Surprise (20 page)

With the aid of only cold water, which Lawrence had filled a bowl with, he inserted a finger into Caroline's awaiting anus. She gasped at the intrusion. How long had it been since someone had ventured there? He slid the finger slowly in and out of her hole, in perfect rhythm with his wife's clenching and relaxing. Then he withdrew, produced the ginger root—now carved into what the website had described, complete with images, as a
butt plug shape
—from behind his back and carefully eased it into Caroline's ring. A small groan escaped her lips as the ginger was maneuvered into place. It was much larger than Lawrence's finger and, while she was easily able to accommodate this new size, the suddenness of the introduction came as a shock to her. Besides, she wasn't quite sure what was being introduced. A sex toy, perhaps? Some kind of vegetable?

Lawrence had stepped back and was admiring his work. “You have ginger up your ass,” he explained before leaving the room momentarily to wash his hands. On his return, with Caroline still kneeling obediently on the bed, he continued the lesson.

“Today I realized, probably, that you were wishing I would be more…exploratory when it came to our intimacy. This is called figging. The effects take a few minutes to kick in, but when they do you should, I hope, enjoy them. I know I will.”

Caroline was shocked. She had heard of figging, but had never known anyone who had tried it. For a few seconds longer she felt nothing, bar the mere presence of the ginger root in her body, but then it happened. Building slowly, like a topical ointment, the warmth of the ginger moisture gradually intensified until it swathed her entire lower region with a delightful heat. She moaned audibly as the burning sensation swept over her. It stung, but not unpleasantly. It was a delicious pain, an
exciting
pain. And when Lawrence pinched her buttocks, nipping them hard between his thumbs and forefingers, it was all she could do not to scream with a mixture of welcome discomfort and overwhelming ecstasy.

“This feeling will last about fifteen minutes,” he told her, moving around to the head of the bed to lay eyes on his wife's beautiful face. She shuddered as she looked up at him, her Lawrence. How could she ever have thought of leaving him? “You can lay down if you're careful.”

Caroline did as directed, and Lawrence lovingly brushed the hair from her face. Then they were one, clinging to each other, touching, caressing…. He unfastened his jeans and with an eagerness that had been absent for months, she took his cock inside her. They fucked rampantly and climaxed with power. This was different, Caroline thought. This was new. This was…
breathtaking
. With the fire of both lust and ginger burning brightly within her, Caroline closed her eyes and embraced the man she adored.

 

It was after ten when the couple had calmed themselves enough to settle down for the evening in the lounge. The ginger had long since been removed, but with her rim still tingling slightly, Caroline joined Lawrence on the sofa with two cups and a teapot. He smiled as she took his hand.

“It's not something I've ever done before,” he told her. “I was worried how you'd react.”

“That's what made it wonderful,” Caroline assured him.

He poured the tea and she retrieved a tin from the coffee table. For a second she let her eyelids drop, reminiscing upon the pleasant heat that had consumed her only a few hours ago. With a nudge that snapped Caroline out of her reverie, Lawrence handed her a cup of steaming hot tea. She placed it on the coffee table as she cut each of them a slice of cake. Freshly baked. Ginger, of course.

 

 

 

 

She watched the logs burning in the fireplace, the flames making her pleasantly warm and painting a faint sheen on her just-showered skin. She didn't need the fire, it being late September and the temperature still in the middle seventies. But she liked to hear the crackle of it, the pop and hiss of the wood and the scent it gave off. She'd been waiting weeks to start one, and she'd used the excuse of the storm raging outside to get this one going. Fires simply mesmerized her.

Behind her, the rain pattered angrily against the window glass. She glanced over her shoulder to see the water snakes racing down the pane, colored orange and blue neon by the flashing bar sign across the street. When she turned just so, she could see the fire reflected in the window. She loved to watch fire.

He was late.

Always late.

Well, this would be the last time
, she thought. She would end it tonight. No more waiting for this man…no more waiting for
any
man.

