Beautiful Beloved
Page 32
She ground down over my cock, and then pushed me until I was lying on my back so she could peel my trousers and boxers off in a fierce, determined tug.
“Socks,” I commanded quietly, and she giggled as she finished undressing me completely.
My wife gave me a look that communicated some pretty wicked intentions before she licked her way up my legs and pushed them apart to draw her tongue across my balls.
“Filthy fucking girl,” I said through a laugh, closing my eyes as she drew her slick tongue up my cock. I pulled her hair into my fist and guided her as she was sloppy and wild all over me. Pushing onto an elbow, I reached to spank her tight ass with my other hand and groaned when she pushed herself deep onto my cock in response, swallowing the tip deep into her throat.
It was too good—too much wet and suction and pull along my length if I was going to last at all—and I pulled out and flipped Sara to her back, smiling at her surprised giggle and climbed over her ribs, pushing her tits around my cock. I was still slick from her mouth and I rocked over her, fucking with a sort of savage abandon I hadn’t let myself feel in so long. I might bruise her and I could tell neither of us cared. I could come all over her neck, defile her, feel the tip of my cock hit the delicate skin of her throat and it was the kind of rough and possessive behavior, I could see from her expression, that she needed.
She’d missed seeing me like this, I knew. She’d missed seeing me obsessed and hungry to claim, seeing me overcome and wild. Did she really need to be reminded? I told her every day she was beautiful. Every night she felt my desire for her when she curled against me. But of course, here it was different: here we were more bare somehow than we were even in our bedroom, as if constantly raising the stakes of what we were willing to share with the people on the other side of the window.
We gave them a show but it was never false. It was as if it was a game where we could unveil every dark or wicked thought we had, every needy impulse, every vulnerability that needed to be given attention.
See? she said with her eyes. You forgot how much I love to see you wild for me. You forgot this is where we play with fetish and boundaries.
But I remembered.
And it was the best game. I could see the moment she felt it, too, because her lips parted in this elated smile and she laughed, sliding her fingers over me and arching her spine to press my cock harder into her skin.
I was close, could feel the ache behind my naval build and spin downward until I was wild—one hand braced beside her head while I fucked earnestly, hips pivoting faster and harder over her until the growling sound I heard was my own voice, warning her, begging her, telling her how hard I was going to come and where.
Her neck.
Her tits.
Her chin and bottom lip when she bent, wide-eyed, watching me spill out onto her.
Still gasping, I slid down her body, smearing my hand down her wet skin and resting my palm on her belly as I settled between her legs, kissing her hip, her thigh, and finally the sweetness just between her legs. Her hands found their way into my hair and pulled, hips lifting from the mattress, circling as I sucked and licked at her, knowing how to make it fast and easy, knowing how to make the hoarse cries tear from her throat when she came, and then slowed, smiling up at her eyes closed in relief, her upper lip glistening with sweat.
I rose to my knees and slid my fingers into her, watching from above as I pumped them, fucking her. I’d seen her naked in every conceivable way—spread wide beneath me like this, or showering alone, begging for more pleasure or less pain, absorbed in my touch and oblivious to my proximity—and there was something so intimate, so safe, about sharing this sight of her but being the only one who could ever touch her, who would ever know each of those quieter moments. No one else would ever see her give birth to our child or bend and shave her legs in the bath. No one else would ever see her sleeping, curled around a pillow in our bed or nursing our daughter at four in the morning. So the owners of each set of eyes out there watching her come apart under my touch would never, not in a million years, be able to give her what I gave her. For Sara, nothing turned her on more profoundly than my total, obliterating adoration.
Every second that I loved her—a love story for the ages condensed into not even two years—coalesced into this single fucking touch. My hand slowed, fingers carefully pulling from her as I bent and covered her body with mine, covered her lips with mine. I was nearly hard enough again, and pushed into her, wanting to be inside when she completely shattered.
