Chapter 1: Introduction
See, three years of marriage and she still panics about what people are going to think.
I mean, come on. Who exactly is going to fire the CEO himself? Or the CEO's wife? Who has the guts to do that?
Nobody. Absolutely nobody.
Yet there she was, creating an entire conspiracy inside her own head.
Apparently half the office had stopped working, formed investigation committees, and concluded that I had dragged my wife into my cabin for highly suspicious reasons.
None of which actually happened.
So I had to get creative. Use one incredibly cheesy line. Completely overload her already overworked brain. And kiss her before she could invent another twenty-seven imaginary scenarios.
Well... It worked.
When we finally pulled back, she was blushing. Bright red. Which, unfortunately for me, only leads to one thing.
Smack.
Her palm landed on my shoulder. Hard enough to express her deeply offended embarrassment.
"There."
She huffed. "That was for making me blush."
I rubbed my shoulder dramatically. "I am being assaulted on my birthday."
"You deserved it."
"I kissed my own wife."
"You threatened me first."
"I made a joke."
"It was a horrible joke."
"It was an effective joke."
She opened her mouth and closed it at a loss of any logical comeback.
"...I hate that you're right."
"I know."
Another tiny slap and I smiled.
Honestly? Every single one of those little slaps was worth it. Because I loved watching it happen.
Emma had this fascinating transformation.
One moment she'd be trapped inside her own head, overthinking every glance, every word, every possibility that didn't even exist.
Then, somehow... She'd snap out of it. Usually because she'd gotten distracted. Or laughed. Or because I had managed to interrupt the conversation between her and her own brain.
And suddenly she was back. Confident. Playful. Talking nonstop. Teasing me as if she hadn't just spent the last five minutes convinced the accounting department was secretly analyzing our marriage.
I had stopped trying to understand how her mind worked a long time ago.
Now I simply enjoyed watching it.
And about the surprise she had planned for me...
Yeah.
Let me just say I have no idea how I managed to come out of that alive.
People think being a CEO means you get used to speaking in front of crowds.
No.
You just get better at hiding the fact that you'd rather be literally anywhere else. Do you know how difficult it is?
First, I have to talk to people. Which is already exhausting enough. Then I have to constantly remember that I'm not just Noah. I'm their boss.
Every sentence has to go through quality control before it leaves my mouth.
Can I make this joke? No.
Can I say that? Maybe.
Will someone misunderstand it? Possibly.
Will it somehow end up on the internet with a completely different meaning? Also possible.
You have to think about everything. Because all it takes is one badly timed joke. One person taking it the wrong way. One five second clip without context.
And suddenly it's, "CEO accused of being insensitive." Or, "Company culture under scrutiny after executive remarks." Or my personal favorite, "Anonymous employee reveals toxic management."
Anonymous employee? Could be the guy I smiled at yesterday. Could be the guy whose name I don't even know yet. Could be nobody at all.
The point is, I don't get the luxury of assuming people know my intentions. So I have to filter everything. Every single word. Every single joke. And every single expression.
It is surprisingly exhausting. Because guess what? I can’t let my intrusive thought will and make a dark joke just to make someone laugh.
Laugher? And Corporate? Yeah, that’s a good one.
And you know the funny part is that going the opposite way doesn't help either. If I'm too formal, I'm cold. If I'm too friendly, I'm unprofessional. If I compliment someone's work, I have to make sure it doesn't sound like favoritism. If I criticize something, I have to make sure it doesn't sound like a personal attack.
Apparently there is a magical middle ground where you're approachable, professional, confident, humble, warm, decisive, and never misunderstood.
I have yet to find it.
And you know what's even worse? I'm the boss. Which means I'm apparently not allowed to say the two phrases my brain reaches for first. "I don't know." And, "No."
And the problem is that those are my natural responses.
Someone asks me something unexpected? And my brain immediately goes, I don't know.
Someone asks if we should change something? No.
