He seems okay with the sweetness—more than okay as I can feel him soaking it up like a desert soaks up rain—but the moment his lips meet mine, it’s like something spontaneously combusts deep inside of me.
Need licks through my veins, taking me over, taking me deep, so that all I can think of is Ethan. All I want and need and feel is Ethan.
I pull him more tightly against me, run my tongue over the seam of his lips in a desperate bid to taste him. To take him.
He groans deep in his throat, parts his lips, and then I’m in. Biting, sucking, licking my way deep inside him. He tastes salty like the ocean, dark like the pinot noir he’s such a fan of. Sweet like those damn blueberries that I just can’t get away from.
But on him, they taste good. He tastes good, this man who has so many sides, so many facets, so many puzzle pieces that I’m just now learning how to put together.
“Chloe, baby,” he breathes into my mouth even as I delve in for another taste. “Are you sure? Are you okay?”
“I love you,” I tell him. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
It’s obviously all the reassurance he needs, his hands slipping down to cup my ass and lift me so that I’m twined around him—my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist, my body wrapped as completely around him as I can get without actually crawling inside of him.
And then he’s carrying me, moving down the hall as fast as he can considering the fact that my mouth is still frantically devouring his.
We crash into the wall a couple of times, barely make it around a sharp corner. Stumble over an antique cabinet in the hallway. Ethan stops there for a second, balancing me on top of it as he rips my underwear down my thighs. I expect him to fumble with his pants and slam into me, brace myself for heady pleasure-pain of having him so abruptly inside of me.
But it doesn’t happen. Instead, he drops to his knees in front of me, buries his face between my thighs as—no preamble, no warning—he thrusts his tongue deep inside me.
I’m so on edge that I go off like a rocket, slamming straight into climax at the first stroke of his tongue against my inner walls. He makes an encouraging sound deep in his throat, the vibrations of it only making the sudden, riotous pleasure more intense.
“Ethan!” I gasp out, clutching at his hair, twining my legs around his shoulders, lifting my sex up to his mouth like some kind of ancient pagan offering. He takes me through the climax, his mouth and hands and body wringing every ounce of sensation out of me, before he once again climbs to his feet.
I spread my knees, pull his hips flush against me. He’s long and hard and feels so good that I can’t help rocking against him even though my whole body is still lit up from that last orgasm.
I reach between us, try to fumble open Ethan’s zipper—I want him inside me, need to make him feel as good as he just made me feel—but he just scoops me up again and continues down the hall to the master bedroom.
Admittedly, this time it’s with even less finesse—he’s rushing and stumbling over thin air, his fingers clutching my ass so tightly that I’m sure I’ll have bruises before this is all over.
Thank God.
It’s a strange reaction to have to being black and blue, but it’s also an honest one. I love being marked by him, love being able to see the signs of his possession long after we’ve made love. Like the belly chain that I never take off, they make me feel secure in a way that nothing else does. They ground me in my body, in my love for him and his for me.
“Please,” I start chanting as Ethan gets to the end of the hallway and—instead of making the turn—presses me against the wall, his cock hitting my clit at just the right angle despite the jeans he’s still wearing. “Please, please, please.”
“Fuck,” he groans into my mouth, thrusting against me in a way that makes my head spin and my body start to ache all over again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He’s thrusting against me in earnest now, his powerful hips and thighs slamming me back into the wall again and again and again. “I want you in my bed. In our bed,” he gasps out, ripping his mouth from mine even as he continues to rock against me. “I’ve dreamed of seeing you there. Your hair spread over the pillows, your skin pink and rosy against the sheets.”
“Oh, God.” Just the words—uttered in that deep, gravelly voice that means he’s reaching his limits—take me higher until another orgasm beckons just out of reach. “Next time. Please, next time.”
Shoving my hands into his hair, I grab on hard and pull his mouth back down to mine.
“Fuck,” Ethan curses again, turning me away from the wall and walking me back toward the bed.
He lays me down. Yanks my nightshirt over my head. Strips off his own clothes. And then he’s falling on me, throwing my legs over his shoulders as he thrusts deep. Thrusts home.
It’s fast and mind-numbing and hot, so hot. I come twice more while he moves inside me, his body pounding into mine. His hands touching me everywhere—everywhere.
Just when I think I’m finished, that I can’t take any more pleasure—any more sensation at all—Ethan cants my hips up even higher. Slips a hand between us. Strokes my clit. And sends me straight into the most powerful orgasm yet.
This time he comes, too, emptying himself inside me even as he calls my name over and over again like a mantra. Or a prayer.
When it’s over, when Ethan is asleep and I almost am, all the events of the day come crashing back at me. And I can’t help wondering when enough is going to be enough.
Enough pain.