Waiting for My Lover
“Drop whatever it is you’re doing and come here to me,” I pleaded over the phone; I would have pulled him through the phone if I had the power. “I don’t care the cost. Come and be here with me.”
I frowned as I looked at my watch for what might have been the tenth time in less than an hour.
“He’s late,” I murmured, then broke into a sigh. “He’s fucking late!”
“Don’t worry, hon,” my husband Mike said to me from across our bedroom where he was sitting. “He’s probably stuck in traffic or something.”
“Please don’t say something worse,” I said.
“I wasn’t even going there, hon. I know Rick; he won’t want to miss not wanting to come to be with you.”
“Yeah, but he should have called,” I sheepishly argued. “It would have been nice if he’d call to say what’s keeping him.”
I looked at my phone and fought the gnawing urge of wanting to call Ricky to find out where he might be right now. I had called him twenty minutes ago, and he succinctly said he was on his way and for me to keep myself warm for him. How warm, I had asked. Warm enough to make the sun bleed, he had replied. That elicited a chuckle from me because I knew one unique thing about Rick: he seldom plays when it comes to fucking. He’s so real and he’s more than capable of pounding me to utter climatic submission. I am usually putty for him; his hands are what moulded me into assuming the hotwife position that I occupy over my husband. To go to bed without his cock in my vagina is anathema to me. Hence why I felt myself getting wet the moment he uttered those words.
“Drop whatever it is you’re doing and come here to me,” I pleaded over the phone; I would have pulled him through the phone if I had the power. “I don’t care the cost. Come and be here with me.”
“I will be there, babe. That’s a promise.”
The line went dead after that, and since then I have been on my toes brooding about where the fuck he could be or whatever might be holding him from getting here. It was my fault not to have inquired how soon he would get here.
