Mr. Beautiful (Up in the Air 4)

This also brought my mind to other things she'd lost during her long hospital stay.

Like both of her nipple piercings, which brought my mind to her br**sts, the absolute last place it needed to go.

In spite of myself, I glanced at the white skin of one rounded tit where it nearly spilled out of the side of that damned dress.

And felt myself begin to shake.

I looked away, setting down my fork and knife, attempting to hide the fine tremor that ran through the entire length of me and seemed to be most apparent in my hands.

"James," she said, voice quiet and solemn, almost chiding, like she knew what afflicted me.

Like she held the cure if only I'd reach for it.

She did, of course, but I wouldn't let myself reach.  Not yet.

It was too soon.

She'd nearly died and needed time to recover, time unsullied by my selfish, unquenchable need.

I didn't look at her directly, but needless to say, I was still hyper aware of it when she stood and moved to stand at my side.

I took in a deep breath, then let it out, calming myself and taking her in all at once.

She touched the top of my head lightly with her elegant fingers.  "Oh, James," she sighed, tone gentle enough to make me ache.

She stroked her hand into my hair, gripped it lightly, and started to pull.

She leaned forward, pressing my tense head to her soft bosom, both offering support and taking succor.

I shut my eyes tight.

The image of me putting my ravenous self on her wounded self was a crystal clear picture in my head.

Obsessively, repetitively, day and night, asleep or awake, I pictured this.

It was very nearly too much to bear; this voracious, prodigious need of mine.

I'd not gone through a celibate stage like this since I'd become sexually active, back in my teens.  In the beginning of our relationship, when Bianca had left me, I'd come close, but this spell had since outlasted that one.

It was an ordeal.

I jerked off at least five times a day, to cope with the readjustment, but it was about as satisfactory as eating cardboard instead of steak.

My traitorous hands moved to grip the bare backs of her thighs, keeping her leaning against me.

After one inflamed, torturous moment, I tore myself away.

She let me go, moving back to her seat.

I looked at her, making my gaze go to the bandaged side of her face, which I usually avoided, but not now, because I needed that reminder of why I had to put her needs before my own.

Her injury was still dressed from the latest round of reconstructive surgery, covering one side of her face from cheekbone to jaw.

It was a sobering sight, not because it was grisly, in fact, I couldn't even see the actual wound, it was covered so thoroughly, but because it was a stark and clear reminder of what had almost happened.

That reminder was dampening, which was what I needed at the moment.

I finished eating, and Bianca quietly excused herself.

I knew where she was going, and I forced myself to move in the opposite direction.

If I followed her to her painting studio, watched her work on and around a canvas in that f**king dress, I'd surely snap and lose all restraint.

She was not recovered enough for my unrestrained self.

I tried not to follow her, to hover, as that was not what she wanted, but it was a constant struggle against myself not to check in on her.

Instead, I took up residence in my home office and attempted to work.

That lasted all of thirty seconds.

That fast and my mind was wandering back to her and back to the image of my ravenous self on her recovering self, and I recalled rather urgently that I was do for another jerk off session.

I had just pulled my erection from the oppressive confines of my pants when my office door opened with no preamble.

This was unusual.  Bianca never came to my office.

She stepped inside, then shut the door behind her, not looking even slightly surprised at what I'd been up to, while I found myself flushing in embarrassment.

Her eyes were unflinching on mine as she approached.

I'd pushed my chair back from the desk in preparation for my after dinner jerk session.  There was enough space between for her to fit.

She did, facing me and leaning back until her ass was perched right on the edge.

I raised my desperate eyes to her devastating ones.

Our gazes never wavered as, at the bottom of my vision, she lifted her wispy little dress up to bare herself.

With a sigh of defeat, I let myself look, but only for the briefest moment.

No panties, as I'd suspected.

My eyes, as they returned to hers, were pleading now.

I couldn't fight her and myself.

Myself was bad enough, but I'd never been any match for her.

Not for one lovesick second since the first time I'd set eyes on her.

"You need more recovery time, love," I told her, voice desperate, heart pounding.

"Shh," she soothed, holding her arms out for me, her skirt falling back down to barely cover the essentials.

With a shudder, I moved into her, sliding my chair close between her legs.  I rested my cheek on her soft, bare thigh and attempted and failed to hold onto any vague shred of my once dependable control.

She stroked her fingers through my hair.

It wasn't long before I raised my head to take her in again.  "Grip the edge of the desk with your hands," I told her roughly, unsteady hands lifting her skirt, letting myself look my fill at last.

"I'm off the painkillers," she told me.

My eyes jerked to hers, nostrils flaring as I caught what she meant me to.  We both knew I wouldn't touch her impaired.