As if that wasn’t enough, his hand slid upward, fingers rubbing in between my pussy lips as his tongue played around my entrance. I gasped aloud and groaned, stuffing my face in the sheets. My legs were trembling as I fought against the desire to stay put and let his tongue work his magic, or fuck myself against the delicious pressure of his hand.
Chris hummed. I felt the vibration roll up through me, better than the best toy. I almost lost it there.
Sensing that I was close, his fingers slipped down to join alongside his tongue. His digits delved deep into me to add that extra little bit of sensation I so desperately craved.
My restraint snapped, and my hips rocked downwards and back as I fucked myself on him. My moans were loud in my own ears.
I peaked hard, undone by his tongue. My rubbery legs could not hold me anymore, and I sank fully down to the mattress, spent.
Chris stretched out beside me. I reached for him, running my hand along his thick cock. Could it be thirteen inches?
He grabbed my hand as I rubbed my finger over the slit on the tip.
“I was just giving you a preview for later,” he purred.
“You don’t want me?”
“I absolutely do! But honestly,” he said, making a slight face. “I think I have a little condom PTSD.”
“Feel free to evict Gran for her little cooking experiment,” I said.
“And on that note.” He swung his long legs off the bed. “You want breakfast? There are leftovers.”
“I might have eaten all of those,” I admitted, pulling on my clothes.
Chris laughed and pulled on his sweatpants. “I’ll order something.”
He scrolled on his phone as we headed to the open kitchen living area.
“Oh my God!” I exclaimed when I saw the scene.
Chris looked up, clapped a hand over his eyes, and swore.
“Gran, you have to wear a bra in the common areas,” I said forcefully.
“I’m working on my OnlyFans account,” she protested. “It’s part of my advertising push to sell candles. And besides, this is a bra.”
“Bras provide coverage and support,” I said, grabbing a kitchen towel and draping it over her chest. “You’re wearing some sort of bondage bodice that has more holes than fabric.”
“It’s part of my brand!” she insisted. “I already made a hundred dollars.”
“Really?” Chris asked in shock. “People pay to look at you?”
“To be fair,” Gran said, tapping her chin, “some of them were paying me to cover up.”
“Understandable,” Chris said, still horrified.
“But,” Gran told me, “I have to find us another income stream for when, you know, you’re a washed-up divorcée and we’re on the street.”
“I’m not going to dump you on the street,” Chris said automatically. “You are free to stay here after the divorce.”
Gran peered at him then turned to me.
“Don’t hang your hat on a man,” she instructed, “even if he’s well hung. Divorces are always nasty.”
“Not ours,” I said happily. Chris took my hand and squeezed it.
Ding dong!
