She blushed at his confession, relieved that he was just as overwhelmed by this interlude as she was.
“I’m so, I just, do you think you could—”
“Anything.”
“Could you put one finger inside?”
Peter’s face seemed to freeze momentarily, then his expression crumpled as if pained. “Oh, Lucy, you’ll kill me.”
And when he gently slid a digit into the place that was so ready for him — any part of him — Lucy bit her lips together to contain a wail. The pleasurable squeeze of her muscles almost painfully yanked her forward, sending her over waves of release from the barest of touches.
“Lucy, may I?” asked her husband, looking as though he was nearing his own crisis while still well outside of her body.
“Anything,” she responded, putting her arms about his neck as he gingerly came between her thighs, his cock in hand.
“It’s not the largest…”
Lucy regarded him in confusion. She’d seen his cock, had it within her mouth, and she’d found it a lovely specimen. It was her only real specimen, to be sure, but she judged it a handsome and artistic staff of elegant proportions. And somehow, he felt he needed to…apologize for it? This wouldn’t do, not when she planned to repeat this exercise as often as their schedules would allow.
“I find your cock,” she said, taking him in hand and guiding him forward, “most excellent.”
“But it’s—”
He was over her now, his arms supporting himself as he pushed in and let her feel the warm heft she’d longed to experience since her first foray into pornographic literature. She couldn’t have her groom worrying about his manhood during their consummation!
She drew him down by the neck. Lucy was too quick for Peter to realize what she was doing, and she pressed a kiss to his lips.
It was a brief thing, not more than a peck, but the sweet pressure had the effect of surprising her new husband and pushing his cock into her, setting off a yowl of almost pained pleasure the likes of which would impress even a wild cat.
Peter’s hips bucked, and Lucy knew enough to recognize that he too had reached his crisis with remarkable speed.
“Lucy, oh, I didn’t even ask, forgot, didn’t ask if you wanted it—”
She ran a hand through his hair and helped him collapse into her arms after he’d thoroughly spent within her.
“I want it, Peter,” she said, a smile on her lips. “I want all of it.”
“Thank goodness, because I fear I’ve drained my sac within your lovely cunny,” he muttered, seemingly to himself.
Lucy moaned at his crude words and the feel of his seed. A little tremor brought forth a similar sound from her husband.
“You might just kill me, Lucy Sidwin,” he said, with an unmistakable note of fondness in his voice.
“And what of me?” she asked, making room for him as he removed his piece from her clasp and settled onto the pillow beside her.
Peter found a stray golden curl and wrapped it around his finger. “You’ve been most industrious with your studies, while I fear I’ve been remiss.”
“A girl can never be too prepared,” she whispered.
“I wondered if you might share your love of literature with me,” he said, drawing her closer so he could wrap her in his arms.
It was awkward, as so many things are at first, but they soon learned how they fit together, their bodies meeting and sharing heat in that grand bed of Peter’s that had once seemed so chilly.
“I would like nothing more than to show you the books I prefer. But only if—”
“There are conditions?” he asked with an amused smile.
“Only if you teach me something, too.”
