Most people think of guys as horny, sex crazed idiots, but not everybody has a fiancé like mine. Erik’s tall, over 6ft while I’m barely 5ft, which means I get to climb him like a tree. His skin feels so good next to mine, and he’s positively dreamy with dimples and permanent bedhead. I melt whenever I see him. So, I think about sex. With him. A lot. I normally have sex. With him. A lot.
With our wedding just a month away, we’re now waiting until our wedding night to have sex again. To make it more special or something. Maybe this is my soon-to-be hubby being romantic or maybe it’s latent Catholic guilt, but if I figure out who gave him that idea I’m going to kill them. Slowly. Painfully. It seemed alright at first until I actually went a week without being under him, on him, having him in me. Then it became torture.
Today was a perfect storm of repressed lust. First, we went over to my sister’s house, and Erik helped her husband build a tree-house for my nieces and nephews. I was treated to hours of his gorgeous, shirtless body lifting pieces of wood and flexing his muscles. Then he’d bend over for a tool and show me his firm, bitable ass.
After that we went inside and he cradled my sis’s youngest in his arms and sang her a lullaby. It was precious. I wanted to capture that moment and treasure it forever. I also wanted to take him home and do terrible things to him. I’ve never been more mad at my hot, sweet fiancé for being hot and sweet. Okay, normally I’m not mad about that at all.
I can’t sleep. I know what I need. And I’ll have to give it to myself. I don’t bother getting out of bed, maybe he’ll wake up, understand what he’s been doing to me. I want him so much, this solo act is nothing compared to our bodies moving together.
Nothing’s been going to plan lately. As soon as a hand sneaks below my pajama pants, I’m busted.
“What are you doing?” I can’t see him clearly in the darkness of the room but can feel his eyes on me.
“I’m planning to fuck myself on my fingers,” I slowly explain, making a show of moving my hand, and I feel his stare laser focus to between my thighs. “Unless you have a better idea.”
“I’m waiting until my wedding night.” His voice sounded husky, the way it gets when he’s turned on, but also firm. He’s not budging.
I groaned in frustration, my fingers can’t fill me the way he can.
“But that doesn’t mean I can’t watch.”
Oh, what a devious, wonderful man. Now I can drive him as crazy as he makes me.