I obey, placing my hands on the footer and arching my back, pushing my ass out and waiting, the heater blowing warm air against my skin, my nipples hardening, my legs clenching. He runs a finger over my sex, dipping inside and then continuing up, until he reached the tight pucker of my ass, and circling the spot. Tight, hard circles, pressing against the hole until I moan, the spot resisting, too tight to allow him entrance. “Please Paul... I need you.”
His finger moves, sliding back down, taking the temperature of my sex once again, hot wetness confirming my arousal, dragging that liquid higher, soaking my asshole, his thumb replacing the finger, a bigger, harder push, not yet inside, but enough to make my breath catch in my throat.
“Tell me,” he says softly, each word feathery gruff, his thumb pushing harder, breaking the seal and entering my darkest place. “Tell me how you want it.”
“Hard,” I whisper, my senses on full alert, wanting , waiting for what is coming, all of my arousal knotting and expanding from the intrusion in my ass. He pushes harder, deeper inside of me—a gasp, followed by a moan, spilling out of my mouth. I grip the footboard tightly, feeling the collection and drip of moisture in my pussy.
“Are you mine?” His voice is tight, guttural, and I smile despite myself, waiting, tense and excited, and coming apart when I feel the width of him, pressing against me, teasing the opening of my body.
“Answer me,” his hoarse voice demands, and I hear the raw edge of desperation, his need for confirmation as great as the throbbing in my core. His thumb moves slightly, pushing and then pulling, the hard sting of his hand taking me closer and closer as his finger continues its wet exploration, heat building in my ass, my mind becoming delirious from the sensation.
“All yours, Paul. There is no one else. I—oh God—love you.” The words tear from my mouth, my pussy clenching as my ass contracts, every muscle on high alert, loving the feel of his hand as he squeezes and grips my ass.
“God, you are beautiful,” he bites out, sliding his fingers into me, dipping them in and out, giving me two, then three fingers, my cores tightening around his fingers, prompting a groan to leave his mouth. “Are you ready for me, Madd?”
“Now,” I blurt out, the orgasm close, pleasure rolling toward the waterfall edge that will be my flight, “God, I need you.” It is coming, a giant black hole of pleasure and his thumb pushes deeper, the dirty feel of him there so wretchedly hot, pleasure sensors go off around every inch of his thumb, his wet erection hard against my skin, his fingers sliding further, deeper and deeper, slight pain mixing with pleasure, dominance with love. I tilt back my head, can’t hold it any longer, any coherent thought dropping off as I dive off the edge, into my orgasm, into a perfect black sea that grips my entire body and explodes it into a thousand shards of pleasure.
It is then, while my world caves in, while I am mindlessly oblivious to anything but my own ecstasy, which he shoves fully inside of me.
Fullness. The long hard ridge of him inside me, branding me as his own, his need as desperate as mine. One hand still on my ass, his thumb making the tight fit of his cock even tighter, his other hand gripping my waist, holding me firm and letting loose on my body with his cock. He doesn’t ease into the rhythm, doesn’t give either of us time to react. He just dominates me: hard, firm fucks that bury inside with every stroke, a furious rhythm of domination, his breath fast and loud, my name ripping from his lips as he takes me as his own.
We are one combined machine, pistons pumping, lubed and swift, perfectly fitting as it should, no pause in our movements, no hitch in our step. He works his thumb in my ass, pushing and pulling, the tight fit glorious in its intensity. I am going to come again, the shaking of my body, the feel of two holes filled, the animalistic fever that is Paul, a man unleashed, the level of his possession so fucking hot in its need.
“Tell me Madd,” he gasps, the hand at my waist sliding down, gripping the sore skin of my ass and forcing me on and off his cock. “Tell me that you are mine.”
I can’t. I can’t respond because my eyes are too tightly shut, my body racking underneath him, pushing harder, greedier against his skin, needing every stroke, every fuck, every inch of his thick cock as I come, a bundling outpour of muscles flexing and contracting, a scream coming from my throat, his hands loosening around the muscles as I release the sound, my body growing rigid, his fucks continuing, his own climax close.
When I come up for air, I tell him. I tell him how I have always loved him. How he has always had my heart. How now, he will be the only one in it. I look over my shoulder at him, at his beautiful face, hair mussed, eyes vulnerable as he meets my eyes, relief spilling into those blue depths of perfection. He suddenly slows his strokes, the moment changing, and rolls me over, pulling out of me long enough to lift me onto the bed and settle down above me. He takes my mouth, kissing me deeply, murmuring soft words of love as he spreads my legs with his knees, and enters me again, slower this time, fully thrusting in and then pulling out, his eyes on mine.
It feels so different without Stewart. It feels, in ways, like the first time we’ve ever made love, like every other time was a threesome with an invisible presence watching over us. Now, as I wrap my legs around his waist, as he leans down and kisses my lips, I feel his relief. I feel an absence of fear, and I realize how unfair I have been to him. I realize how every experience must have seemed a competition, every visit I took to Hollywood prompting worry in him that I might not return. His touch on my skin is now shaky, as if he is unsure that I am really here, that it is really true, as if he has to verify it for himself.
I pull him to me, wrap my hands around his neck, lift my mouth to his. And I tell him, in between kisses, how deeply I love him. How I will never leave. How I am his as long as he will have me.
His breathing slows, his kisses deepen, then he closes his eyes, thrusts deep, and comes.
ONE YEAR LATER
SMUGGLING: [verb] To hide arousal, usually by
holding your board in front of you while walking.
There are ways you shouldn’t think about your future brother-in-law. Places that should be off-limits for your mind to wander. Like right now. I am watching him, his hand skimming down the open back of her dress, slipping inside and gripping her waist, his thumb rubbing a soft pattern on her skin. My eyes cannot pull from that spot, from the slow motion of his hand, the seductive pass over her skin. I know how that feels, know how frantic he gets when he fucks, how he pushes deep with his cock, pins you to the mattress, or the desk, or the floor, his hands hard on your wrists, his face intense above you, heat and raw need in his eyes. I blink, turning away, stepping to the kitchen, and look for Dana. Her strength grounds me; her knowledge of everything we have been through reassures me.
She smiles at my entrance, waving me over with a flour-covered hand. “I need those fingers. Come knead this dough.”
I wash my hands in the small island sink and pat them dry on a hand towel, joining her at the counter, my hands diving into the sticky dough, grateful for the job.
“How’s it going?” she murmurs.
“Fine.” I say softly, though no one is close enough to hear. “I’ve only spoken to him once—when he introduced me to her.”
“And...” she reaches for flour, sprinkles a line of it on the counter. “What do you think of her?”
I think about the question, how to word my response. “I think...” I pause to scratch my hairline with my forearm. “That she is nice. Accommodating. Stewart says she’s a web designer?”