Temper for You

by Genna Rulon

  He stopped.

  The son-of-a-bitch stopped.

  My chest heaved with unquenched lust and searing anger that spread like wildfire when he chuckled.

  “Don’t hate me. We’re here, and given the choice, I prefer you come on my tongue while naked and spread across my bed—not fully clothed in a car like a high school kid chasing a quick release.”

  Hmm, how about that—we were parked in his garage. Who knew? Still, I was so damn close.

  “What about my preference?” I retorted, not bothering to mask my irritation. “I was so close.”

  “It’ll be worth the three-minute delay. Let me make this good for you—isn’t that the point of this arrangement?”

  I couldn’t argue his logic. I nodded my agreement, and we exited in silence. He waited as I walked around the car to meet him, and I was surprised when he took my hand and led me into his home. For a moment I was confused by the familiarity of the space before my brain clicked on, reminding me that his townhouse would be the mirror image of Sam’s.

  “I’m still settling in,” he explained, gesturing to the stacks of boxes and askew furniture visible in each room we passed on our way to the stairs.

  The unyielding need to strip him bare had receded to manageable levels over the past sixty seconds, but the closer we drew to the master bedroom, the greater my need surged like a tsunami poised to strike. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one affected by the room’s proximity. No sooner had we crossed the threshold than I found myself anchored against the nearest wall being devoured mercilessly.

  The man must have been part octopus. His hands were everywhere: in my hair, kneading my ass, ridding me of my shirt. As if by magic, my top half was bared to him and he greedily sucked my nipples, laving each with equal attention while carrying me to the massive king-size bed. Once positioned in the center, my back gently cradled by the luxurious pillow top, Wes made quick work of my jeans, expertly extricating me until I was unabashedly naked.

  Without delay, he nipped his way down my body, stopping when his mouth aligned with the part of me most excited to welcome him home like a long-lost friend. He flattened his palms against my inner thighs, pressing them up and back, opening me fully. His tongue circled my clit as a finger slipped inside me. I found satisfaction in the quiet groan announcing his appreciation for the proof of my desire—I was dripping wet and there was no doubt to whom the credit was due.

  He worked my body with every weapon in his arsenal until I was writhing in pleasure so intense every thought fled my mind. There was nothing but him and the sensations he wrung from my body. I teetered on the edge of fulfillment for several minutes, wanting to fall into the fabled bliss awaiting me, but it remained just beyond my reach.

  Frustration overtook me and I pushed against Wes’ head, indicating I was done. As if in a trance, he ignored my shove, plunging his tongue deep inside me. It felt incredible, a strange new sensation that captivated my body. But like every previous sexual experience—feeble attempts in comparison to the expert ministrations I was currently receiving—I couldn’t reach the Promised Land.

  My frustration descended into resentment. Resentment directed at those whose influence molded me into a person who couldn’t find satisfaction. Resentment toward the first man who took me to his beds but never cared for more than his own gratification. Resentment for the second man to take me to his bed who couldn’t be what I needed. Resentment aimed at Wes for possessing all the skills he boasted of, proving with undeniable finality that the problem was me. Worst of all, resentment at myself and my failure—I was defective. I would never realize the ecstasy others found so easily in the arms of a lover.

  Unable to stand another second of futility, I placed my feet on Wes’ shoulders and shoved—hard—finally breaking our connection.

  “Enough. I—” My voice broke with my regret and shame. “Thanks, but this was a mistake. It’s not you—you’re great. Amazing, actually. It’s just not going to happen.”

  I carefully avoided his eyes, but his intense scrutiny pricked my flesh.

  “What’s going on, Meg? You’re calling time-out?”

  “No, I’m forfeiting the game. I was hoping things would be different this time, but…” I trailed off, unwilling to disclose my dysfunction. I chanced a look at his face, which was shrouded in confusion and disbelief—yeah, welcome to my world, buddy. I almost felt bad for the guy. “Like I said, it’s me, not you. I’m gonna head out.”

