His hand cups me warmly, and he continues to fondle my pussy lips, taking each one separately and exploring its shape.
My head goes light and dizzy, maybe from the question, and maybe because every bit of my flesh is uniquely sensitive to him.
His fingers slip easily through the growing wetness. “Will you marry me?”
“You make your case eloquently.”
Beresford grins, the pad of his index finger finding my clit. “Marry me, Sybil.”
“Fuck…” I whisper, wrapping one arm around his neck. I need leverage and stability, but I have to be careful not to put pressure on my ankle, or the subtle soreness will spike into pain and undo the pleasure I’m feeling.
Beresford flattens his fingers against my clit and moves them rapidly back and forth, jiggling the little bud in a rhythm that’s wildly titillating, completely irresistible.
“Will you marry me?” he says in my ear.
My mouth is open wide, and breath rushes in hectic gasps from my lungs. My skin is filmed with sweat as I struggle for this third orgasm, the most difficult and the most craved. I’m writhing, gasping, frantic, on the verge of begging him aloud. But I don’t have to beg, because he already understands what I need.
Beresford plunges two fingers inside me and pumps them in and out several times, so rapidly that my cunt makes a splashy sound as he fucks me with his hand. When I’m practically screaming through each gasp, he goes back to the lightning massage of my clit. Everything is wet—his hand, my thighs, themattress. His face is tucked against the side of my throat; his beard grazes my shoulder and collarbone.
The momentum of his hand hits a new level of frenzy. “Fucking marry me,” he growls, and as the orgasm crashes over me I scream, “Yes, yes!”
He sinks two fingers all the way inside me, and my cunt clenches around them.
“I love feeling you come,” he says. “Those little spasms and flutters… perfect.”
When the orgasm fades, he draws his wet fingers out of me and places his hand over one of my breasts. “Keep breathing like that,” he whispers, his eyes on my chest. “I love the way they rise and fall. Godsdamn you, why are you so beautiful?”
I can’t answer him. I’m too spent, utterly washed out from the intensity of the pleasure.
He gives me a warm, salty, wine-flavored kiss. “Was that a real yes, or an orgasmic one?”
“Orgasmic,” I reply. “But if you answer one question, I’ll give you a real one. Why do you want to marry me?”
“Because I love you.”
“Love is one reason for marriage, but you should have other reasons, too.”
“Here are two more reasons.” With a wink, he dives down to push his face between my breasts.
“Get back up here, you lech,” I giggle. “Be serious for a minute.”
“I am being serious. I am obsessed with you, Sybil. When we’re not together, I find myself wanting to talk to you all the time.”
“Is ‘talk to’ a euphemism for ‘fuck’?”
“No. But I want that too. I want you in my bed every night. I want to bring you tea every morning—”
“Coffee,” I correct him.
“Coffee, then. Anything you want. I want you and your family to have what you need. That’s what you want, too, isn’t it? For them to be well cared for?”
I sit up straighter. “Don’t do this out of pity, Beresford.”
“I’m not. But helping you and your family is another excellent reason to make this official. I’d like to keep fucking you for my whole life, if you’ll let me, so why not sanctify the act in the eyes of society?”
“What about your sex parties?” I arch a brow. “Will those continue?”
“They don’t need to continue unless you want them to. Though I will say, the young people of this area seem to enjoy them.” He smirks.