Hey it sounds good in my head okay. If there is nothing wrong with it and its working, don’t touch it.
And see its not that I'm against the idea. Okay? It’s because I need five business days to process the question.
But I can't do that.
You can’t randomly pop up on a random Friday afternoon and ask, "Sir, do you think we should change the density of the engine oil we're using for the new prototype?"
...
I don't know, dude. Why are you asking me like I have the entire periodic table memorized? I'm not a search engine. I'm a human being.
My first instinct is to say, "I have absolutely no fucking idea."
But I can't.
Because then everyone starts wondering why the CEO doesn't know everything.
Here's the secret. No CEO knows everything. If one claims they do, they're either lying or about to make a very expensive mistake.
But does that mean I am a bad CEO?
Nope. Because then I’d be calling the cavalry.
I'd probably go home, order Chinese takeout, put my laptop on the dining table, and say,
"Emma."
She'd look up from whatever she was reading. "Hmm?"
"They asked me about changing the engine oil density."
She'd blink once. Then immediately start asking questions I hadn't even considered.
"Which engine?"
"What operating temperature?"
"What viscosity are they using now?"
"What's the actual problem they're trying to solve?"
Within twenty minutes, our dining table would be covered in containers of noodles, open spreadsheets, technical documents, and my notebook.
She'd explain the engineering. I'd ask annoying questions. We'd argue over the pros and cons. She'd tell me I was overcomplicating something. I'd point out a business implication she'd missed.
And somewhere between fried rice and color coded spreadsheets, we'd finally arrive at an answer.
The next morning I'd walk into the office and someone would ask the same question. I'd calmly explain the recommendation and the reasoning behind it.
Everyone would nod and think, Wow. The CEO really knows his stuff.
Meanwhile, I'd be thinking, Correction. My wife and I know our stuff.
And you know what? She does not even take credit for it.
At least not publicly.
Privately...
Well...
I am currently in debt.
Last time I checked, I owed her three hundred and sixty eight kisses and one hundred and forty seven hugs.
With an interest rate of two kisses and one hug per day until repayment.
Do not ask me how she keeps track of it. She just does.
Apparently somewhere inside that adorable little brain of hers is an accountant whose only job is maintaining the Affection Debt Ledger.
Sometimes I'll kiss her forehead before leaving for work. She'll smile sweetly and go, "Good. Now you only owe me three hundred and sixty seven."
How? Where did that number even come from?
Then if I forget to hug her before a meeting...
"Interest."
"What interest?"
"You missed today's hug."
"I was late."
"Still counts."
I have tried negotiating. I have tried appealing. I have even suggested refinancing the debt.
No surprise that none of it worked. My wife is absolutely ruthless when it comes to affection accounting.
Honestly... I think she missed her calling as a loan shark.
A very cute loan shark.
Anyway.
Let's stop complaining about corporate life because I'm starting to get suspicious of my wife again.
We're literally just a few miles away from home. She's sitting in the passenger seat right next to me. And she's giggling.
Not smiling. Not quietly enjoying herself. Giggling.
Every few minutes she looks out of the window. Then at her phone. Then back at me. Then she bites her lip to stop herself from smiling.
Then fails.
Again.
Something is happening.
I know that look.
That's the same look she had the morning she convinced me an air fryer was an "investment." The same look she had before she secretly taught my parents how to roast me during family dinner. The same look she had when she somehow got me to agree to letting her paint my nails "just once."
Three years of marriage has taught me one thing. Whenever Emma starts giggling to herself... I should be worried.
And if you're wondering whether that whole painting my nails thing happened just once...
Well...
Yes. Technically.
Except it did not stop at my nails.
About an hour later, I somehow found myself sitting on the floor in front of her while she sat comfortably on the bed. Her legs rested lightly around my shoulders to keep me from escaping.
Not that I had much chance anyway.
She was trying to tie my hair into a ponytail.