  I sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed…only my feet never reached the floor. All of a sudden, I was sideswiped by a hard, muscled body. A series of quick movements found me with my back pressed to Wes’ chest, his arms wrapped around me in an odd combination of embrace and restraint.

  Okaaay. I hadn’t seen that one coming. I wasn’t sure if I should fight him or snuggle in close—neither felt quite right. Instead, I lay perfectly still and mute.

  “We’re going to talk about this. When we’ve finished our discussion, if you still want to leave, I won’t stop you. But no more of the vague BS you just tried to spoon-feed me. I’ve spent nine months imagining you in my bed—to the point of madness—so if you’re walking out, I’d like to understand why.”

  His request was reasonable and I found it difficult to deny him. Dammit. He’d neatly cornered me; if I insisted on leaving without another word, I was nothing more than a bitch or a tease. I nodded with a resigned sigh.

  “Good. Now what happened? You were with me, wet and willing one minute and running for the door the next.”

  “I haven’t had many partners,” I admitted with a sigh, “two to be exact.” His attempt to suppress his shock resulted in a coughing fit. Serves him right. Geeze, what was with people? I’d only had two sexual partners, but everyone acted as if I were a forty-year-old virgin. I jabbed my elbow into his ribs in reprimand before continuing, “Yeah, two partners and I can count the number of times I’ve had sex on one hand. Neither was able to…close the sale—at least on my end. The first invested no effort and the second…it wasn’t mean to be. When Sam found out I’d never…well, thus began her mission to find me the ‘orgasm whisperer.’ I never believed all the hype about sex, but Sam and Ev assured me the elusive O was more than grown-up fairy tales invented by men to lure women to bed.

  “Fast forward to me in your bed. You’re everything Sam predicted and you promised to be—still, no matter how skilled a ‘whisperer’ or how close I come—no pun intended—I can’t get there. Which is frustrating. Actually, it fucking sucks—big, giant suckballs of suckage. It is the epitome of suckiness. You pretty much forced me to admit that the problem is me, at which point it seemed ridiculous to continue the farce. I’m either not made right or I’m broken…whatever. It’s not gonna happen and all I want to do is go home, have a whole bar of chocolate, and listen to songs written by angry women. I’ve answered your question, your male pride remains intact, and now it’s time for me to go.”

  Only he didn’t let me go. Nope. He held tight as I tested the strength of his embrace. Figures. Was it too much to ask to limit my humiliation to a single explanation? Apparently, the universe demanded I surrender the few scraps of pride that remained.

  “Just to clarify…you’ve never had an orgasm? Not by your own hand or someone else’s? Never with a toy? Never an erotic dream? Never, as in…never?”

  I waved goodbye to the remains of my dignity. “That’s what I said. Never. And before you require further clarification, Webster’s hasn’t changed the definition of the word, and there’s no urban slang where ‘never’ actually means ‘all the damn time.’ Never. Never, never, never, never!” I wanted to add one more ‘never’ for good measure, but I was afraid it might be overkill.

  “I accept.”

  This was Wes’ response to my stomach-churning admission?

  “You accept what? The definition of ‘never’—good for you. Does that mean you’ll let me leave now?” I questioned, exasperated by his flippant attitude.

  “
I accept your challenge. God, this is going to be so much fun. You really are perfect for me—nothing is ever easy with you.” The jerk sounded happy, excited even.

  Talk about taking joy in the suffering of others.

  “So glad I can entertain you, but I don’t think you were listening. So pay close attention and read my lips…

  I.

  Can’t.

  Come.

  I’m physically incapable. You gave it your best shot and nothing happened—not your fault, it’s all on me.”

  “Oh, Meg. Baby, that was my warm-up routine—no bells or whistles—which is usually enough to get the first one out of the way. You need the big finale for your first time—fanfare and fireworks. I refuse to believe you’re incapable of climax…your body was more than ready to slip over the edge. Once I overload your body with pleasure and distract your mind, you’ll fly. I guarantee it.”

