His lips crashed against mine now, if possible, his need has increased —I can taste it— and with it mine. Our hands move, exploring each other's bodies. His muscular shoulders, biceps, and chest. His hands on mine, stalling as he cups my breasts under my shirt.
“This okay, Doc?”
I answer honestly, “I don't know. I... I… no.”
“We wait for now, but I cannot wait to taste your tits.”
He breaks away from another scorching kiss, grabbing my hips and picking me up. I'm placing my feet on the floor in between his legs. His thumbs hook in the waistband of the jeans I am wearing. Pre-pregnancy jeans that used to be tight, and now he slips them down with ease, taking my panties with them.
Large callous, rough hands skate up my ankles over my knees, skim up my thighs. “Gonna have to kill that old man. He calls you legs. And fuck if he's not right.”
“As much as I hate to admit it, I can’t do this if he’s all you can think about when you have me standing half naked in front of you when I desperately want to be touched.”
He runs his nose from hip bone to hip bone, barely touching my skin with his, inhaling, “Mmmm, you smell divine, doc. I guarantee you taste just as good.”
In the quickest move I have ever felt, he stands, lifts me, turns us, and lays me out on the couch.
I swallow back the saliva pooling in my mouth from how hungry I am for this, for him,
I don’t wait longer than a heartbeat, and his lips are immediately on my stomach, kissing under my belly button. Damn, he’s giving me the softest kiss I've ever felt, and a moan escapes at just how good it feels, physically and beyond. It's a kiss that I will remember for the rest of my life, one I will one daytell my daughters about when they ask me what my favorite kiss ever was.
His hands pushed under my bottom, lifting me as his mouth covers my heated core.
He licks me soft, but deep like he's savoring my taste. Unrushed and unrelenting. With each stroke of his tongue, he deepens the connection, and I…burn.
His tongue is velvet, drawing slow, unhurried patterns along my flesh, every stroke an invitation to lose my mind, but I can’t stop watching him savor me. He continues licking me soft, but deep, intent, and there is something in the persistence of it—a hunger that is not savage but measured, as if he has all the hours in the world to learn the way I unravel. His mouth is focused, almost reverent, and the heat between my legs grows more intense, friction building, need shimmering through my body in tidal waves, cresting and breaking, never quite letting me fall over.
I dig my nails into the couch, fighting the urge to buck my hips, to seize more of him, to let need drive me past the edge of dignity. But even that tiny rebellion is noted—he untangles my hands from the cushions, his callused fingers wrapping around my wrists, pinning them to my ribs as his eyes flick up, locking on mine. The color, bourbon, dark and warm, they hold me; the power in his gaze, the warning threaded through it, comes as a slow, delicious burn and warning. He’s telling me, do not rush this. The authority in him isn't harsh, but it is unyielding, and I quiver beneath its safety and promise. Every muscle in my body attuned to his rhythm.
He shakes his head, a slow, deliberate movement that tells me—no. Not yet. His tongue circles my clit but never assaults it, never gives me the direct pressure I crave. My body shakes with the effort of restraint, of being held on the edge, and a desperatenoise claws up my throat as he continues the slow, exquisite torture.
He presses his nose into my thigh, inhaling deeply, and the sound he makes is part growl, part sigh, pure masculine satisfaction. He wants me to know how good this is for him, how much he relishes the taste, scent, and slickness of me. Every sweep of his tongue is a demand that I stay open, stay present, submit to the inevitability of what he’s building inside me.
Still holding my wrists, he moves higher, his shoulders wedged tight between my knees, his jaw set, unmovable, as he flattens his tongue against me, pinning me with the weight of his mouth. The pressure is perfection, and my mind blanks out, vision blurring and white at the edges. I can feel the wet slide of his saliva, the scrape of his stubble, the heat of his breath. It’s almost unbearable how good it feels. Inside me, tension is wound so tight that when he finally—finally—lets go of my hands, I am shaking, fists knotted, desperate for something I can't even articulate.
He looks up at me again, eyes black and hooded, and the shape of his smile is nothing short of wicked. I moan his name, or maybe just a syllable of it, destroyed already, and in that sound he finds enough satisfaction to push me further, harder.
I see it even more clearly now. He’s unwilling to let up. I know it now like I know my own name; he won’t let me come down until he decides I’ve had enough. There’s a kind of safety in the loss of control, a freedom in being at the mercy of someone who knows exactly how to protect it.
I barely manage to choke out a plea, “Please, please don’t stop,” and he doesn’t.
He parts my thighs wider and slides two fingers inside me, curling them perfectly, his tongue never once losing pace. The double assault is too much; my body bows off the couch, musclesgoing taut and then shattering, release ripping through me so violently I nearly sob.
He gives me almost enough time to catch my breath, as he removes his shirt, then quickly sheathes himself — but only almost— as he gathers my knees in his hands and folds me nearly in half, my calves sliding up his chest, my ankles resting against the bulging muscle of his shoulders. He adjusts his grip, the pads of his fingers digging into the tender backs of my thighs, and for a moment he holds me there, bent and exposed, the length of my body stretched to its limit, every nerve tingling, braced for what’s coming.
Cold air licks at the slickness between my legs, causing me to shiver before his palm slips under my ass to cup and lift me, tilting my pelvis up toward him. “Your ass is thick and firm,” his fingers flex, and he releases a growl. “Fuck, doc, you are perfection.”
His other hand snakes between us, and he strokes himself, slow and obscene, the movement making his biceps flex, the veins in them protrude, and his face goes tight with concentration.
I can see the pulse hammering in his throat, the tension in his jaw as he lines himself up, the tip of his cock brushing against my hypersensitive core, nudging, teasing, making me gasp and thrash in his hold.
There’s a moment where I think he might draw it out, make me wait, but I’m sure the man I knew back then was not capable of that. I’m sure he’s going to split me open in a single, punishing thrust.
“Next time there is no holding…” he groans as he slowly enters me on a hiss, “back.”
But the next time… he wasn’t in charge, I was on top and riding the most amazing dick I have ever had… that happened to be attached to what may be the first real man I have ever fucked.
It wasdawn before Deacon Moretti finally left 213 Waverly Place in Greenwich Village. But not before I woke to find him in my kitchen, making coffee one-handed while holding my daughter. He whispered to her so softly I couldn’t make out the words, but I didn’t need to. I knew—God, I knew—whatever he said was perfect.
