Page 60 of Carver
I kiss the tears from her cheeks, first one, then the other. They’ve tracked to the side of her nose, so I kiss her there too. I lick the salty moisture from the side of her mouth where one spilled. She turns her face, claiming my lips, kissing me with all the fire and passion in her soul, and her soul isoverflowing.
I can feel her holding herself back. Even though I was cleared by Archer to return to most normal duties and she trusts his opinion, resuming tasks and getting up closer and personal with skin that was just sewn back together is something else.
I break the kiss and grab the wand hanging at the side of the blinds over the sink. I twist them closed, then take the bottle of champagne from Bronte’s hand. She popped the cork, but it’s still in place. I push my thumb against the base of it, releasing a stream of smoke just like in all those shows.
The bottle is no joke. It’s enough for a small household to celebrate with. I’ve never had champagne and when I tip it to my lips and swallow, the bubbles tickle my throat, burning up my nose to my eyes. It’s sweet and almost light and airy. I could see how this would sneak up on a person. It doesn’t taste like alcohol.
I fill my mouth, but don’t swallow. I set the bottle down on the counter and take Bronte’s chin between my fingers. The light above the table illuminates the sheen in her eyes. They’reso wide. She gasps when I glide my thumb along her bottom lip and press down. Her mouth parts like she’s hypnotized by the sight of me. I bring my lips to hers, allowing just a trickle of the champagne to trickle into her mouth.
She whimpers when the sweetness hits her tongue. Most of the bubbles are probably gone and it’s been warmed by my mouth, but she appreciates the sentiment. This is a first for us. It’s a little bit strange, but I also find it hot as hell, especially when she tangles her hands in my hair and slams her mouth to mine, encouraging me to flood her mouth with champagne.
She swallows rapidly, but some still spills out of her mouth and flows down her chin. I lap it up, hungry for the taste of her, aching to touch her.
I watched her get dressed earlier. I know that her stockings are thigh highs, held in place by a black lace garter. She put on the matching panties and the black bra, both delicate and tantalizingly lacy on under that dress.
I cup her breast over the dress. Her head falls back, but she takes my hand and moves it over her shoulder, to the base of her neck where the zipper starts. “This dress was my mom’s. I really don’t want to wreck it, and it’s much more fun with it off anyway.”
We’re in agreement there. I undo the zipper, which works like butter even though the dress is vintage, and help lift it over Bronte’s head. Her hair is a mass of waves. I saw her working that magic with a curling iron earlier too. The dress tugs over her hair, but it barely gets mussed. She takes it and walks to the bathroom in the world’s sexiest getup, hangs the dress back on the hanger she left on the metal rack on the door, and then stops.
Literally, she just freezes, deer in the headlights style.
It’s probably the way I’m looking at her. In that case, more like deer in the wolf’s sights.
“This is new,” she hovers her hand down her body.
She normally doesn’t choose things like that. She likes functional underwear, bras without underwire, most of it cotton. She looks like she just stepped out of a lingerie store. Her legs are endless in those stockings, her breasts pushed to perfect orbs in the bra, the panties cut low on her gently rounded hips.
“I feel a bit ridiculous,” she admits. “You can bathe me in champagne if you like, though. I’m not partial to any of this. It’ll wash just fine anyway.”
She’s so adorably nervous. I love the way her pulse throbs at her neck, the way her whole torso expands and contracts with every breath.
I’m going to blame the way I just snap on all the touching that we’ve been doing. I want to be inside of her so badly that it’s addled my brain.
I grab the champagne bottle and take a big swallow. I stalk across the kitchen and wheel Bronte away from the door to keep the dress safe. Before she can brace for it, I spit the champagne over her chest. It wasn’t a small mouthful and droplets of the sticky sweet liquid bead over her breasts, slicking down to her belly.
“Oh- oh my god,” she stammers. “There’s probably something wrong with me because that was hot. Seriously hot.”
I’ve made a mess of her and I’m going to clean up. Every last drop.
I steer her around to the counter and hoist her up, almost back in the same spot she was sitting. I take the bottle and upend it over her, pouring it over one breast and then the other. I make sure only a slow trickle comes out, but it’s still enough to soak her.
Her head falls back, those wavy curls brushing down against the small of her back. Her lips part and I kiss her violently, until she’s gasping and whimpering against my mouth. I want to linger there, but I can’t force myself to do it. I don’t have the control or the patience.
I tear at the clasp of her bra, freeing the tiny eyes from the hooks. I tear it off of her and toss it to the floor. She can’t help but make a small sigh at how good it feels to be freed from the underwire. Her nipples are already tight, soaked and glimmering with a wet sheen. I close my mouth over the first, sucking hard enough to make her cry out. She buries her fingers in my hair, but she’s not asking for mercy. Not even when I scrape my teeth over the tight peak. She rocks forward on the counter and drags my face into her, mewling like an animal.
I cup her other breast while I suck her nipple, punishing her with my tongue and teeth. I knead the other nipple, pinching not so gently, but only because I know she doesn’t want me to be gentle. I know exactly where she feels it. She’s clenching her thighs together, rocking against the counter.
I didn’t just make a mess of her breasts. The champagne trickles down her belly and lower, to soak her panties.
Tohelpsoak her panties. I’m pretty sure they were ruined before I got the champagne involved.
I lick a path down her belly, laving up the spilled champagne. It’s a thousand times more delicious mixed with thetaste of her skin. She parts her thighs for me, spreading her legs so wide that it has to hurt.
She grasps my hand and drags it to her. I splay my fingers over her wet panties, but it’s not what she wants. She guides me down past the waistband, into the lace, sliding my fingers straight to her center. She pushes hard against my fingers, trying to get me to fill her with them. I tease her instead, dipping them shallowly into her entrance.
She shivers violently, her hips jolting like she’s been electrocuted. She’s beyond soaked, and not just from the champagne. I can smell how aroused she is, and mixed with the sweeter liquid, it’s a heady scent that is going to kill me. My cock throbs in my jeans, trying to punch its way out, as per usual.
Half of me wants to feed her my cock and have her work me until I pull out and come all over her, making a mess of her that we can both clean off, but part of me wants to wait and get her to the bed. At this point, it’s going to be nearly impossible. I’m half wild with how badly I need her. I’m so far gone that I could come right now. Literally. It’s already happened, with zero stimulation.
