"Let's pick some flowers," he said, "for the table at dinner and the bedroom later."
The old timeline of April showers bringing May flowers had been pushed back this year, probably climate change, he thought. It was May showers that brought June flowers. Everywhere.
He grabbed the pruning shears, took her hand, and they browsed the garden, gathering masses of blooms. White hydrangea. Blue hydrangea. White hydrangea flecked with blue. Some red zinnia. The first brilliantly yellow sunflowers of the season. A huge maroon lily, a dark star. A few large leaves, spotted with yellow, for background. A giant white calla lily, the yellow pistil erect in the middle, yes, like a cock in a pristine pussy.
Three fragrant, red roses. "Be careful of the thorns," he told her. "They're so beautiful. I love the scent. But there's always the chance of being pricked." He chuckled a little, just enough to make her uncomfortable.
Once inside, he arranged the flowers in four vases, working with her, the roses in one by themselves. That was unusual. She paused, but didn't say anything.
Dinner was light for the heat of the day by the light of candles on the screen porch, the ceiling fan lazily offering relief, something out of a more formal past.
His looks throughout were unnerving. She knew those cocked-head, half-smiles. She knew they meant he'd formed a plan and was enjoying the anticipation. She knew that below the table he was hard, straining against his pants, putting off taking her fast and hard.
His desire made her imagine. His his control and his patience only turned up the heat as they shared bite after bite. By their after-dinner drink, her nipples were hard and she could feel the dampness in her panties.
Thankfully, he didn't make her wait.
Sit here, he said, I'll call for you when I'm ready.
She sat on the porch, the fan creaking overhead, a light breeze picking up after sunset, the candles flickering, alone with her thoughts. He took charge. Always. She wanted it that way. She'd come to trust him. She'd tried things with him she'd only imagined, things she'd fantasized about for years, but never had the courage to explore. Now, she did. They did. Again and again.
An entire universe of experiences opened for her.
Submission. Bondage. Spanking. Biting. Exhibitionism. Public sex. Toys, all sorts of toys.
Minutes passed. He did love anticipation.
Then he appeared in the doorway, offering his hand.
She took it. He slid a hand into the dark hair that curled atop her shoulders, pulled her to him, and kissed her long and hard. So hard. The beginning ritual.
When they reached the bedroom, he opened the door for her, ever the gentleman (who was not always gentle). What she saw were candles, so many candles, flames flickering, casting shadows. So romantic. And flowers. Even more than they'd gathered.
She took a breath.
What could he have in mind?
He escorted her into the room, stood her in the middle, and kissed her again. On the lips and then in his favorite spot along her nape.
Then he stripped her from the top down. White shirt. Bra. Skirt. Panties. She loved that he knelt as he removed her panties and always teased his tongue on her smooth pussy.
He led her to the bed, the one with soft, cool ivory linens, and laid her down on her back.
He slipped in beside her and his tongue began a long, seductive dance over her body from her chin to her collarbone to her nipples to the inside of her thighs and then to her pussy and back up to her lips.
He paused, rose up over her, and took first one wrist and then the other and raised her hands so they rested on the bed above her head. She was open, exposed, so submissive in the ways she'd been so many times before.
But this time he was softer, so much softer, but ever completely in control.
"First, the hydrangea," he growled softly in her ear.
He took a stem and began running the bloom over her body, teasing her with the lightest touch of the petals. She'd been waiting so long, she arched with desire.