She lit three candles, two of them long, cream colored tapers scented with vanilla, and the third in a fluted jar that was labeled cinnamon hazelnut, but smelled like something entirely different, something she couldn't put a name to. She arranged the candles in a triangle on a corner of the hearth, and watched the flames dance. She leaned close enough to capture some of the heat.

A boom of thunder sounded in time with the doorbell and made her jump.

For a moment she thought about not answering it. Let him realize being late was not acceptable.

“The last time,” she whispered. “I end this little affair tonight…after one last time with him.”

Drawing her robe tight, she retreated from the blessed fire, flipped the deadbolt and slowly opened the door. She stepped back to see him dripping water on her mat, intending to berate him. Maybe, she thought, I should just turn him away. He was far too young for her, and far too good looking. She had just turned forty-four, and she thought she ought to like them closer to her own age—with a few noticeable physical imperfections to give them more character.

“Sorry, Lou. I didn't mean to be late. The traffic—”

She tugged him in and pushed the door closed behind him. He peeled off his coat as she dropped her robe and buried her face in his neck. He struggled out of the rest of his rain-wet clothes and shoes and socks, leaving everything in a sodden pile in the entryway.

He was far too young and far too handsome
, she told herself again, but he filled an inexplicable need. She was the moth to his youthful fire and she let him draw her toward the fireplace and the candles.

“The traffic was one of those bears, you know, Lou.” He kissed her deeply, his lips opening hers and his tongue flitting along her teeth.

She cursed herself for purring.

He pulled back for a moment. “This storm made everything worse, Lou. There was an accident on Washington, a van lost an argument with a light pole. Some people can't drive in this.” A head taller than her, he gazed down into her eyes and watched the anger melt from them. Then he kissed her once more and held her so tight her breath caught.

She thought there was something mystical about it—the feel of his wet skin against hers, the flames warming both of them. She drew the scent of him and the fire, the vanilla and the cinnamon-hazelnut deeply into her lungs and let it all become a part of her.

Definitely mystical.

He released her lips and started talking about the traffic again, but she paid no attention. Instead, she put her ear to his chest and found his heartbeat. Some part of her realized this was absurd, that there was nothing proper about this—no dinner date or movie first, no hand-holding, never any pleasantries of dates that most people shared, just straight to the flesh.

Not that she was old, but he was fifteen years her junior. She couldn't get past the age difference. She just wished he didn't look and feel so damn good.

This would be the last night
, she promised herself,
the very last night.

She heard him moan softly when she slid down him, teeth nibbling across his smooth chest and stomach, kneeling in front of him on the thick rug she took him in her mouth. She heard the flames crackle, the thunder sound again, the rain pattering more angrily against the window she'd left open just an inch. She heard the sounds of the city outside too—the honks of car horns, a shrill whistle, music coming from elsewhere in the building or from the bar across the street. It was a bluesy piece she rocked in motion to, back and forth, as she gripped his thighs and registered the goosebumps and beads of sweat.

His moans came louder and she felt him tremble.

There were secrets in the sounds outside; a siren wailing, police responding to some unfortunate occurrence; laughter out on the street over a joke shared by drenched lovers; the thump of something mysterious, a car door slammed in anger or haste. Above that the rain rat-atatted out something she imagined was a message in code.

Back and forth to the bluesy piece.

“S-stop.” Breathless, his hands found her hair, then her shoulders and he gently pushed her away. He dropped to his knees and loomed over her, bent her back and kissed her almost hurtfully, tasting himself. “You're going too fast, Lou.” He sucked her lower lip into his mouth and pushed her down on the rug, laying next to her and draping a leg across her. “I'd like this to last awhile.”

But she didn't want it to last. This would be the last time.

Too young, too handsome, no dimension to their intimacy beyond this rug and the flesh. Never a proper date.

She squirmed out from under his leg and rolled on top of him, hands splayed against his shoulders, hair hanging down to brush against his chest. She saw more goosebumps form amid the sweat beads.

