Time On His Hands

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Artificially cooled air greets me as I open the front door and slip inside. I’ve only made it over the threshold when I trip and stumble, almost landing square on my face. Managing to save my cup from tumbling and cascading hot java all over the foyer walls, I straighten and look around for the offending item.

I scowl at worn work boots that sit, somewhat ordered in the middle of the floor. Like they’ve been placed there purposely. But what he’s doing here at this time of day is the real question. I haven’t seen my husband home this early in years. Starting his own company was supposed to help us live our dreams, but so far, it’s only made him live his job. I had to find my own to keep busy in his absence, even though we both agreed I would stay home when we married.

After closing the door, I set my briefcase on the floor, and step out of my heels, placing my car keys on the side table. Plush carpet cushions my tender toes as I climb the stairs only to stop on the first when I see a worn t-shirt, laying carelessly halfway up. A further glance reveals a sock, then another, and eventually at the top, a pair of denim jeans sitting as if merely stepped out of and simply awaiting their wearer to animate them once again.

Picking up the t-shirt, I scale the stairs, pressing the material to my nose. The cotton is cool to the touch, but still retains his masculine scent, a combination of cut wood, hard work and something else that is all him. I grab his socks, holding them at arm’s length, then stop at his pants, stepping into the centers of each leg before searching the hallway with a grin.

The bathroom door is closed, but his worn boxers hang from the handle, like a white flag of surrender. Or perhaps parle?

Dropping my husband’s possessions in a pile, I ease open the door to find him laying back in the tub, surrounded by bubbles. One ankle rests on the tub’s ledge, allowing him to stretch out his leg. The opposite elbow is bent, supporting his head. His eyes are closed, and he looks positively decadent lounging. I realise, I’ve never seen him like this; rarely do I see him relax at all.

I sweep my gaze over his form. He appears peaceful, yet no less powerful. Each muscle is still well sculpted, even at ease. I let my eyes trace his jaw, where a days’ worth of stubble roughens his appearance, making him look sinister and dangerously delicious. Damp curls line his chest, and his strong hands are slack, long thick fingers lightly curled.

“You’re letting the cold air in.” His deep voice resounds inside the quiet room, startling me from my gawking. A glance up informs me his eyes are open, focused intently on my face, and laughing a little. At me?

“Why are you in the bath?” I ask, unsure where to begin, but I close the door behind me, my curiosity piqued.

“It’s your bath. But you’ll need to take off your pretty skirt if you want it.”

“There’s already somebody in this one.” I quip back, but nevertheless, I’m untucking my shirt, the thought of being naked next to him for any amount of time too good to resist.

“He’ll make room, especially for you.” He replies with a sexy smile, his single dimple on full display.

He’s flirty, home early, and he ran me a bath. What is going on?

“Did you have an affair? You can tell me. You don’t need to schmooze me first.” I say jokingly. Our relationship is solid, our sex life good. Very good. Or is it? There has always been that one topic we’ve stayed away from. Even though we both have expressed our interest. Even though we had plans.

“No, no affair. No time. But I did hire a general manager, so I guess I could always make some.” His eyes crinkle when he grins at me teasingly. But he certainly has my attention.

The buttons on my shirt take too long and I tear the last away from the fabric in my haste. An artificial pearl clatters to the tile floor and my husband laughs, enjoying my enthusiasm. Within seconds, my bra is gone, as are my stockings, a line of discarded clothing trailing me from the door to the tub.

“Leave your panties on.” My husband’s gruff voice commands just as I slip my fingers under the elastic band. I stop my movement, registering how his tone is heard in my ears but felt somewhere much lower.

“Did you leave yours on?” I ask, eyeing the tub with a curious glance. There are too many bubbles to see anything below the water’s surface, but since his boxers were on the door handle, I already know the answer.

“I don’t wear panties. I also don’t look half as good in my underwear as you.” His gaze roams over me from head to toes and back again. It’s a look of pure hunger that does little to quell the newfound ache throbbing deep in my core.

“Maybe you’d look good in my underwear?” I ask him, only half teasing as I slide my toes into the deliciously warm water.

“I don’t think so, but if you want to see my cock wrapped in silk, who am I to deny you?”

He winks at my open-mouthed expression of shock.

“You’re kidding, right?” I ask as I place the other foot in the tub. His hands come up to grasp my hips and he pulls me down to straddle him. To my delight I discover his member is already half hard, and my earlier train of thought vanishes.

