Page 49 of Dearly Unbeloved
“Okay,” she whispers.
I squeeze her hips. “Now be a good wife and soak my face.”
Sierra curses and lowers herself. She stops just shy of touching my mouth, but it’s close enough. I pull her down the last half inch and moan in relief when my tongue finally touches her pussy.
All it takes is a few strokes of my tongue, a few brushes of my finger over her clit, for her nerves to disappear. She rocks against me, rolling and grinding her pussy over my mouth. It’s everything I’ve ever imagined and so much more.
She leans over slightly, and I use the new angle to run my tongue around the rim of her ass.
“Oh fuck,” Sierra cries, her thighs tightening around my head.
I’m in heaven.
She seems to like me playing with her ass if the increase in volume is anything to go by. I drag my tongue from her ass to her clit and back again, and she falls forward further, holding on to my thighs to brace herself.
“Rose,” she moans, reminding me of my name right before she zaps it from my head when she drags her hand up my thigh and presses her thumb against my clit.
“Is this…fuck, is this okay?” she asks, testing me with soft, gentle circles.
I’m unwilling to take my mouth off her long enough to answer, so I moan against her pussy and spread my legs for her.
She takes the invitation immediately, rubbing my clit with two fingers as she works her pussy all over my face. I drink her in, savoring the taste of her, trying to focus on how she tastes and not on the not-so-gentle attention she’s showing my clit. She wrenches a cry from my throat, but it mingles in the air somewhere with hers until I can’t tell who’s making what noise.
Her thighs are twitching as she gets close, and I want to taste her coming on my tongue. Apparently, we’re more in sync than I thought, because Sierra pinches my clit at the same moment I close my teeth around hers, and we both spiral into oblivion together.
I’m not a multiple-orgasms-a-day kind of girl—I’m too easily overstimulated—but for the second time today, I feel myself go limp under Sierra’s touch. I feel her everywhere, like an assault on each one of my nerve endings, but it doesn’t feel too much like it usually does. It’s a soft rippling pleasure, like a stone skipping across the water that keeps going into the horizon.
When we’re like this, a beautiful mess of moans and cries, trembling bodies, and heavy breaths, it’s all too easy to forget the reasons we dislike each other.
23
SIERRA
Can you try to be ready for 4 like you promised so we can be on time for a change? - R
P.S. How is it STILL 38 days?
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Rose look as disgusted as she does when the bored-looking teenager hands her a pair of worn bowling shoes.
“Are these mandatory?” she asks, sighing when the attendant tells her they are.
It’s notnotfunny, but I stop myself from laughing at her.
When Jazz told us she wanted to go bowling for her birthday, I half expected Rose to say no. I think I would’ve been surprised if she seemed excited about the idea of spending her Saturday in a loud, sticky bowling alley, but she’s here, and she’s not complaining—much.
Jazz is in her element. Apparently, Liam in a bowling shirt has been high on her “to-do” list—and by that, she literally means do. I really don’t want to think about it, butLiam, being Liam, is wearing a custom bowling shirt in Jazz’s favorite color, with MICHAELSON embroidered on the back. And Jazz, being Jazz, can’t keep her eyes off her husband. I may not understand the bowling shirt hype, but they’re cute.
And maybe I would understand if it was Rose wearing the shirt. Instead, she’s wearing a lilac skort and tight white tank, and she’s driving me crazy.
We all pile into our lane, and I can tell she’s overwhelmed right away. She perches on the edge of the bench, toying with the hem of her skirt and staring at the floor. I can’t say I blame her. The room is dark, save for the fluorescent-lit lanes, a few spotlights on the ceiling, and the flashing neon lights emanating from the arcade section. And, though I’m not usually bothered by loud noises, even I can recognize how loud it is.
It’s putting me on edge—not the bowling alley, but how it’s impacting Rose. I can’t shake the urge to comfort her, even though I know that’s probably the last thing she wants. But it’s normal—expected even—for spouses to comfort each other, and we are in public…
“Hey. You okay?” I ask softly, nudging her with my hip, preparing for her to snap at me.
“I’m fine.”
There’s no heat in the words, though she says them too quickly. And I don’t believe her at all.
