“I don’t, I promise. I might have a lot of flaws, but giving reluctant head out of some misplaced sense of obligation is not one of them. I love this. I want to do this for you. Relax for me, okay?”
She drags her silky pink tongue from root to tip, swirling it around the sensitive head and then, with no warning, she swallows me whole.
“God,” I rasp, my hips bucking up of their own accord, my system shocked from the wet, warm paradise of my wife’s mouth. I sink my fingers into her hair, loosening it from her messy bun and gently pull her off my cock before I lose it and break the world record for the quickest blow job ever received.
“‘Mabel’ is just fine, baby,” she winks, her pink lips glistening with saliva, and a pathetic whimper escapes me. “Ah, ah, ah, eyes on me, Ryder. You don’t want to miss any more of us, remember?”
Painful as it is to hold back on my orgasm while taking in the sight of my wife on her knees, I watch Mabel swirl her tongue over my tip, dipping into the slit and lapping up the flood of leaking precum. She hums as she tastes me, licking me in slow, teasing strokes, savoring me like she can’t get enough.
“So infuriating,” she murmurs.
“What?” I choke out.
“You are. You’re too perfect. Even your cock is perfect. Long and thick, it feels so good in my mouth. Gonna feel even better filling up my cunt.” Fisting my shaft, she takes me between her lips again, hollowing her cheeks as she sucks.
Jesus fucking holy shit balls.
“Mabel, baby girl, I’m gonna—” I moan, unable to talk when Mabel reaches up and takes one of my hands from her hair, threading our fingers together as she bobs and sucks me down. She squeezes my palm, and my resolve cracks. Mabel might not be ready to say the things she feels, but she’s showing me. She’s here with me, she has me, she’s going to catch me when I fall. And with that knowledge, I tip over the edge. My airway narrows as my orgasmtravels down my spine, the mounting pressure in my groin releasing along with a guttural sound from my throat as I come and come and come, harder than I ever have in my life. It’s violent, the way the pleasure is extended by the vibration of Mabel’s hums and the contracting muscles of her throat as she swallows my mess.
It could be five seconds or it could be five hundred years but eventually, my soul returns to my body and I’m able to see Mabel smirking up at me from her knees, a bit of my cum dribbling from the corner of her perfect little mouth.
“Baby girl,” I swipe the mess from her lips with my thumb. “Come up here. I want to touch you, please.” Mabel is one step ahead of me, already rising from her knees with a look in her eyes that says she’s ready to climb me like a tree.
A throat clears, and we both jump.
“Well, well, well, would you look at that?”
“Danny, what the fuck? How long have you been standing there?” Mabel shrieks, swiping at her face and tossing a forgotten blanket from the couch over my lap. I tuck myself away, avoiding eye contact with the man watching us from the kitchen island with his chin resting in his palm.
“Just a second. Don’t worry, Mabes. I missed themoney shot.” Danny winks at me, and heat creeps up my neck.
“What are you doing in my house? Fucking pervert.” Mabel launches a throw pillow at Danny, who catches it with ease.
“If you weren’t too busy enjoying your marital benefits to check your phone, you’d see dozens of messages from me, your mom, and Trina. We have to fly to New York tonight to catch the team charter to Milan.”
“Our flights aren’t until tomorrow,” I say stupidly.
“All your flights were moved up. There’s a huge snowstorm heading up the east coast. New York is expecting nine inches by morning. And by the looks of it,” Danny stares pointedly at my crotch. “So is Mabel.”
This time, it’s a remote that my wife sends flying, seething as it grazes over the top of her best friend’s head.
“He’s not wrong,” I mumble with a smirk, completely unsurprised when she finds another pillow to hit me over the head with. Danny claps his hands and marches towards the bedroom.
“Time to pack, children. We’re going to Milan.”
21
THAT’LL DO PIG
MABEL
The flight to New York is uncomfortable, to say the least. It’s one thing to sit on a four-hour flight with your parents, your in-laws (still so weird that Ramona and Robert are my mother- and father-in-law now), your husband, your best friend, and your publicist. It’s a whole other thing to sit with all those people on a four-hour flight when you’re suffering from the lady-equivalent of blue balls and none of them know that the legal-but-not-real-marriage you’ve been forced to fake has blossomed into something that feels like an actual relationship. I wasn’t sure if I should play the role of an over-the-moon newlywed obsessed with PDA with my husband for the benefit of the strangers in the airport, or if Ishould play it cool so the parents wouldn’t catch on that something more was happening between Ryder and I. I don’t even know if matters. All I know is the whole day has sucked.
It’s cold, my panties are wet, and my brain hurts.
The rush to leave Colorado turned out not to be worth it because now we’re delayed in the airport hangar with half of Team USA and their teams and families, waiting for a flight crew with adequate rest time to work our charter to Milan. And to top it off, we haven’t been able to rest and be annoyed at the delay comfortably, because Trina and the troupe of other publicists decided this was the perfect opportunity to invite the press for last-minute exclusives and sound bits before the Games. My cheeks ache from smiling, and I swear to all things holy, if I hear one more person say, “I’m just ready to be in Milan and get to work”, I’m going to scream.
I’m just settling into one of the oversized, modern (read: uncomfortable) lounge chairs near the edge of the hangar, watching Danny shoot his shot with a figure skater by the coffee bar when I’m being yanked up by the hand.