Now, let me remind you that I do not exactly have long, majestic hair. I have... enough hair to make my wife believe impossible things are possible.
So there she was, determinedly collecting every tiny strand she could find.
"No, no," she muttered. "Stay still."
"I am staying still."
"You moved."
"I blinked."
"Exactly."
Apparently blinking interferes with hairstyling. Who knew?
Every few seconds another tiny rubber band appeared. Then a hairpin. Then another hairpin. Then clips. Then somehow glittery clips.
I have absolutely no idea where she keeps this entire beauty supply warehouse. By the end of the evening, I looked like a Barbie doll that had lost a very unfortunate bet.
There were colorful rubber bands sticking out in random directions, little clips holding together hair that had absolutely no intention of staying together, and enough hairpins to trigger airport security.
Emma stepped back proudly, hands on her hips.
"There."
I looked at her.
"...There?"
"You look adorable." And then she burst into laughter.
The kind where she bends over holding her stomach because she cannot breathe.
I walked to the mirror. She was right.
I did look adorable. Adorably ridiculous.
"You are never deleting the pictures, are you?" I asked.
She hugged her phone dramatically. "These? Never."
"I knew it."
"They're for emotional support."
"They're blackmail."
"They can be both."
Now years later, those photos are still somewhere in her phone.
I know because every now and then she'll be scrolling through old pictures, suddenly start giggling, and then silently turn the screen toward me.
There I am. Looking like a very confused Barbie with excellent posture.
And somehow...
Every single time...
I end up laughing with her.
Because if making a complete fool of myself gets me that laugh...
Honestly?
It's a pretty good deal.
We finally pulled into the driveway. I switched off the engine and looked over at her. She was smiling. Not a normal smile. An Emma smile.
The one that usually means my peaceful evening has officially been cancelled.
I took a deep breath. Mentally preparing myself for... well... Emma.
It could have been anything. A pineapple shaped birthday cake because she once decided pineapples looked "celebratory." A full makeup session where I'd somehow end up with glitter on my face for the next three business days. Another attempt to braid my hair.
Honestly, after three years of marriage, my expectations had become both very low and very creative.
We stepped inside. The front door clicked shut behind us. And before I could even take my shoes off, she grabbed my wrist.
"Emma?"
I barely finished saying her name before she gently backed me against the wall.
One hand caught my wrist. Then the other. My hands ended up pinned lightly above my shoulders. Not trapped. Just... strategically encouraged to stay where they were.
She stepped closer. Very close. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of her breath against my cheek.
Her eyes sparkled with that familiar mixture of affection and mischief that always meant she had been thinking about something far longer than I had.
She tilted her head ever so slightly. "Noah Emma James..." she said, trying very hard to sound serious.
I blinked. "...Let's refinance your debt."
Chapter 2
I mean... hey. I think he deserved it. Especially after he kissed the stress out of me.
Seriously. That confidence alone. Those stupid serious eyes when he looked at me and said, "I'd kiss you, and you'll stop overthinking."
Yeah.
That sentence alone was enough to send my brain wandering through every spicy fantasy I have carefully stored away.
Yeah, he was not helpful at all. In fact, very distracting.
But somehow... I managed.
Mostly.
First, I had to survive the awkwardness of walking back out of his office.
And yes. There was awkwardness.
Why, you ask?
Well... I was literally coming out of my own husband’s cabin, that too on the day of his birthday, after he pulled me in after his birthday party. That itself meant people had their ears up to hear moans coming out of his office.
And second, my pumpkin is an aggressively affectionate kisser. Which sounds adorable until you're the one wearing lipstick.
Because when I finally pulled away, my lipstick had officially resigned from being lipstick. It had become modern art. There was color on my lips, my cheeks, my chin and probably somewhere I still had not discovered.
And here's the thing about lipstick. The second you know it has smudged, you panic. Then you wipe. Then you wipe some more. And then you look in the mirror and think, "Perfect."
