AislingWeaver, Fuck Me Friday

Fawn :: FuckMeFriday

Welcome to another week of smut! Writing challenges can be found far and wide, and this one has just one goal – to inspire you to write!
We’ve been rolling around rather well here for a while, so I thought I’d mix it up a little.  Starting today, the prompts, while still being mostly random, are going to have some sort of tie between them for each month.  For instance, the rest of May will be colors, June will be sensations…essentially, the months will have a sort of theme to them.  This will allow those who enjoy working on a larger scale the option to do an overreaching arc of stories, if they like, while still offering up the differences that I’ve grown to enjoy in the offerings each week.
The result of all of this, I hope,  is two-fold; for writers, a weekly challenge to keep the, err, juices flowing.  For readers, you’ll find all the stories linked off at the bottom of each week’s prompt. Are you game?  Will you try your hand at some on the fly writing?  Will you expose your work to new readers, will you read along and find new authors?   I do hope so.
So, without further ado, let’s get this thing rolling!  To join in is as simply as this:
Write a story with the prompt as your title.  Today’s will be :


Tweet it with both the prompt hashtag and the hashtag #FuckMeFridayAnd lastly add it to the links at the bottom of this post.(note, if you don’t want to tweet it or don’t have a blog, I invite you to post your story in the comments section.


“I’m not going.”
I slipped the statement into a pause in your excited chatter.
The temperature dropped.  I met your gaze in the mirror.  Your eyes, brown, somehow looked like ice.  Dirty ice.  Tempered ice.  Hard ice.  The ice of glaciers grinding rock into dust and melting and freezing.  
“Yes.  You are.”  The steel in your voice held no pretext of being velvet covered.  It’s the tone you use with subordinates and competitors.  Not one you use with me.
But then I rarely tell you no.
“No.  I’m not.”  
I watched your shoulders lift, drop, and lift again.  Felt the metronome cadence of your silent count to ten.  When you turned the force of your chill regard struck me, a winter gale lashing a solitary tree, bending it, freezing it, threatening to shatter it.
That.  That was an olive branch. Your tension vibrated in the careful way you   didn’t fist your hands, the way you pulled your shoulders back, taking that stance that implied an openness to discussion.  All those body language signals you employ with the skill of a maestro.
But I know them.  I know your tools.  I won’t let you direct me with those unspoken commands like your horse answers the press of knee, shift of seat, touch of toe.  
“I will not go and watch you fawn over him.  Not again.”
Him.  *Him*.  The man that had been your husband and business partner, who left you for a younger woman, left you with a crumbling company and a line of creditors pulling down the walls.  The man who turned back up a decade later, sliding under the radar, revealing himself only after you worked your ass off to win the contract.  Striding into your office with that smug look and cocky grin.  Golden boy, apple of the heiress’s eye.  She gave him the project as a wedding gift.
And he rubbed your nose in it.
Your jaw jumped.  Flexed.  I heard the threat to your teeth enamel as you ground molar to molar.
“I can’t watch that,” I said, blinking as my own voice emerged little more than a whisper.  
Your eyes warmed, shifted.  When your fingers touched my jaw, stroked down my neck, my pulse jumped, leapt against your fingertips, a fish after bait.  I yielded.  Melted.  Your gaze turning from glacier hard to hot and hungry in a blink.  I moaned before your lips even parted mine, groaned at the curl of your fingers around my nape.  Your grip might have been teeth, the sharp, curving ones of some great cat gripping the neck of a fawn, bearing it to the ground, life and death and everything in between teetering on the points of those wicked canines.
You didn’t kiss me.  My heart pounded in my chest, fast and hard, pumping blood that would have gushed from an open wound with willing abandon.
“Come with me,” you whispered, lips brushing mine, delivering your words, a press of morse code, a wanton reading of lips.  “Wear that blue gown,” I shook, my head rocking in some response halfway between yes and no.  “Spend the night on my arm, at my side.”
I blinked my eyes open.  I hadn’t realized I’d closed them.  You never took me as a date.  Our relationship was known but unacknowledged. My blood shifted and suddenly instead of my heart pounding my clit throbbed.  I knew the dress.  Knew your hands never ceased to swirl circles in the bared small of my back.  Knew your lips never failed to follow the sweep of fabric up and over my shoulder.
And I could see it.  See his face as he took that in.  As he realized he wouldn’t have your attention.  I would.
Your eyes dilated when you met mine.  When you pressed me back against your dressing table I gasped.  I was liquid.  Molten.  Your tongue pressed into my mouth, your fingers delved beneath my waistband and found me slick with need.  I cried out at your first swipe and shuddered.  
“Not yet,” you whispered.  
I swayed.  
Press, I trembled.  
“Not yet, my sweet little doe.”  You still radiated the aura of the huntress, the account executive that swept in at the last and let an acquisition know there was no retreat, no way out.  Ruthless. 
My breath caught, held between your forefinger and thumb, a bundle of nerves tightening and retreating all at once.  “Breathe.”  Your breath fanned against my pulse, against the delicate, fragile skin of my neck.  I wondered if this was what those tiny animals, the ones adopted by mother wolves and tigers and lionesses, those little, vulnerable creatures, if this, this frightening sense of absolutely powerlessness, was what that felt like.
I inhaled.  You smelled of night’s sweet jasmine and a hint of musk.  
I swayed when you stepped back.  Your fingers dragged a wet stripe up my stomach.  I swayed and reached for you.
“Shh,” you soothed, catching my hands, pressing them to my side.  “We’ve got to be leaving soon.  Go.  Dress.”
I sagged when you turned away, as if the very force of your attention had been my gravity, holding me in place.  My feet dragged as I turned to the closet.  My breath left me, again, and my head spun.
You caught me back against my chest.  Every nerve reached for you, the ones stroked as your palms dragged down my sides and over my hips sang. “Don’t shower.  I want you to smell just like this.  Like want and lust and need.”  Your lips danced up the side of my neck and I arched.  
“Go.  Get ready.  I promise, I will make you beg later.”  
And I went.  Went, and knew that you would.  That before the night’s end you would bear me down to the floor, peel me open, poke at all my sore, wanting bits, then put me back together.  As I would for you. 

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