"Only if you let me go down on you later," I reply.
She smirks. I don't move.
"It'll be good for you," says Dr. Denis.
She gives me a pleading look. I don't move.
"You won't regret it." I say this in a you-know-this-from-personal-experience-so-stop-fucking-with-me sort of way.
She offers: "How about I give you a 'distinct possibility?'"
I lock eyes on her. I give her the impression that I'm studying her, trying to ascertain if her "distinct possibility" is a smokescreen to keep me out of her pants. Of course, this is utter bullshit. I'd take "distinct possibility" any day of the week. She got her ice cream lickety-split ... and I set my sights on my lickety-split later.
Cut to bedtime. It's later than we both wanted, but we had work to do. I'm already in bed, and she comes to me and starts like this:
"It's not like I don't want to...."
Here we go, I think. My eyes think it too, and she reads them. Which gives her explanation more of an edge. It got late ... we have an extra-early day tomorrow ... we've been up really, really late the last few nights, and she'd like to feel rested going into the week. And she really wants to do this, she just wants to be smart about it.
And none of this can I argue with. So I don't.
"I just want to be into it," she says, almost pleadingly, now almost making me feel guilty.
"I want you to be into it too," I tell her. "I'm not interested if you aren't going to be into it." It's hard for me not to get huffy about this.
"Don't be mad at me."
"I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at the six million things we had to do tonight that are now keeping this from happening."
"How about if I sleep naked tonight?" she offers. Amy, The Great Compromiser. Naked is almost as good as sex.
And all of this over eating pussy! Really, I just want to get her off, down and dirty. I hadn't gotten the chance to do it when we'd had sex over the weekend. All day long, I had imagined a scenario where I unexpectedly yanked down her jeans, pushed her down on the nearest furniture, and ate to my heart's (and her orgasm's) content. No talk. Well, no coherent talk, anyway.
We're miles away from that now.
In the dark, spooned against her, a breast filling one palm, I realize the dichotomy of this situation: I live to have our naked bodies pressed together, but the whole thing has become such a tease now. I whisper, "I'm getting you in the morning."
She giggles. "Okay. Sounds good."
It's seven this morning. One child ensconced in front of the television. The other blissfully asleep -- hopefully for awhile, still. I've already showered and breakfast is in the works. I take a break to sit on the side of the bed, gently wake her up.
"I don't wanna get up," she says sleepily.
"Then let me wake you up slowly." Clearly, I really, really want to eat this woman.
"You can do that," she says, even sounding like she thinks it's a good idea.
And it is. It's a glorious, deep, warm, wet, sweet, raw, impassioned, quivering, juicy, session of gobble. She starts by pulling the covers over me, up to her chest, on the off-chance that a child would stroll in. (It hasn't happened yet, knock wood.) But by the end, she's tossed them away, and she's writhing as quietly as she can, and not too successfully. I watch her nipples grow as my tongue and lips bring her up and over the mountain.
It's a quick descent, by necessity. Only ten minutes have passed, but every minute in the mornings is valuable. She embraces me, kisses me deeply.
"Thank you," I say as I head back to the kitchen.
"The pleasure was all mine," she responds on her way to the bathroom.
"That's what you think."
But she's out of earshot.