“Max, this is never too fast. Sex is never too, too fast.” It was the first she'd spoken since she'd let him in and she intended no more words until she told him they were finished.

And they were finished.

After this last time.

The rug was soft against her shins, and his skin hot against her thighs. There was a hint of stubble on his face, and she bent to rub her chin against it. He whispered something in her ear, but she couldn't hear it. There was the crackle of the blessed fire and the honking of car horns, the bluesy music swelling and another siren cutting above it all. She felt her heart pounding in time with the pops of the logs, and she moved down him just a little so she could take him inside her.

“This is good,” she whispered.

“Too fast, Lou,” he repeated. He grabbed her around the waist and after a moment flipped her over, effortlessly with his strength, his calloused hands felt so needful around her waist. The rug was soft and warm against her back, his fingers a delicious mix of rough and smooth. The sensations made her breath come quick and uneven. “Slow tonight, Lou. Just this once. Very, very slow.”

The thunder boomed louder as he leaned over her, propped on his elbows now so he could study her face. He nudged her legs apart with his knees and teased her, pressing in only a little, then pulling out.

“Very slow, I said, Lou.”

She clamped her teeth shut so she wouldn't whimper as he repeated the movement. It wouldn't do to show any weakness to him, not when she was ending this.

He shifted his weight to his left elbow and freed his right arm. His fingers brushed the hair away from her face.

“You're beautiful,” he said. “You should always wear your hair loose like this.” He played with a curl, holding it so it glimmered in the firelight.

Then he dropped it and his fingers continued their journey, resting a moment along her neck, tickling her collar bone, walking along the swell of her breast and stopping every few inches to caress and taunt. He pressed in again, just a little, and watched her eyes flutter closed. Then he withdrew and let his fingers travel farther.

“Max…” Still her eyes were shut.

One finger, then two, in time with the beat of the music. She thrust up in time with him as he brought his face down and brushed her lips.

“I…said…slow…this…time,” he hushed.

“Max…”

Suddenly his hand was gone, reaching across her and taking one of the vanilla tapers.

“Slow and hot, Lou.” There was a hiss to his words. “Relax, my dear heart. Don't think. Just feel.”

There was a soft spot of heat on her thigh, at the same time welcome and uncomfortable. Her eyes widened when she realized he'd dribbled wax on her. There was another spot and then another, this on her knee. A few more lower.

She opened her mouth to protest, but he pressed his lips against hers, hard and forceful, and he leaned against her side with all his weight to pin her against the rug.

Another drop.

And another.

He smiled against her mouth when she gasped, and he leaned farther across her when she started to struggle, preventing her from getting up.

“Relax, Lou. I'm not going to leave any scars.” He talked against her lips, not losing the contact.

She quivered, her throat constricting when he shifted his weight and dribbled wax across her other leg, up to the juncture of her thighs. Little spots of heat, tiny stabs of pain that receded one after the other. The trail of vanilla wax led to her belly button now, then higher as he leaned away.

She didn't struggle anymore.

He paused, memorizing her expression of anticipation. She didn't know when or where the next plop would come. Pain and pleasure were chasing trails through her. The fire, crackling so close, was making her sweat.

She was so very wet.

He grinned, and then dripped wax on her breasts.

She let out a whimper and he brought his tongue down to flick off the wax circles. She whimpered again, louder now, cursing herself for her vulnerability and at the same time begging him to stop.

No, continue.
“Max…”

His grin spread wider, and he dropped a blob of wax onto a nipple. A moment later, he waxed the other one too.

“This isn't so bad, is it Lou?” The words were silky.

He swept his tongue up to her shoulders, brushing her hair away and trailing more wax. Then he turned her over, closer to the fire now. He dropped blobs of wax along her spine, blowing on the droplets to dry them quickly, then nudged a few of them away with his lips. He put more at the cleft of her butt, caressing her legs with his free hand.