I find my phone in my pants pocket, get my angle set up, kneeling on the ground to remember her the way I want to, and snap the pic. My God, portrait mode is near perfection, makes her look almost as good as she does in real life. This could be in a fucking Maxim spread, except no one is ever gonna see this but me. The way she looks freshly fucked, even though she hasn’t been yet. I’ll never be able to look at this without remembering how pretty she came for me, how unbelievably hot she was the first night I got to have her, my own personal pin-up girl.
I show her the pic for two seconds, see the pleasant surprise on her face when she sees herself almost how I see her, and then I toss the phone aside, grab her body and shepherd her toward the bedroom. I’m done waiting.
THIRTY
ELLIE
Eager kisses, exploratory hands, enamored murmurs, all the way down the hall and into the bedroom. Asher stops me before I climb into bed, and circles my body, eyes roaming.
“This is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” My pulse pounds at my throat, between my legs. “How do we get it off of you?”
Something low in my stomach swoops, drops down into my core. Think I might damn near wash it off my body in a flood if he keeps looking at me, talking to me like he’s been doing. I make a mental note to rehydrate ASAP, stock up on electrolytes—this can’t be healthy—but I give less than zero fucks right now.
“Just pull it, tear it, whatever you need to do,” I tell him, impatient.
He comes to a stop behind me, presses himself against me, rests his chin on my shoulder as his fingers start wandering. Him, in his boxer briefs, that hard-on pressed into my low back. Me, in this little costume he gave me the idea for with all those compliments he’s paid me about my curves, my looks.
He dips a fingertip or two beneath the waistband of the shorts, teasing the skin there, and I suck a breath in, heat radiating from the point of his touch. His mouth comes down on my shoulder, placing a kiss there before biting into the flesh, a little harder than I’d call gentle, as he starts to work the shorts down the swells of my hips, all the skin there. He tugs at them with both hands, mouth still pressed to my shoulder, my neck, my jaw, as I tremble in his arms. My hands find ways to busy themselves, finding his arms, his body, anywhere they can get acquainted with.
The shorts finally get free, and I kick them aside, turning in his arms, lifting my arms so he can peel this top that feels like latex off me. When he gets it over my chest, my breasts spring free, falling down and bouncing before laying heavily against the top of my ribcage. His eyes follow them, and his tongue comes out to wet his lower lip as he stares unabashedly.
My arms are still trapped in the top, pinned in the air over my head, but he abandons that task for long enough to take a breast in each hand, massaging, squeezing, fondling me. Takes a nipple in his mouth and tweaks, licks, sucks at it until I’m whimpering again. Nothing I can do about it with my elbows tied together with this tiny fucking shirt, upper arms held in place, pressed tight against both ears.
“Goddamn, I’d love to try to make you come from this alone,” he tells me, mouth still against my nipple as he continues torturing me.
“I’m so fucking game, but not today. Not now,” I beg, breathless.
“Deal,” he says, taking one final nip at my sensitive skin and then he pushes me onto the bed, on my back.
“My arms,” I remind him.
He looks up, a glint in his eye, tip of his tongue against that tooth, and thank God I’m lying down, because my knees buckle at the filthy intent I see there.
“I know,” he tells me. “Gonna have some fun with you first, then let you out to play.”
My eyes slam shut, a groan gets trapped in my throat, and I start to wriggle in anticipation.
How I went from a quarter of an orgasm a week to four a night, I’m not sure, but holy shit I wouldn’t even recognize the Ellie from six months ago right now. This Ellie? The one I am now? Living her best life, per-fucking-sonified.
Asher reaches for my eyes with his own, and I give them to him, like I’d give him all of me. He strips out of his underwear, lets me see what’s waiting for me. What’s going to be inside of me soon, and I salivate. Not just from my mouth.
This isn’t the man I would’ve told you I wanted—if you’d asked me to describe him at any time in the last fifteen years I’ve been looking for the guy of my dreams—but holy crap, has he been the man I needed.
My arms tangle above my head as I writhe in place on the bed. I hear the playlist move on to “Last Night Lonely” by Jon Pardi in the living room, filtering throughout the house, playing loud enough that we can just hear it above the noises we’re already making.
He climbs onto the bed, pushes my legs open, wide, and settles in between my thighs. Can’t believe the sight still takes my breath away after a week of so many instances of this I’ve lost count, but it does. I worry I might black out from the lack of oxygen, and force myself to take in a few breaths, keep my eyes on him as long as I can until he disappears beneath the hills and peaks of my curves.
I feel him, though. That tongue, what he’s doing with it. Starts out by sliding it into my core, a big lick up my center, just one. Makes my legs tremble around his body, and he presses them further apart, which has me bowing my back in response. The way he owns me like this, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever felt. Makes me want to make him pass out from pleasure when I’m finally freed from what’s holding me back. Physically. Because mentally, those chains are long broken now. This man is all I want, and while I know the rest of the world might not understand that—we have a huge uphill battle to face if we ever decide to go public—as far as I’m concerned, I’m all in. Both feet, deep end, no life vest or safety precautions. Ready to sink with him, if that’s what it comes down to.
And sink he does, his tongue, inside of me. A strangled moan is the most I can give him in response, words have fucking left the building.
He starts back in on my clit, still sensitive from the last orgasm out in the living room, but he takes it slow and soft, letting me adjust to the pressure. Keeps that rhythm going to the beat of the music, a predictable cadence to it that builds me back up to release quicker than I thought possible.
I try to say his name, but it just comes out garbled. He knows though, he always does. Asher brings his fingers to my entrance, and plays with it. I don’t know how else to describe what he’s doing, he’s just fucking with me. Starts pressing into me, then pulls back out. Not going for my g-spot, though he’s a goddamn pro at working it. No, he just teases me, toying with my entrance, giving me a little bit of pressure there, pulling back, until I’m out of my mind with need, never knowing what’s coming next, if he’s going to plunge inside of me, withhold himself from me, and the sexy game of it does me in.
His lips close around my clit and he sucks on it gently, still being cautious with me after the earlier orgasm, as he pushes just the tips of his fingers inside of me, and I burst. Feel myself clench around the tiny bit of him that I can feel, wish more of him was in there right now for me to grab onto, milk, work for his own release in return.
Feel myself spill as I come, but he’s there to lick up everything my body gives him, wide strokes of his tongue, lapping at my core, back up to my clit, until I’ve stopped shaking, the stars behind my eyes dissipate, and I can see the room around me again.
