Set You Free

by Jane Davitt

For the third time this month (which means every time they've had sex this month, which says plenty as it's May 1 tomorrow) she doesn't come by the time Jim does, which means she's out of luck as he's losing interest mid-climax these days. A woman can tell.

He pulls out of her, and rolls away in search of some Kleenex, a few pieces of which are passed over to her in silence, and stares at nothing as he wipes come from his softened cock. She gives herself a perfunctory swipe -- she'll shower soon, needs to -- and drops the crumpled, damp tissues into his waiting hand.

Then she waits for Jim to walk downstairs to the bathroom that, in the middle of the night when she wants to pee, is so fucking far away (hates this loft, echoing space, large enough to make her feel like the brick; bare, exposed, hates it).

Waits to be sure he's not going to turn back, then slides a finger down between her legs to find the waiting, heated flesh, wet and hungry, aching, angry, and strokes her clit with the fingertip. Slowly at first, the way she likes it, but there's no time for that, no time and she blames him for that, too. She can hear the toilet flush and water running. He'll be back soon. She's merciless, ruthless then, forcing her body to yield the climax Jim cheated her out of, which is how it feels right then. Fairness and logic don't exist when her body is a jangled mess of frustration.

He can do better, which is what makes the need for this furtive fumbling even more galling. Once -- but she's not thinking about those times, when their bodies met and melded, and he was over, under, behind, in her, hard and sweet, that body hers to touch and kiss, with a bright possessiveness flaring up, blinding her every time he smiled down at her, blue eyes warm.

Her hands are resting on top of the cover when he returns, quiet, innocent. She's sucked her finger clean and the taste of them both is heavy on her tongue. She's not sure if she wants to spit or swallow.

And she answers the question in his eyes (it will never reach his lips; Jimmy asking if it was good for her? Oh, please!) with a satisfied murmur, satiated and smug.

Her body's tingling, rapt, replete. Let Jimmy think it was his doing, just this once.

But she knows the next time they fight, this little white lie will be the first thing she confesses.

She's almost looking forward to it.

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