I put my hands behind me next to my head and held on. Our clothes had ended up in a pile on the floor. He did me by hand, using his fingers to find that sweet spot that was possible from the undignified angle of me on the bench, legs up and half bent, him holding one leg so that he could put one knee on the bench and get the angle his fingers needed to stroke over and over, fast and faster, that sweet spot inside me. He brought me screaming, fighting my body to hold on to the bench and not forget that if I let go, I’d fall. He moved his fingers out of me, and between my legs to find that other sweet spot that was outside. My words came out breathy, as I said, “Fuck me.” “Not yet,” he said, and his voice was growling deep again. “Why not?” I breathed. He stroked over and around me, staring at my face as he did it. “Because I’ve seen what the other men in your bed do to you, Anita. I want you to want me, and that means I have to bring my A-game, because anything less and you don’t have to fuck me.
