte Stein Page B

then it’s seated all the way inside him, the ridged base preventing it from disappearing. It parts his butt cheeks just a little, looking like a small blue jewel between the pink.
    ‘Very nice,’ I tell him. ‘Very pretty. Now stand up.’
    He does so after a few deep breaths, slowly. Awkwardly. He turns to face me, equally awkwardly. Sweat has gathered at his hairline. That pink flush has spread all over him. He squirms around, though I think more because he’s testing it out than because it hurts.
    But I ask how it feels, just to be sure.
    ‘Uncomfortable,’ he says, and then, after a swallow, ‘Good.’
    But his reaching-for-the-sky cock tells me that much.
    ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Now we get ready for Jean’s party.’
    His eyes flutter closed.
    ‘Yes,’ he says.
    He actually swaggers into the party. Sort of like John Wayne. If John Wayne had a butt plug in his ass.
    I like the sideways cant to his walk, and the look permanently on his face. As if he’s trying to process a very difficult maths problem but oh, it’s a pleasure to do it. Once or twice, as we’re mingling in what looks like a ballroom, he makes a sound he shouldn’t. Before turning it into a cough.
    For once, he is otherwise silent on the matter. Though I suppose it would be difficult for him to say, ‘Let me come’ in a room full of swanky people. Even if his eyes tell me that very thing. They can’t seem to stop staring at my cleavage, which I have made full and voluptuous just for him. I’m wearing his favourite dress – the one that clings and makes my bottom jut, and disappears right down to there.
    I would flirt with men who seem to want to flirt with me and torment him further, but I find that I can’t take it that far. There’s only so much torment I can dole out, like licking my glossy red lips and letting him see the inviting dark hole between, when I part them just so.
    He often makes me feel beautiful with his burning, yearning eyes, but this is different. This is everything condensed and crystallised, aimed right at me until I’m weak. I’m weak enough to want to stop tormenting him.
    His dark gaze always makes me want to. Though I can never quite tell what it’s going to make me want to do.
    ‘Excuse yourself and go to the bathroom,’ I murmur in his ear, when that awful bore Gerald and his dullard wife are briefly distracted by the type of onion in the mini quiches. ‘A nice far-away-from-the-party bathroom. Though maybe not so far that we won’t get caught.’
    ‘We?’ he asks, and I giggle inside at his efforts at being surreptitious. He’s too big and expansive and open to hide and whisper. And then there’s the fact that he’s so turned on that when he drinks something, most of it goes down his front. He had to wear a really long jacket. And four pairs of underpants.
    I pat him on the bottom and he goes up on tiptoe, but he takes the hint. Run along, sweetheart.
    I make barely any excuses before I follow him.
    He tries to glare at me and say enough’s enough. But the corners of his mouth trembling upwards and the hopping from foot to foot kind of give him away.
    ‘You’ve never had any patience,’ I say, as I lean back against the bathroom door. Despite this being a rather large stately-home sort of place, this gleaming cream room he’s found is rather small. He dwarfs the tiny toy-like toilet and bidet. There’s barely enough space for me to press him against the sink.
    ‘Is that what this is about? Teaching me a lesson in patience?’ he asks. He winces when his ass hits porcelain, but he doesn’t look disconcerted by the idea that I might want to teach him a lesson. He’s always had a thing for being instructed.
    ‘No, babe,’ I say, as I unbutton his butter-soft blue jacket. Underneath, the shirt I picked out for him feels very thin. It’s a good red, that makes his hair look even darker. I’m all for darker. ‘I love it that you’re impatient.’
    His face spreads into a wide grin. I love