Page 24 of Untangled
“Any time I can eat a thousand calories of meat, cheese, and fried potatoes while staring at your abs is a win in my book. My dream is to not leave this bed for the next fourteen hours. That would be best of all.”
“And what’s the sleeping/not sleeping ratio in this dream of yours?” He takes a bite of his burger and sauce sticks to the corner of his lips. When I reach over to wipe it, he takes my finger into his mouth and gently sucks. It’s the eye contact that kills me—those dark brown eyes, eager and earnest. He releases my finger with a wet pop.
“Hmmm, let’s say ten hours for sleeping, four hours for other stuff.”
“We can wrap up this dinner in the next ten minutes, then. Give ourselves more time for theother stuff,” he replies. A smile twists at his lips, and it’s almost shy. It would be if I didn’t know better. “Start by losing the bra.”
I hold his gaze as I reach behind me and unclasp the band. The slippery fabric falls to my waist and his eyes fall to my tits, which bounce from being released. The weight of his stare and the cool air from the wall unit have my nipples puckering instantly. The warmth of his mouth would soften them, and that sounds heavenly right now.
“Any chance you’re already done?” I ask, as I lift my tray to the nightstand and push his away from his lap. “And take off your boxers.”
He stands, grabs the tray and places it on the floor. His boxers follow suit as he says, “With dinner, yes. With you, not until you’re begging me to stop.”
“Is that a threat?” I tease, as he climbs back onto the bed.
“No, baby, that’s a promise.”
With one smooth motion, he grabs my waist and lifts me to straddle him. “These last few days, Molls, I thought I might die, not having you the way I wanted. It’s been so good, and just enough. But I’m tired of just enough.” He bends down to pull a nipple into his mouth and sucks hard. A throaty moan pours out of me. “I think you’re tired of it too.”
With his hands on my hips, he pushes me slowly down his length, then pulls me back, groaning, as he coats himself in the wetness that’s been growing between my legs all night.
“Never get rid of these,” he says as he snaps the band of the crotchless panties again. “The entire ride over here I was thinking about slipping my hand under your skirt and feeling for myself how eager you were. Knowing you were right there, this pussy exposed and dripping for me, it’s a miracle I didn’t crash the car.”
“I would’ve let you, you know. Finger me on the ride. I would’ve loved it.”
This time, his groan comes out tortured. I slide back and forth on his cock of my own volition and watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows.
He grabs the hair at the back of my head in a fist, tugging until my eyes meet his. “You know what I’ve learned thesepast few days? You like being slutty for me. All those nights we spent going through the motions andthisis what you needed. Isn’t that right?”
My nod is accompanied by a whimper as he tilts my hips and grinds me against him, hard.
“Like I said the other day—I meet your needs. And you are needy tonight, baby. So needy.”
If the prompts on the cards have unlocked a boldness in how I express myself with my body, they’ve done the same with Daniel’s words. And God, it’s working for us. The more aggressive I am, the dirtier he gets. The filthier his words, the more pliable I become. What if we’d spent our whole life, our whole marriage, never knowing this? Never exploring how free we can feel, not outside of our commitment but in it? Because of it?
Another slow, tortuous roll of my hips brings me back to the gaping want between my legs. “Please, fill me up. It’s been too long,” I ask.
“You know I will, but not yet, baby. I need to taste you first.”
Before I can reply, he sits up, loops his arms under my thighs to lift them, and slides down the bed. He stops when my knees are on either side of his ears, my center hovering over face.
"God, this view. Do you know how pretty you are, all swollen and pink and wet like this? I can hardly stand it, knowing you’re this worked up and I haven’t even touchedyou yet. You’re perfect,” he says, and then lifts his head to lick one slow swipe up my core. “You taste perfect too. Now sit.”
I’m about twenty pounds heavier than I was the last time we did this. He senses my hesitation and says, “Molly, if you don’t sit I’m going to make you sit.”
“But I don’t want to crush you,” I reply, self-conscious of my new body and what it might mean for this particular activity.
“Pleasecrush me. Please crush that pretty little pussy into my face until the only thing I can breathe is your scent. Let me have it, Molls. Sit.”
I won’t argue with a man who is begging to pleasure me, so against my better judgement, I sit. I’m rewarded immediately with a groan that vibrates at my entrance. He spends the next few minutes exploring with his mouth and tongue, building up my need and never lingering long enough to meet it. He laps from my entrance to my clit, he sucks right there and flicks with his tongue, he dives into me and pulls back out just as quickly. Occasionally, he turns his head to bite at the flesh of my inner thighs. It’s infuriating and wonderful and also, I might die if he keeps it up.
“Babe, please,” I whine.
“Please what?” he answers from beneath me, when I recline just enough to spare his mouth.
“Please, make me come.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear. Of course, baby,” he replies, before gripping my legs and diving back in with a fervor that steals my breath. What was once languid, leisurely, is now intentionally aggressive. He spreads me with his thumbs, leaving my sensitive clit entirely exposed to the thrashing of his tongue. He flicks in rhythm until I’m thrusting against his mouth, chantingmorewhen I can catch a breath.