  “Awfully sure of yourself,” I grumbled, still smarting from how much he was relishing my discomfort.

  “I’ve never been more sure in my life.”

  "An orgasm a day keeps the doctor away." -Mae West

  Meg

  “Lie back and relax. Only focus on what you feel in the moment, not where you think you should be,” Wes’ smooth baritone instructed.

  Despite my reservations, his confidence and command were intoxicating, coaxing me to comply. I tried to push all thoughts of my sexual ineptitude from my mind and force my resistant body to relax. He wanted a challenge, not mission impossible.

  His hands trailed over my body in feather-light strokes, deliberately avoiding the ‘usual suspects’ to discover unexpected erogenous zones on my stomach, neck, and arms. He was in no rush, exploring every inch of my body as if it were the sole source of ultimate pleasure. The focus on ‘non-sexual’ territory enabled me to further relax—there was no pressure to push toward the finish line. All that was expected of me was to lie back and enjoy the experience. By the time his fingertips ghosted across my breasts, my body was covered in goosebumps and I was trembling.

  As his fingers circled my rigid nipples, I reflexively opened my eyes.

  “Keep them closed,” Wes instructed, “just feel.”

  I obeyed immediately and was rewarded with a hot, wet suction on my left nipple. It was impossible to identify the specific techniques he employed to worship my breasts, since only the overwhelming sensations translated to my foggy brain. Teeth, tongue, hands, lips…they were all invited to the party, equal participants wreaking welcomed havoc. I’d always believed my boobs were nothing more than playtoys for men, of little significance to my enjoyment. Oh, how wrong I’d been. Wes’ attentions proved the worth of my girls beyond question, and as a result, I’d never been more aroused or desperate for more.

  Wes’ mouth left my breast to trail down my stomach, lips dragging sensually across my taut flesh, pausing to nip above my belly button and along my sides. When he settled his broad shoulders between my thighs, he continued to tease me relentlessly, skirting the places screaming for him.

  His touch, playful and unhurried, was so different from earlier. Instead of feeling pushed toward a destination, I was being coaxed as if the climax were courting me. It was a seductive persuasion. My fingers gripped the back of his head, silently begging for more, causing a sound of approval to rumble through his chest.

  Unable to resist, I opened my eyes to find him staring at me intensely. His gaze was hungry—a starving man before an opulent meal—but there was more. Behind the craving was gleeful amusement, and I could tell he was savoring every minute as much as me. In that moment, a deep and acute connection was created, borne from the raw exposure of my weakness and our joint mission to overcome. It was not love. It was a mixture of empathy and lust, both of us surrendering to the desire that hammered ruthlessly—both understanding that sex was all we had to offer the other, accepting it and wanting nothing more.

  Our eyes remained glued to one another as his tongue finally explored my depths. We groaned in tandem, though for different reasons.

  “Fuck, you taste amazing,” he praised at the same time ‘Shit, that feels good’ fell from my mouth—neither of us eloquent in the moment but both honest.

  He retained his composure far better than I, continuing his mission to lure my body into submission with deliberate strokes and tantalizing caresses. The pace and intensity progressed slowly, unnoticeable until I was panting, my hips arched against his mouth and fingers. When the first shimmers of euphoria began, I was too consumed to register what was coming. And then it happened…

  I shattered.

  I fell.

  I floated.

  I flew.

  I found a state of divinity where nothing existed beyond Wes and I in that moment. No past or future. No regrets or guilt. No insecurity or fear. I found my first moment of true bliss—a paradise sought by many through religion, an oblivion promised by drugs. I found it in Wes’ head between my thighs.

  As the last quivers ebbed, I opened my eyes and returned to reality, where Wes’ self-satisfied smile and joy-filled eyes welcomed me back. It was obvious he was pleased with himself, but he was also happy for me.