Then you walk outside. And somehow... Magically... There is still one tiny spot.
Always.
A microscopic little streak that every other human being on earth immediately notices except you.
Even wet wipes betray you. You rub your face until your skin starts filing complaints, inspect every angle, convince yourself you've fixed it. Then someone smiles at you just a little too knowingly.
And suddenly you're questioning your entire existence.
And then there was the third reason. The most important one.
Dude... Do you remember what he said after that line?
Yeah. That alone sent my heartbeat into absolute chaos, because it was confident and so adorable coming from him.
There is something ridiculously unfair about a man looking you straight in the eyes, sounding completely calm, and knowing exactly what effect he has on you.
And then... I had to pull away.
Against the better judgment of every romantic and spicy thought my brain could possibly come up with.
Do you know how difficult that is?
Because one half of my brain was going, "You're married. The door is locked. Nobody is going to interrupt you so you could have a quick session."
Meanwhile the responsible half was frantically waving a red flag. "Emma! Behave. You are in Office. People might have their ears up for this. Behave."
The responsible side eventually won.
Barely.
Which explains why we had somehow forgotten the passage of time while sitting there, forehead against forehead, lips on lips, completely wrapped up in our own little world.
Then reality knocked. Not literally I mean. Just enough for my common sense to return.
I stepped back, straightened my blazer, fixed my hair, checked my lipstick for what felt like the hundredth time, took a deep breath, and walked out of his office trying to look like a perfectly normal PR manager who had definitely not needed several seconds to remember what she was supposed to be doing.
Tell me that isn't awkward. Getting back to work, smile at people, answer emails, discuss marketing campaigns, sit through meetings. All while pretending your heart is not still racing from a kiss you shared five minutes ago and a full blown inevitable sex which was going to happen.
But I somehow managed it.
See don’t judge me okay but I like my sex life private... I mean are you even having sex if you have to hold back your moans?
So here we are. Finally back home. Finally alone. And finally free from pretending to be professional adults.
Honestly, I blame my brain for this idea.
Actually... No, I don't. Because the thing about my brain is that it loves feeding me ridiculous ideas. Most people over think them.
I don't. I simply try them.
So here we were, standing in front of each other in just out inners and heels, which I absolutely hate.
But hey that's needed for what my brain has said. I mean come on I could use a leather corset and all but I'll pass. For that I'll have to go and buy them and that would just make the moment pass.
He smiles at me, clearly ready to unwrap his birthday gift, which of course is me. For him, it’s simple: he'll pull me in for a desperate kiss, and this time, that desperate kiss will actually end with what I've been teasing him for the whole day.
Then he'll unhook my bra, pull down my panties, and taste my soul all while hearing me wish him happy birthday, which will definitely not be interrupted by moans and cries of his name.
He takes a step toward me, that damn confident grin stretched across his face like it owns the room. It’s infuriatingly handsome. “Ready for to be unwrapped, Sugar?” He asks, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through my chest even before he’s close enough to touch.
I bite back a laugh. "Depends," I murmur, tilting my head and letting my eyes trace the line of his jaw. He's got stubble tonight, a rogue dark shadow against tanned skin. I like it rough. “Are you sure you can handle unwrapping something this… elaborate?”
He takes another step closer, until our chests are practically touching, and the scent of him, all cedarwood cologne and musky male heat, overwhelms me. "Anything for you," he whispers, his breath warm against my skin as he leans in.
As soon as his hard wraps around my neck to pull me in for a kiss, I playfully push him back, digging my nail in his chest. "No."
He stops mid-step.
"...No?"
"No touching yet."
He blinks.
"It's my birthday," he murmurs, the hint of amusement barely masking the disappointment in his voice.
"I know."
"My birthday gift is standing right in front of me."
"I know."
"So..."
"So," I interrupted, smiling innocently, "birthday gifts don't unwrap themselves."
He folds his arms, a playful scowl pulling at his lips. "I don't like where this is going."
