Total pages in book: 7
Estimated words: 6568 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 33(@200wpm)___ 26(@250wpm)___ 22(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 6568 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 33(@200wpm)___ 26(@250wpm)___ 22(@300wpm)
And dear Lord, he does.
The laugher fades, evaporates when he takes my clit between his lips and bites. I arrow up, sitting erect, legs spread, staring at his head moving, mouth devouring me. He grabs under my thighs and lifts me, angling me so his tongue goes deeper inside. He takes one lip and then the other into his mouth.
“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” I chant, chokeholding the sheets in my fists. The multi-tasking skill of this man deploying his talented, busy tongue and the huge, blunt fingers scissoring inside me. My eyes roll back in my head. I bend one knee, digging my heel into his back as pleasure builds and tremors through my body.
“I’m coming,” I pant.
He hums against me, and I’m so aroused, even that simple vibration urges me toward the precipice. Pushes me over into a writhing, body-shaking, screaming orgasm. The muscles in my legs tighten and I can’t breathe deeply enough, just taking in shallow sips of air. It rolls through and over me, tornadic, turbulent. Thorough, leaving me incoherent and trembling and sated and limp. Naked, uncaring. Even after I come, he still feathers kisses inside my thighs, behind my knees. At the arch of my foot.
“Markus,” I mumble, wrapping my hand around the back of his neck and pulling him up. “Commence with the fucking.”
He laughs against my stomach, licking my hipbone and palming my thigh. His eyes meet mine over the plane of my belly and breasts.
“I love you,” he says. And it’s so earnest. So sincere. Such a promise. His words a vow much more intimate than the ones we’ll make in front of a crowd I barely know at a ceremony I barely planned.
I brush the back of my hand over the rise of his cheekbone, and find myself blinking back tears at the tenderness of these seconds we have alone. “I love you, too.”
He looks at me for a moment longer before climbing up onto the bed and slotting his hips between my thighs. I cinch my ankles at the base of his spine, pulling him closer, guiding him to the place where I am wet and wanting and hollow. Where I still ache even after a record-breaking orgasm because it’s not the same as him filling, moving inside of me. As the way our souls touch and tangle when we make love.
He doesn’t ease in. It’s with a deep, plunging thrust that he takes me, forcing air from my lungs on a startled breath. Not startled that he’s inside, but awed anew at how perfect the fit and feel of him are. Of how our bodies are as suited as our hearts. That bar slides along my inner walls, torturing, stimulating me.
“Harder,” I pant, catching his eyes blazing down at me. “Deeper.”
“Fuck,” he mutters, his eyes narrowing as he drags me to the edge of the bed, standing and thrusting inside again. He pulls my legs against his chest and goes so deep, I can’t catch my breath between thrusts. I’m gasping, panting, dying, living. Gone are the deep, even strokes. His motions become jerky, barely controlled. His expression twisting, contorting as he tries and fails to leash the agony of our joined pleasure.
I’m coming again. Waves of sensation revisting my body in claiming sweeps. The bliss is so intense, something collapses inside of me. Consciousness slipping away as my body demands and takes much-deserved rest.
In the morning I wake alone and instinctively run my hand along the empty space beside me. The sheets are still warm where Markus slept, and the pillow is smushed into the shape he always deforms it when he’s restless.
“Baby,” I call, my voice still hoarse from our lovemaking. From crying and shouting and nearly passing out from the gale force fucking. “Where are you?”
He’s out there rustling in what sounds like the kitchen. I sit up, tugging the sheets to cover my breasts and pressing my shoulders into the headboard. When he enters the bedroom, he wears only his briefs, and I barely notice his beautiful body because I’m distracted by his face. Anxiety? Uncertainty?
“What’s up?” I ask him. “And why do you have a broom? I just cleaned this place.”
“No, it’s not . . .” He trails off into an uncharacteristic silence. “It’s not to sweep.”
“Okay, then what are you—”
“Let’s get married.” He tosses the broomstick from one hand to the other. “Today.”
My mouth falls open and the air gets hung up in my throat. I choke slightly and have to bang my chest a little to breathe. “You said you want . . .today . . .what?”
“I got the license last week so I would have it since I’m traveling so much. My frat brother is ordained. He could perform the ceremony.” He approaches the bed, his gait growing more confident despite my continued silence.