  “That, beautiful girl, was most definitely an orgasm. I believe we can say with confidence you are more than capable of having and enjoying them.” Yep, he was smug, but it was strangely endearing—not to mention, well deserved. “There was never anything wrong with you that a change in partners couldn’t fix. How do you feel?”

  “Amazing? Drained? Like I could do it again,” I added cheekily.

  “Ironically, I was just thinking our experiment wasn’t complete. We’ve only assessed your ability to have one type of orgasm. Ready to test my efficacy for type B?”

  “How very thorough of you.”

  “I’m nothing if not thorough.”

  Agreement reached, Wes’ lips found my own, sealing the deal. Who needed a handshake? The man kissed like it was his life’s calling. He could pioneer a web series offering guidance to the men of the world on the seductive power and proper execution of a kiss. If he needed a volunteer for demonstrative purposes, I’d be first in line.

  His tongue stroked mine before dancing away to explore as if it were our first kiss. Nothing was overlooked, no crevice ignored, causing warm tingling to seep through my limbs. I was pliant and willing, drugged by the intoxicating way he made love to my mouth, a foreshadowing of what was to come.

  Recognizing I was more than ready, he slowly rose from the bed and stood before me, still fully clothed. Huh? How did I not notice all the eye-candy I was missing out on. He unbuttoned his navy dress shirt as if choreographed, allowing the shirt to slide down his shoulders and to the floor.

  Wes’ body was a work of art. No woman could fault his physique, regardless of personal preference, but to me his body was the quintessence of perfection. A broad chest and muscled shoulders followed by well-defined biceps and triceps. He wasn’t bloated with unnatural bulges. Instead, Wes was sculpted as if honed from marble by a renowned artist’s hand and impeccably proportioned. His core was equally flawless, a network of defined abdominals inviting exploration. But the superstar of his V-shaped build were the matching bands of chiseled muscle from his abs down past his hips…an arrow pointing the way home.

  His hands reached for the belt buckle hugging his trim hips and I salivated—the wait was unbearable. I’d wondered what was hidden beneath the designer denim more than once, and based on the ridged length I’d felt pressed against me tonight, I was a anticipating a very, very impressive piece of equipment. The belt was whipped from its loops, the leather clutched in Wes’ hand, and he captured my gaze before allowing the strap to drop with a soft thud. Slowly, his hands found the button resting several inches beneath his ridiculously attractive belly button. Seriously, who knew a belly button could be sexy? They were all the same, weren’t they? Evidently not. The sound of a descending zipper called me back from my musings.

  Finally, the moment of truth.

&nb
sp; When the fly gaped, two very important details screamed for attention. First, Wes was going commando—the Hallelujah Chorus swelled in my mind—a fact easily discernible thanks to detail numero dos: a large and extraordinarily swollen cock pointing heavenward, indicating the destination it intended for me. This was no ordinary penis…it was too spectacular to be marginalized in such trite terms. This incomparable member was straight and long, tantalizingly thick, and topped with a substantial, defined head that was begging to be licked.

  Standing before me, naked and proud, Wes exceeded my every fantasy. He was sex personified.

  “Now you know how I feel when I look at you,” he said, breaking into my reverie. “Your body was made for sex, designed to tempt the most principled of men—luckily, I’m a man of few morals and principles.”

  After reaching into the nightstand, he slowly rolled the condom down his shaft, watching me watch him. He prowled to the bed and covered my body with his own. Braced on his forearms, he lowered his head to whisper in my ear, “Ready?”

  Beyond ready. I was embarrassingly close to dropping at his feet in supplication.

  He rested his heavy cock against me, sliding against my bare lips until we were both coated in slick desire. Each time the ridge of his head caught my clit, stars exploded behind my eyelids. If he didn’t move this along, I was going to come before he ever entered me.

  “Wes, please.”

  “Please what, beautiful?” he teased, clearly wanting me to vocalize my request.

  “Please, put it inside me. Make the ache go away. Make me fly.”