I grin and quickly rush to the living room, pulling a chair in with me. The way he watches me, that same predatory gleam in his eyes even as I'm teasing him, makes my stomach flutter.
I don't even give him time to think. Because it’s risky, okay?
I give him time to think and next thing I know is he’s talking me out of my plan. No, absolutely not. Not today.
I quickly grab his hand, a touch rougher than usual, and tug him towards the chair beside mine. He stumbles slightly, caught off guard by the sudden movement, but manages to land on the seat with an amused grunt.
I don’t even bother waiting for him to settle down before I’m literally jumping to get something from my bedside drawer. He opens his mouth to say something, probably another one of those playful quips about unwrapping birthday girt and the gift is running away from him, but I cut him off with a grin and the satisfying scrape of metal against wood as I yank it open.
There they are: black leather handcuffs.
Hey, don’t judge me like that, okay? I too am a woman of fantasies. And so what if I married my best friend? I too wanted to see why all these books wrote about BDSM.
And let me tell you something. I tried it the first time and it was just mindblowing.
I mean, I had read about it in books, seen it in movies, but experiencing it firsthand was a whole different ball game.
The way he took control, the way he made me feel so vulnerable yet so safe at the same time, it was intoxicating. And the best part? Feeling the waves of orgasms washing over me all while having my hands cuffed behind my back was just the cherry on top of the cake.
It was a struggle, I won't lie. The first few times, I felt like I was going to explode, but then there he was enjoying my helpless state so much that he'd stop and just watch me squirm. And then when he finally let me fall from that cliff of pleasure, it was so intense that I'd come back to myself breathless and shaking.
But guess what happened after that?
Seriously? Of course I slapped him as soon as my hands were free. I mean that was for him torturing so much.
But did we try it again? Hell yeah.
So yeah. Today it’s his turn to get tied.
I smirk down at him, as I carried the handcuffs dangling in my finger, enjoying the look on his face.
"Don't worry," I say, already feeling the familiar delicious thrum of anticipation building in my chest. "I promise I won’t be as rough on you.”
I pause, letting him savor the word “rough” before continuing with a teasing lilt to my voice, "Maybe."
He lets out a low chuckle at my teasing grin, the sound rumbling deep in his chest as I slip one leather cuff over each of his wrists. The way he cocks his head back ever so slightly against the chair as I secure them behind him is utterly ridiculous and incredibly sexy all at once.
And then, like a queen I am, I take my seat on my thrown. That is… his lap.
Yeah, picture this. A wife in her bra and panties, and heels of course, sitting on the lap of her husband sitting on the chair in his boxers, with his hands cuffed behind him. See why I said heels were important in this case, and maybe a corset.
I looked like his dominatrix. And I was going to prove it.
But then it was like someone flipped a switch in him. Confusion and playfulness spread over his face, those dark eyes crinkling at the corners as he whispers, "Wait a second, sugar. It's my birthday, right?"
I roll my eyes, because of course this is going to be a negotiation, just like every single other time we tried this. "Yes," I say, already feeling that familiar tug-of-war starting to play out between reason and desire.
"So shouldn’t I be the one tying you up?" he says, grinning like it would actually work on me.
It would have, if I had let my logical brain kick in. But guess what? I stopped using logic in love. It's simple, you either love or use logic. And the world is using logic and cheating on their partners. I am not using it and I am happy.
So as soon as he said it, I slapped him lightly on his face. "Shut up," I say with a mischievous smile, "You're starting to make sense." And with that, I just lean in and kiss him, a quick, hard press of my lips against his that has him tilting his head back into the touch and moaning softly as I pull away. This is going to be fun.
Chapter 3
The moment my lips left his, his breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled waves. His dark eyes, those deep pools I've spent years memorizing, locked onto mine with a mix of challenge and surrender, as if he were already lost to the game before I'd even begun.
