There's a subtle art to challenging Greg's pig-headedness. Stacy has run herself up against that wall so many times in the past four years that she's learned better than to try, some nights. But there's a fine line between Greg's endless semantic smugness and his sullen, dull anger, and Stacy has learned to negotiate it with nothing more than a single arched eyebrow.
She's hardly created a fantasyland. Their bedroom still looks very much the same, even though she's put on the pale grey silk sheets they never sleep on because their pillows slip out from under their heads. Sheets that she won't mind getting rid of, after this. She's closed the curtains nearly all the way, leaving only a thin thread of sunset light finding its way in. Most of the light flickers from the stubby white candles on the bedside table and the dresser. For decoration, she's left a single rose blossom floating in a bowl half-filled with ice water.
Greg blinks at her as he's pulling off his button-down, but of course, he has to put on a good show. He jerks a thumb at the stainless steel bowl. "What, no rose petals in the bed?"
"You said you wanted something spicier," Stacy says. She tilts her head forward, watching him watch her. For Greg, seeing her in red silk panties and a matching, lacy camisole might qualify, but Stacy isn't going to let him get away with that. One leg is extended just in front of the other one, and she knows he'll do a hell of a lot of begging when she's wearing these heels. "What would rose petals do? Put you under my evil influence through hay fever?"
Greg pauses slightly, but he strips out of his t-shirt and tugs thoughtfully at his belt.
"That's enough," Stacy says.
Greg looks down at his jeans. "I don't think it's nearly--"
"Mm, but I didn't ask you to think." Before he can go further, she splays her palm against his chest and pushes him firmly towards the bed. "On your front." She can't help smiling slightly, and the amused note in her voice is meant to reassure him as much as worry him.
He resists enough that Stacy can feel the firm thud of his heart against her hand, and then he goes, slowly, lying down long and lithe on top of the sheets, the jeans dipping up enough at his waistband so that Stacy can imagine sliding her hands inside. He props his chin, rough with stubble after a lazy weekend, on his closed fists. "Are you trying to collect the insurance money after the building burns down?" his asks, eyeing the candles as if she has set acetylene torches on the bedside table. "Because they can track down arsonists these days."
"They're for putting your eyes out after you deliberately misinterpret me one too many times," Stacy answers archly. She throws one leg across the small of his back, straddling him easily; the tips of her heels dig a bit into his thighs as a warning. Bending low, her breasts brush over his back as she reaches for the cinnamon warming oil she keeps in the bedside drawer. Stacy can almost feel Greg's interest picking up, his breathing hesitating as she slicks her hands with the oil. The scent is rich and earthy-sharp. Stacy breathes in deeply, taking it in. Smiling down at the strong, familiar contours of Greg's back, Stacy grips his shoulders tightly and starts working out the knots in his muscles.
Greg whuffles into the pillow and wriggles under her. "This is spicier?"
"Shut up, Greg." Massages are hardly new, but would it kill him to appreciate one he hasn't had to beg for?
"Because the time you nearly got me off in the middle of your parents' fortieth wedding anniversary party, that--"
Even now, Stacy blushes remembering that, but dammit, she'd been horny and Greg had been teasing her since before they'd even pulled up in front of her parents' house. To cut him off, she digs her thumbs in, hard enough to make him grunt. He's starting to relax, despite himself. Tides of light ebb and flow over his skin from the flickering candle flames. Stacy kneads firmly until Greg's skin pinkens, warm and slick under her hands, and then she slaps him lightly across his shoulder blades, the oil enhancing the sound of the contact.
"Spicier, remember?" If she could see his face, Stacy's certain he'd be wearing that disgruntled look that slips so easily into curiosity. Her smile widens; it's one that he should be afraid of. "You look good," she murmurs, bending again, catching his ear between her teeth momentarily.
Greg twitches, but for once, doesn't brush off the compliment. He takes a deep breath and says, "Stacy."
The questions are implicit in his tone. So far, other than the decorations and the outfit she's sure he'll complain about seeing far too briefly, this isn't new. Stacy pushes her fingers up through his hair, leaving it spiky and darkened at the tips, glistening. "Do you trust me?" she asks.
"Greg," she mimics him, but her voice is stronger than his, warning.
"About whatever torture you've devised? Yes," he says, grumpy with being pushed into admitting anything.
"Good," she says. "I'll stop if you want." The satisfaction she takes in his trust almost surprises her with its force. Oh, she knows he loves her. He says it, not easily, maybe, but often enough, and always with feeling. But trust, that's something different, a more qualified beast, and Stacy plans to take full advantage of it.
She picks up a candle from the night table and waits for a moment for Greg to get the full picture. The flame is low and blue around the wick. The candle is wide enough that the pool of melted wax is fully enclosed by softened wax walls, thin enough to glow orange. Stacy tilts the candle thoughtfully, watching the wax drip and pool, listening to the soft sputter of the flame. Greg's shoulders have tensed, but he hasn't said no, and so she tilts the candle high enough above him that it will cool as it drips, until a single drop of molten wax falls against his skin.
Greg flinches sharply and hisses. Stacy keeps firm hold of the base of the candle, adjusting her position easily over him. The white drip has already dried against his skin, the sheen of liquid wax giving way to firm opaqueness. Stacy can't resist; she touches the spot, finding its edges with her fingertip. Greg's breathing is sharper, and Stacy's smile widens when she realizes that he's anticipating.
He really does look good like this.
His back is broad, shoulders moving reflexively as he tightens his muscles. Stacy draws one fingertip along his shoulder blade, tracing the way it shines with the oil in the light. She tips the candle again and marks him with another long white tear. This one runs before it dries, the wax moving slowly, Greg grunting sharply, but still saying nothing.
"It's paraffin," Stacy says, and realizes when she speaks how tight her own voice is, how fast she's starting to breathe herself. She moves her hips, grinding against Greg's ass, astonished at how turned on she already is. "Lower melting point..." Another drip, a long one, that follows the runnel of Greg's spine. Greg jerks up, a short sound stopping in his throat before it can really get started. Stacy bites her lip, watching it. She could fingerpaint if she wanted to, write Greg loves Stacy across his skin in a spatter of drops.
She lifts her chin at the sound of his voice, hoarse. She's paused, long enough for him to notice, and there's something like entreaty in his voice. More... Another splash, that she spreads with her fingertips, feeling the near-burn herself as she plays with it. By now, her first marks have dried enough that she can play with them, too, cutting through the wax with her fingernails, feeling the curls and slivers of wax accumulating under her nails. Greg grunts softly, but it's really more of a moan. Stacy sets the candle down carefully and dips her hands into the ice water.
The first sound Greg really allows himself is sharp, needy, as she lets the water fall from her hands to his back. The water beads and runs over his oil-slick skin. Droplets catch against the dried wax and slip around it, sliding down towards the small of his back. Stacy takes another handful of water and presses her open palms against his back, feeling how hot he is. She bends down and kisses the back of his neck, tasting the light cinnamon burn of the oil, joining her moans with his as she rocks her hips against him.
She laughs when Greg wrestles his way out from under her, twists her around. He kisses her, hard, and Stacy catches his face between her palms, sinking into how easy it is, how good he feels. It isn't long before he's unhooking her bra, stripping away the camisole. She gives as good as he does, working open his jeans, and then--
She holds him, tight to her. "Greg, oh honey..." Between kisses, he buries his face against her throat, kissing and nipping; inside her, he pulses, hot and hard and hers. Stacy strokes his back, his sides, and cries out as he moves faster.
As she comes, her hands are pressed to his back, to the strange-smooth wax coatings contrasting with the shivering aliveness of Greg's skin.