He likes to think he’s in control. He always wants to be “in charge.” Which is fine by me. That’s what I want him to think.
Whenever life threatens to get in between us, when he’s so busy at work that he’s too tired to love me in the evenings, I know I have to take matters into my own hands.
But I have to be discreet. I want him, but I can’t let him know how much. I want him to want me.
And I always get what I want. So which of us is really in control?
It starts with me setting his alarm clock half an hour later than usual. Step one. When I hear the alarm ring, I don’t move. I pretend I’m not awake. And when he leans over me to turn it off, he sighs and, in his thick bedroom voice, he murmurs my name. “Damn, you look fine.”
I roll over beneath him and stretch languidly, like a cat -- first one arm, then the other. A hand behind his back, touching his skin as lightly as possible. My cheek pressed to his chest. My leg moving along his until my knee brushes his crotch, and I yawn when he leans into my touch. Then I smile that slow, just woken up smile I know he loves. When I finally open my eyes, he’s staring at me like he wants to eat me for breakfast, and that’s exactly where I want him. “Hey,” I breathe. My voice is deeper than it usually is because I know what that does to him. “What time is it?”
“Time to get up.” He barely whispers, his hands already smoothing along my chest, down my stomach.
When his fingers brush through the hair at my crotch, I roll away. His hand trails around my hip and over my butt as I stumble from the bed before he can keep me beside him. “Oh shit,” I say, like it wasn’t me who changed the alarm. Running late’s part of the plan. Make him want me and then don’t let him have me, not just yet. “Jesus, you’re going to be late.”
“What?” He sits up, rubbing his eyes. “Fuck. The alarm just went off.”
I’m already pulling on my boxers, and because I have my back to him, he doesn’t see me grin. “Maybe you hit the snooze and fell back asleep,” I suggest.
He growls in frustration. “We have a few minutes ...”
Not long enough. I don’t want right now -- I want forever. I want him begging for me. I want him hard and aching. “Maybe tonight,” I tell him as I zip up my jeans. Over my shoulder I wink at him. “Come on, get moving. We can’t right now.”
He pouts at me and, for a moment, I almost give in. Almost. Then I turn away and pull on one of his shirts. He’s already wanting me, isn’t he?
And that’s a good thing.