Her legs wound around my hips, hands slid down my back and she pressed her perfect, soft sounds right into my ear, telling me she was close, to move faster, to suck her, harder, and harder.
“Socks,” I commanded quietly, and she giggled as she finished undressing me completely.
My wife gave me a look that communicated some pretty wicked intentions before she licked her way up my legs and pushed them apart to draw her tongue across my balls.
“Filthy fucking girl,” I said through a laugh, closing my eyes as she drew her slick tongue up my cock. I pulled her hair into my fist and guided her as she was sloppy and wild all over me. Pushing onto an elbow, I reached to spank her tight ass with my other hand and groaned when she pushed herself deep onto my cock in response, swallowing the tip deep into her throat.
It was too good—too much wet and suction and pull along my length if I was going to last at all—and I pulled out and flipped Sara to her back, smiling at her surprised giggle and climbed over her ribs, pushing her tits around my cock. I was still slick from her mouth and I rocked over her, fucking with a sort of savage abandon I hadn’t let myself feel in so long. I might bruise her and I could tell neither of us cared. I could come all over her neck, defile her, feel the tip of my cock hit the delicate skin of her throat and it was the kind of rough and possessive behavior, I could see from her expression, that she needed.
She’d missed seeing me like this, I knew. She’d missed seeing me obsessed and hungry to claim, seeing me overcome and wild. Did she really need to be reminded? I told her every day she was beautiful. Every night she felt my desire for her when she curled against me. But of course, here it was different: here we were more bare somehow than we were even in our bedroom, as if constantly raising the stakes of what we were willing to share with the people on the other side of the window.
We gave them a show but it was never false. It was as if it was a game where we could unveil every dark or wicked thought we had, every needy impulse, every vulnerability that needed to be given attention.
See? she said with her eyes. You forgot how much I love to see you wild for me. You forgot this is where we play with fetish and boundaries.
But I remembered.
And it was the best game. I could see the moment she felt it, too, because her lips parted in this elated smile and she laughed, sliding her fingers over me and arching her spine to press my cock harder into her skin.
I was close, could feel the ache behind my naval build and spin downward until I was wild—one hand braced beside her head while I fucked earnestly, hips pivoting faster and harder over her until the growling sound I heard was my own voice, warning her, begging her, telling her how hard I was going to come and where.
Her neck.
Her tits.
Her chin and bottom lip when she bent, wide-eyed, watching me spill out onto her.
Still gasping, I slid down her body, smearing my hand down her wet skin and resting my palm on her belly as I settled between her legs, kissing her hip, her thigh, and finally the sweetness just between her legs. Her hands found their way into my hair and pulled, hips lifting from the mattress, circling as I sucked and licked at her, knowing how to make it fast and easy, knowing how to make the hoarse cries tear from her throat when she came, and then slowed, smiling up at her eyes closed in relief, her upper lip glistening with sweat.
I rose to my knees and slid my fingers into her, watching from above as I pumped them, fucking her. I’d seen her naked in every conceivable way—spread wide beneath me like this, or showering alone, begging for more pleasure or less pain, absorbed in my touch and oblivious to my proximity—and there was something so intimate, so safe, about sharing this sight of her but being the only one who could ever touch her, who would ever know each of those quieter moments. No one else would ever see her give birth to our child or bend and shave her legs in the bath. No one else would ever see her sleeping, curled around a pillow in our bed or nursing our daughter at four in the morning. So the owners of each set of eyes out there watching her come apart under my touch would never, not in a million years, be able to give her what I gave her. For Sara, nothing turned her on more profoundly than my total, obliterating adoration.
Every second that I loved her—a love story for the ages condensed into not even two years—coalesced into this single fucking touch. My hand slowed, fingers carefully pulling from her as I bent and covered her body with mine, covered her lips with mine. I was nearly hard enough again, and pushed into her, wanting to be inside when she completely shattered.
Her legs wound around my hips, hands slid down my back and she pressed her perfect, soft sounds right into my ear, telling me she was close, to move faster, to suck her, harder, and harder.
