Reluctant Consent by Saorise Roghan Page A

flinched, resisted.   A mistake.
    The
remote dropped.   Andrew turned more
completely to her and pulled inexorably.    Her body slid across the bed.   He reached over and back, pulling the
pillows out from under her head.   He propped his head on one hand, and with the other he gently touched
her face, softly sweeping the wisps of hair back from her cheeks.   “This can be good, Denise.”
    The
pad of his thumb stroked her cheekbone. Her brow.   Came to rest on her lips and caressed.   There was the slightest pressure and
Denise opened her lips without thinking.   His thumb stroked back and forth along her lower lip and then her mouth
opened and he took over the warm wet of her, stroking her tongue, following the
smooth enamel of her teeth, running his finger far back in her throat.   She gasped, swallowed, tried to pull
back.   He surged up and over,
letting his weight settle over her hips.
    Denise’s
eyes flew open.   He sat straight
and tall, watching her, smiling gently as she looked up at him, her head
rearing back to escape his long finger. He bent, kissing her forehead, her
cheek bones, his other hand coming up and stroking her throat, sliding his palm
up its graceful column, a finger tickling the lobe of her ear, tongue exploring
the inner recesses and drifting back to her mouth.
      He palmed the back of her head and
returned to an exploration of her mouth with his fingers, his lips making their
own path over her face.  
    Her
head held firmly, Denise felt his finger trace her tongue, and his tongue
tenderly lap up a tear newly released from her eye. “Shush, baby,” he crooned. “This
is going to be so good.”
    Her
body told her he was right.   She
trembled from the effort not to arch upward, raise herself to him, allow her legs to open.   He put an end to that -- moving his hand to cup her breast,
lazily rubbing his thumb over her rigid nipple.   She moaned.
    Her
brain did not surrender.   This was
all wrong.   She supposed if she
were an intellectual woman she would be able to find treatises discussing this
phenomenon.   Her
body betraying, her mind crying out against the betrayal.   So it was all one, was it?   Mind and body, not separate?   Bullshit.   Tears ran freely down her cheeks. Andrew cradled her head,
those wicked thumbs stroking her cheekbones, soothing lightly over her lids,
his tongue gently following the tears’ path.   She hated him.   Her body gushed approval.
    Andrew
asked absolutely nothing from her, simply wrote his absolute dominion on her
skin.   His fingers finessed buttons
and scooped her breasts from the cradle of her bra, lavished
warm pulls of his lips and slight, fierce nips of teeth.   A knee plowed a furlough between her
legs, hands slipping between skin and cloth, allowing those lean strong fingers
to slide down her ass, scalping the boxers in one swoop.  
    He
rocked back on his heels and watched her face. He circled her ankles with his
thumb and forefinger and ran them at leisure up her claves, widening at her
knees to stroke with strong hands before his palms lifted her ass.   She struggled briefly then and he held
her, his weight on his heels, eyes watching her face, hands steady and when she
stopped squirming, the pressure and tilt of his palms forced her legs open
further, and his mouth descended, eyes never ceasing their vigilance.
    He
took his time with teeth and tongue, stroking, probing, fingers parting,
murmuring approval until he was satisfied by the limp nonresistance of her
body, the soft whimpers from her when he stopped, and he reached for pillows.
    “Lift
your ass.” He placed the two pillows under her, elevating her slightly.   His hands slid down her arms, lacing her fingers in his own he moved her arms over
her head and then circled both thin wrists with one of his. His other hand
reached for his zipper.   He watched
her face as he released his cock.   “Look at me, Denise.”
    Her
eyes opened slowly.   Glazed with
desire.