A low groan rumbled in his throat, a sound that did something deliciously primal to my core.
"So," he rasped, tilting his head back against the headboard, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Enjoying your position of power, are we?"
"You've been enjoying mine for years," I countered, moving back slightly so I could see the full expanse of him: how the leather cuffs held firm on his wrists, how his damn abs moved as his chest moved up and down. It was infuriatingly easy to tease him when he looked this good, all restrained power and simmering desire.
"Just thought it was time you got a taste," I said tracing a finger along his jaw.
He didn't argue, not really. Instead, he gave a low chuckle that vibrated through his chest, making my teeth ache.
"And how do you propose to make me 'taste' it?" He asked, the words slow and deliberate, drawing out every syllable like a caress. His eyes swept down from mine, taking in the curve of my hips before settling back on my face with an intensity that made my breath catch.
I smiled at absolutely nothing to be honest. It was like having this much power over him just made me feel like a goddess. And I liked it. A lot.
"Well," I said, leaning forward just enough to deliberately touching his bare chest with my breast. Don't judge me okay, I learnt it from him, he loves to almost touch me when he is teasing me. "I think you'll find out soon enough."
I didn't wait for his response. Instead, I slid off his lap and onto the floor, my heels clicking softly against the hardwood as I positioned myself between his spread legs. The leather cuffs glinted in the dim light, the only sound in the room the slow, rhythmic thump of my pulse against my own ears.
I looked up at him, my gaze lingering on the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. The sight was just as intoxicating as the scent of him, all cedarwood and musk, filling my nostrils. His eyes were dark, almost black in the dim light, and they held a promise of retribution that sent a shiver down my spine. But I wasn't afraid. No, I was excited. Eager, even.
I began at his ankles, running my fingers along the smooth skin, feeling the muscles tense beneath my touch. I could see the goosebumps rising on his flesh, and it sent a thrill through me, knowing that I was the one causing this reaction. I moved up his calves, my nails lightly scraping against his skin, leaving a trail of raised flesh in my wake.
As I reached his thighs, I pulled back just to make the touch feel feather like. You see the problem with feather like touch is that its just un fulfilling. It's like a whisper of a promise, a tease that leaves you wanting more. And that's exactly what I wanted. I wanted him to crave my touch, to ache for it like a physical pain.
I wanted him to feel the same desperation that I felt every time he touched me, every time he kissed me, every time he looked at me with those dark, hungry eyes.
I could see the effect my touch was having on him. His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes were closed, his head thrown back against the chair, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he clenched his teeth.
"Look at me, Pumpkin," I said as I slowly moved my hands to his inner thighs , my fingers brushing against the soft skin there. "Or else I'll get mad at you again," I added, my voice a low purr.
I knew he'd respond to that. He always did. My threat was empty, of course. I loved it when he made me mad. It was always followed by the most delicious make-up sex.
His eyes snapped open, the dark irises blazing with a mix of frustration and desire. And even before he could say something, I grabbed his boxers and ripped them open.
A low groan rumbled in his chest as the fabric fell away, revealing more of the sculpted landscape beneath, lean muscles that tensed under my touch as I kneaded gently into those soft planes above his hipbone.
Now, see, I get it. I talk about saving money and not ripping clothes in sex. But hey… these were his boxers. Those are cheap as compared to other clothes. And let’s be honest, men love tearing clothes, right? What’s wrong with me tearing his boxers?
The corner of my mouth twitched as I felt the heat radiating up his leg and into my palm – the heat that was definitely more than just from the effort he was putting into looking good for this party.
I paused for a second, letting him savor the sensation while I kept that slow pressure on the base of his cock. He shifted again, leaning forward in the chair like he needed to get closer, even though that wasn't really an option.
"Good boy," I murmured, pulling my thumb across the head of him before finally taking my chance.
I let my hand drop lower, aiming for the waistband of those boxers and ripping them free with a sharp tug. The fabric fell away in one swift motion, leaving him completely exposed, the lean length of him stretching down to his thighs, taut and demanding even when restrained.
