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In the beginning, even the sight of her like this had been enough to bring him him to his knees. That's not what she wants, though. (Not today, at least.) On her back on their bed, naked except for the blindfold, Abby looks as trusting as it's possible for her to be, except her bony hands are white-knuckling the sheet beneath her.
They've done this a dozen times now and she always starts like this. So tense. Marcus circles from the foot of the bed around to the side. Her chin stutters to the side by fractions, tracking him by sound.
His hands land just above her knees and she full-body flinches. Marcus squeezes, somewhat harder than he has to, and runs his hands up her thighs. Her muscles are iron-taut. Marcus finds the pressure point on each leg where thigh meets abdomen, places a thumb on each, and digs in. As though he can work his thumb between the tendons, push inside her body, and strum her muscle fibers back into elasticity.
Abby huffs. A pained breath works its way out between her teeth.
In the beginning he'd had trouble listening to his instincts, had needed her to goad him, had wondered if this was allowed.
Now Marcus pinches her inner thigh, hard, and Abby yelps like a kicked dog. He soothes it with his palm, but she still growls, "Asshole."
"Give me a color, Abby."
Huff. "Green. Don't stop."
In response, the hands lift off her completely. Abby goes to hiss something, then thinks better of it. Her fingers stop scratching at the sheets and curl up like spiders, dead or feigning.
As quietly as he can, Marcus slips on a glove.
When his ungloved hand appears between her legs and peels back her petals, Abby tosses her head. "We're not done already."
"No, of course not," he soothes, and pokes the index finger of his gloved hand under her hood and wipes the balm on her clit.
"Haaaaa," Abby keens. Her breath comes in short gasps. Marcus peels off the glove just in time to trap her wrists, as she scrabbles for her clit, which is burning. "What's--what's--"
As her cries rise in pitch, he climbs atop her, makes little shh-shh-shh noises. "You're all right, Abby." He kisses her lower belly.
"You--you--" she thrashes, alternating snarls and low wails. More than once she tries to buck him off, and Marcus shifts more of his weight onto her, knowing better than to stop this, knowing she can halt him with a word, knowing what she needs is to suffer--and suffer--and suffer--
She bears everything. She is everything. Marcus kisses her trembling throat. As her cries reach fever pitch, sweet body jerking beneath him, Marcus moves to her shoulder, and bites down.