“We’re the only ones on this floor. The kids are asleep, and everyone else is in the basement playing cards.” He goes to his knees and pulls me until my bottom rests at the very edge of the bed. “Lemme hear you.”
Further protest freezes on my lips when he hitches my legs over his shoulders and buries his face in my pussy. He’s not quiet, releasing a symphony of grunts and groans as he sucks my clit, the lips of my pussy, and laps at the juices flowing out of me.
“Wanted this all damn day,” he mutters against my opening before thrusting his tongue inside.
“Godddddddd,” I scream, not caring who hears. I need this, dammit. Every touch, kiss, and dirty word that falls out of Grip’s mouth liberates something that has been locked away, tightly coiled in me for hours. Under his ravenous mouth, that coil loosens. I unfurl like a bright banner and come for him in a long string of curses and cries. My legs flop open, my arms fall to my side, heavy, yet weightless. He’s so patient, so thorough, still lapping at the wetness my body offers it to him, rolling his tongue over the insides of my thighs like he’s licking a plate clean.
“You ready?” he mumbles, squeezing my ass and tonguing my pussy again.
Jesus, this man.
I nod and turn on my side, the position I find most comfortable lately. I’m not just bigger, I’m heavier. I feel the extra weight of a second child. I hear the jangle of his belt behind me.
“Grip,” I whisper, not bothering, too listless, to turn over. “I want to see you.”
I can almost hear the pause before he crosses around to where I can see him, his smile brightening the dimly lit room.
“What do you want to see?” he asks, hands hovering over the unbelted waistband of his shorts.
“You naked.”
Grabbing the collar of the t-shirt from the back of his neck, he wrenches it over his head and tosses it to the floor. His shoulders, chest, abs, arms – a map of sculpted muscles. If possible, he’s more beautiful than when I first met him. Sometimes the things we take for granted in youth, we have to work for as we age, and the intention, the work, yields an even better result. That’s Grip. I don’t remember him working out much before, though he’s always been in good shape. Now he lifts and runs daily, and it has chiseled his body even more.
The shorts and briefs follow the shirt, and my mouth waters when I see his dick fully erect, the head glistening. I lick my lips, and I swallow, imagining his thick, salty rivulets sliding down my throat. He comes closer and rubs the tip over my lips. My mouth opens immediately, hungry to take him whole, but he pulls back.
“Not tonight.” He laughs and groans. “Believe me, tomorrow you can suck my dick all day if you want. Tonight, I just need to be . . .”
He finishes the sentence with a look.
Inside you.
In our years together, bonding through fire and trial, sometimes emotion surpasses words. We’ve evolved, as creatures do, developing a language not made of syllables, requiring no more than a look or a touch. Grip lies down to spoon me, brushes my hair aside and kisses my nape. I drop my head back into the curve of his shoulder and neck and sigh. Grip is my harbor, his body enfolding me, his heart pounding into my back, like Morse code, sending a message every particle of me immediately comprehends and answers. A shared urgency pulses between our flesh and demands of our souls. Whatever I need from him tonight, he needs it from me, too.
He slips one hand under me, cupping my breast and tugging the nipple until it buds for him. He runs his other hand along my hip and then over my stomach.
“You okay?” he asks.
I know Grip well enough to hear the restraint he’s exercising. He needs wild, ungoverned fucking, but he doesn’t want to hurt me or the babies. As many times as I reassure him, it’s hard for him to believe it’s okay to be as rough with me as usual.
“Grip, you better fuck me hard. I need it as much as you do.”
“Babe,” he rasps, dropping his forehead against my hair. “Don’t . . .I can’t . . .the way I feel right now . . .”
I hook my leg over his behind me. “Show me.”
He grips me tighter to his chest, his hand pressed between my breasts. Burying his face in my hair, he adjusts my hips to the right angle before plunging in.
“Yessssss,” I moan, pushing back and gripping one of my ass cheeks to spread myself more for him. He’s so thick and goes so deep so suddenly, my breath suspends in my throat for a second, then whooshes out in a stream of relief. I’ve needed this, craved the rightness that comes when we do this, when we’re like this, when we have this together.
When he’s inside me.
At first, it’s a steady slide in, out, slow, measured, and I can tell he’s still checking the beast scratching to get out. His breaths truncate in my hair, frantic puffs of air as he struggles to hold onto the control I want so desperately to break. I reach back and grab his neck, anchoring myself to him, grinding back and giving him more.
“Jesus, Bris,” he rasps. “I love you.”
Tears sting my eyes. The tears I wouldn’t allow myself earlier because Zoe was years ago and I should be over it. I could hide that from myself, but I can’t hide anything from his love. It seeks out my needy places and lavishes me, comforts me, consumes me. The tears slide into the corners of my mouth, and they aren’t all old sorrow. They’re tears of gratitude for my children sleeping up the hall. Tears of hope for the babies growing inside of me. Tears of awe for the love of a man like Grip.
“God, Grip,” I sob. “I love you. Baby, I love you.”