"See?" I said, leaning forward until my nose almost brushed against his skin. "Much better."
"Damn," he breathed, the single word a husky rasp that sent shivers down my spine. "I never knew my wife was that wild."
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, vibrating against my thigh even though he was still restrained. It wasn't just the sight of him - so completely exposed and vulnerable under my touch - it was the way those words hung between us, thick with a mixture of surprise and something else altogether. Something deeper, darker… desire.
"Well," I murmured, tracing my finger along the length of him, the slick skin warm beneath my touch. "It’s not late to figure out is it?"
His dark eyes locked onto mine, those depths usually so playful now simmering with an almost feral hunger. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in that tight space at the base of his throat. The scent of him filled my senses – cedarwood and musk and something else uniquely him – and suddenly I was leaning closer still, craving the taste as much as the feel of him.
Then I pulled back his foreskin with a soft tug, letting it rest comfortably below the head of him as if to offer him up on a silver platter. I leaned in even further until my lips brushed against the sensitive tip that now pulsed beneath my fingertips.
"And this," I said, my voice a husky whisper against the warm skin there, "this wild wife is going to suck your soul from this straw."
But did we dive into sucking his soul? No. Because guess what? Life isn't a porn movie where everything, no matter how odd, is available in your bedside drawer. Like those guys are magicians or something, they can pull out anything from there— be it a condom, toys, plugs, clamps, or even some random thick candle the man decided he would light in the girl’s ass.
I had almost wrapped my lips around his length when my brain got an idea and I quickly acted on it. I quickly got up and rushed to the kitchen to get a bottle of honey.
I always kept a jar stocked for tea, but tonight, its golden sweetness was going to have a more… intimate application. Back in the bedroom, his dark eyes followed my every move as I pulled open the drawer, and pulled out the jar and walked back to him.
"See?" I said with a smirk as I held up the jar, "Sometimes, even wild wives need a little extra something something."
I think at this point my brain was firing a machine gun of random weird sex ideas because as soon as I reached him, my brain went ahead and popped one in my head. And like always, I quickly acted on it without thinking.
Instead of settling down back between his legs and resuming where we left off, I very confidently sat on his lap like I had all the idea of what I was doing.
Except… I didn’t.
Okay, here let me admit something. My brain had decided that rubbing honey on my breast, covering them slick and making him suck them would be interesting…and I sat on his lap with all intentions of doing it.
But you know my brain? Because as I sat on his lap, it backfired again and went on a full spiral about should I rub the honey on the bra and make him suck it? Or should I leave it off and do it? The second one made more sense but then there was the issue of having to remove my bra…which I didn’t want.
I always like it when he removes my bra in sex. And doing it myself, felt weird.
Yeah, see… what happens when I try to take control? I had to mentally slap myself and settle on a middle ground: rubbing the honey on his nipples and me sucking them. Yeah, see, I am creative. It's fun when he sucks my nipples, what’s wrong with returning the favor?
I opened the jar , the sweet, sticky scent of honey filling the air between us.
His eyes followed my every move, dark and hungry as I dipped my fingers into the golden liquid. The warmth of it coated my skin, a stark contrast to the cool air of the room. I could feel his gaze on me, intense and focused, as I brought my hand up to his chest.
"Here," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, "let me make it worth your while."
I began to paint his chest with the honey, the sweet scent filling the air as I traced the lines of his muscles. His breath hitched as I circled his nipples, the sensitive buds hardening under my touch.
The honey glistened against his skin, sticky and sweet, and I could feel his chest rising and falling faster with each breath. His dark eyes never left mine, a silent challenge in their depths.
"Sugar," he murmured, his voice rough with anticipation. "What are you doing?"
I leaned in, my lips brushing against the warm, honeyed skin of his chest. "Making sure you remember your birthday," I whispered, my breath warm against him.