“I thought we were having a bath?” I ask looking up at him, unable to keep my hands from stroking him until he’s fully hard.

“We’re in the bath.” he replies, but I don’t miss his hiss of pleasure. I tighten my hold on his shaft and swipe my thumb over the tip.

“And yet, I’m still half dressed, and you have a hard on.”

“I’ll rectify both of those issues, in due time. Promise.” His grin says everything he’s promising and more. It’s a good thing water is wet, or my reaction would be quite embarrassing.

“Put your hands behind your back,” he commands. I’m not used to this new demanding man that’s entered my bathtub, but I think I like him. My pussy sure does.

Once my arms are clasped behind me, he removes the pins holding my hair, letting my tresses tumble loose. Then he gathers it in one hand and holds it firmly in a ponytail, tugging my head back.

I bite my bottom lip when his head descends and he latches onto my nipple before drawing it between his teeth. He teases the sensitive peak, nibbling and touching with the tip of his tongue before pulling it deeper into his mouth and sucking hard. Not until he gets the desired response, a wantonness breathy moan, does he stop, only to give the other his full attention. Then he blows on each, watching studiously as they pucker from the change of temperature.

“Lean back.” He whispers while tugging my hair once more. Hair pulling is new too, and also not unwelcome.

Using his free hand, he draws the thin material of my panties snuggly between my folds. Wet silk clings to my bare mound like a second skin, revealing the silhouette of my netherlips beneath. Somehow it makes the sight of my pussy seem obscenely pornographic. When he thrusts the crown of his cock over the smooth fabric, nudging my clit in the process, I understand and appreciate his order all the more.

Repeated swipes of hard flesh over my soft center has my back bowing. Every time I arch, he pulls my hair a little more until my breasts are thrust toward the ceiling, my body strung tight.

“Remember all those plans we had. Our dreams?” he asks, continuing his assault on my senses. The buzzing in my head and the ache in my belly makes it hard to concentrate, but I moan my affirmation. “Remember our plans for travel, rough sex in various locations, and exclusive clubs for exclusive tastes?” He emphasizes the meaning behind exclusive by thrusting against my core once more.

“Mmm. Yes. I also remember a husband who wanted a wife at home, barefoot. Perhaps on her knees?” I have to bite my lip to stop my moan, as short jabs of his cock hit my button just right.

“I’m not needed around the office anymore. The company’s in good hands. I’d like to begin using mine for something else.” A few more hard thrusts have my eyes rolling to the back of my head.

“Did you have something in mind for your capable hands, husband?” I ask, with barely contained huskiness.

“Yes, I thought I could start by placing them on my wife, whenever possible.” He trails the line defining my center with a single finger, then traces the seam where the gusset of my panties meet thigh. “Perhaps use them to escort her to the theater, and to dinners. But I’d really like to use them for tying her down and reddening her ass. If she’s agreeable to that?”

“Is this a negotiation?” I ask, but his fingers have moved the fabric of my panties aside, the tips probing my entrance. He slides easily through my wetness, even below the water, and we both know I have no objections.

“How long will you need to get things wrapped up at work?” He asks, slipping one finger easily into my channel. My hips slide forward, pulling him in deep.

“Hmm. A few weeks at most.” I take a breath before continuing. “Then what?”

He inserts a second finger, curling both and massaging my front wall with practiced strokes. My cunt flutters in warning of my pending climax, and he thrusts deep as I let out the moan I’ve been holding in.

“Then you’re mine. What do you say to that?” he asks, pressing him thumb firmly onto my clit before circling, once, then twice but it’s the sharp bite of pain on my nipple that pushes me over edge.

“Yes, sir,” I cry out, falling forward, only to be tugged back into position by my hair. Slowing his movements, he stretches my orgasm out, not relenting in his assault until my breathing slows, and I my hips stop gyrating.

When I look at him, his eyelids are hooded, but a smirk of satisfaction lines his face. I said our sex life was good before, but it was never this good. If this is going to be our life now, I’m all in. Although, I do have one concern.

“Don’t you worry you’ll get antsy? You know, not working?” I ask as he pulls me to lean against him. He soothes his hand over my hair, down my arm to my hip, spreading his fingers out and sinking them into my flesh.

“I’m sure you’ll be more than enough to keep me busy. And if it doesn’t work out, I can always try your underwear.”

Header image for Time On His Hands by pexels-любовь-баранова

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