I took one of his nipples between my fingers, rolling it gently between my thumb and forefinger, feeling it grow harder under my touch. I traced the honey down his chest, my fingers leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.
"You know you'll now know how I feels when you pinch my nipples ," I murmured, my voice a low purr.
His breath hitched, a low groan escaping his lips as I circled the other nipple, my thumb pressing gently against it. The honey glistened on his skin, catching the dim light from the lamp in the corner of the room, making him look like a decadent, golden offering.
"Sugar," he rasped, his voice thick with desire, "you're killing me."
I didn't even think before I slapped him again. Two times in one sex session? That should be a record I guess.
I licked his cheek where the slap left honey.
"Shut up and enjoy your birthday gift," I said, my voice laced with amusement. I could see the fire in his eyes, the hunger that was building with every touch, every taste. I loved seeing him like this, all restraint and desire, at my mercy.
I leaned in, my tongue flicking out to taste the honey on his chest. The sweetness exploded on my tongue, a stark contrast to the salty taste of his skin. I could feel him watching me, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as I explored the lines of his muscles, following the trail of honey down to his abs.
His stomach contracted under my touch, the muscles taut and defined.
I traced the golden syrup lower, my fingers leaving a slick trail over the ridges of his abdomen, his skin flushed and damp with anticipation. The scent of him, warm, musky, and now sweetened with the honey, filled my lungs, making my own breath catch.
"Fuck," he breathed, his voice rough with restraint. His hips twitched against the restraints, the movement involuntary, a betrayal of how much he wanted to be closer, to be more.
I smirked, and move to his nipples, giving them my undivided attention . I licked, sucked, and nibbled, the honey sweetening the taste of his skin. His moans filled the room, a symphony of pleasure that made my core throb with desire.
"God, Sugar," he groaned, his head falling back against the chair. "You're driving me crazy."
I chuckled, my breath warm against his chest. "That's the point, Pumpkin," I whispered, my voice laced with amusement and got back to it again. This time with more determination.
Every now and then he'd try to pull back from the relentless onslaught of my mouth, but I'd just lean in harder, my lips and tongue working in tandem to draw out every last drop of pleasure from him. The honey had made his skin slick and warm, and I could feel the way his body responded to every touch, every lick, every suck.
When I finally pulled back, his nipples were red and he was breathless , his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.
That’s when came the part of torturing him. See, a good thing about nipples is that you feel good and that's all . But the thing we had left in between before my brain started firing machine gun ideas was... he’d have to control himself a lot.
So yeah, I finally got back between his legs.
"You better not cum in my mouth," I said as I started pouring honey on his cock. "Honey and cum won't taste good." I let the warm sweetness spread over him with slow, deliberate strokes, making sure he could feel each drop bead up against the sensitive head of his penis.
He was tense beneath me now, every muscle coiled like a spring, but his gaze was fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch in my throat.
"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it," he murmured, voice roughened by desire and something else…was that a hint of challenge?
I grinned down at him, tracing lazy circles around the head of his cock. "Don't tempt fate then."
My fingers curled around the base of his shaft, giving him a gentle squeeze as I leaned forward. The tip of my tongue poked out to sample the honeyed sweetness coating his skin before I finally lowered myself down… slowly, inch by inch.
His breath hitched as I took him fully into my mouth, the warm, slick honey making every glide of my tongue and every press of my lips even more intense.
"Fuck, Sugar," he groaned, his fingers flexing against the leather cuffs as if he wanted to pull me closer. "You’re killing me."
I pulled back just enough to look up at him, my eyes dark with amusement. "No, Pumpkin. I’m just getting started."
I took him deeper, my mouth stretching around him, my tongue swirling around the underside of his cock as I bobbed up and down.
The honey made every movement slick and sweet, the taste of it mingling with his own musk and the saltiness of his skin. His hips jerked forward, but the leather cuffs held him steady, forcing him to take what I gave him.