by Christa Wick
I nod. A lick of my lips encourages Sutton to pull the cord once, twice.
Cool air whispers across my skin. Leaning over me, Sutton forces my thighs apart, my sex open to his inspection and the maddeningly gentle current the fan produces.
My mouth bobs open. I squirm and kick off my heels before I dig them into the white, hand-stitched quilt beneath me.
The thigh-high stockings remain. Sutton runs his hands over them. Sometimes, he lightly scratches his nails along their surface.
For the last year, he has shown me hard and he has shown me soft. I am ready for whatever he offers.
"One more thing, love."
I watch with an aching anticipation as he goes to our closet and pulls out the kind of box that might contain a sweater or dress shirt.
This one holds a large rectangle of white lace big enough to cover the bed. The thick pulse of cream that leaks from my sex as he drapes the cloth over me proves there really is a kink for everything and everyone.
Climbing onto the bed, Sutton pushes my knees into a bent position. My squirms intensify. The lace feels like ants crawling over me. I lift my feet, run my legs against Sutton's arms and the sides of his torso. His hand dips beneath the fabric. With three fingers forming a scout's salute, he rubs at my swollen, pulsing clit. Then his other hand disappears beneath the drape of white. A thick gathering of fingers penetrates me. The thrusts are rough. I bounce with them, nipples scraping beneath the lace, eyes rolling back in my head.
"I've been hungry for this pussy all day," he rumbles, his body sliding toward the end of the mattress. Lifting the lace cloth, he settles his head and upper torso beneath the material.
I can't see what he is doing, but I feel it a hundred fold. Licking, fingering, the rhythmic bob of his upper body causing the lace to move back and forth across my flesh.
My hips thrust up against his mouth. The fabric drags and pulls—scritch, scritch, scritch. I groan, find his head and try to force just a little more pressure against my clit.
Sutton starts sucking on the fragile button. Hard. Teasing me with tongue and teeth. More fingers push into me, thick and flexing as he explores my pussy more deeply.
I moan, he mirrors the sound, the vibrations a warm purr against my clit. Reaching down, I claw at my thighs, drag my nails against his scalp. He offers a hard bite against my labia that has me screaming out for more.
The entire time, the lace is there, shifting against my skin, soft yet sandpapery, the persistent rub almost too much to bear.
"Please," I beg. "I need harder."
I do and I don't. The constant battle between soft and hard, smooth and rough, pulls me out of my body, leaves me floating above us.
Answering my plea, Sutton's fingers thrust hard and deep. The fingertips on his other hand dig into my thigh in a harsh grip. With an unbreakable seal of his mouth against my clit, he sucks and tongues until my body lashes around the bed like a downed wire as my first climax slams through me.
Re-emerging from beneath the lace, he drags me onto his cock. I call his name. My hands move beneath the scratchy material to find his thighs. My nails bite and scrape at his muscular flesh.
"How hard, baby?"
"Harder," I demand.
Knees digging into the mattress, he straightens so that his torso and thighs form a straight line. His first few strokes deny my request. But, ever-so-slowly, the intensity builds until he is slamming into me.
When I am close, when I claw at the quilt, he stops and strips the lace from me, leaving the cool air of the fan to torture my sweaty skin.
I start to beg. Short, excited whispers of "please" fall from my lips. I pluck at my swollen nipples. The muscles between my legs try to twist his cock into knots. But he leaves me to the stroke of the fan and my own erratic touching.
He wants me to writhe, wants the barely there sensations to drive me to the point of madness. Only then will he take me, fuck me, suck me, bury himself deep inside and fill me.
I roll onto my stomach, draw my knees beneath me and present my husband with the full curves of my ass. My hips weave in a cobra's dance.
Sutton answers the temptation with one of his own. Holding my cheeks apart, he glosses the tip of his tongue up my perineum to that second hole. I shudder and moan. And then I rock against the threatened invasion.
My pussy weeps, its need slicking my thighs. He pushes rough fingers back inside, scoops the cream up to where his tongue dances around the other tight circle. I feel the press of his finger, the yielding of my flesh.
"Harder, baby?"
"Yes," I plead. "Harder."
More fingers, more cream. His cock takes possession of my pussy. His hands push the cheeks above further apart. Thumbs slick with the arousal he has produced tease that second hole open. There is a seesaw, thumb-to-thumb, cock and pussy. I rock against the coordinated invasions. Sutton quickens his pace. He is right there with me, straining to hold on as our cries mingle.
"Maddy..."
"Yes," I beg, the muscles inside me coiling, milking his shaft, sucking at his thumbs, the tension everywhere trebling with each hard thrust of my husband.
"Baby…"
Surrendering completely, I jerk against his touch. My shoulders twitch. I press my face into the pillow to mute my screams.
His thrusts drive me on, pushing me to another level, leaving me floating until his own release claims him. The jerk of his cock brings me back into the moment. I feel the jets leave him to unfurl inside me in search of a sticky purchase.
Sutton collapses forward. His weight flattens me against the mattress. He does not pull out. Instead, he wedges his hand between my body and the quilt.
Finding the crease of my swollen labia, he eases his fingers between them. The assault on my clit resumes. It is only seconds before I am climaxing once more, mouthing and milking his still hard cock, drawing what he already shot deeper inside me.
We continue like that, straining, reaching, only rarely retreating, until I am nothing but melted bone. That is when Sutton lovingly moves my jellied limbs so that I am under the quilt.
Leaving the bed for a few minutes, he extinguishes the candles and turns off the fan. Sliding under the covers, he molds himself to my side, his face buried against my neck while he pulls me in so close there’s no telling where I start and he begins.
Then, as we drift to sleep, he murmurs a single line from the vows we took last year, like a solemn prayer.
My whole heart.
Epilogue #2
Sutton
-- Three Years Later --
Mindful of the hour, I enter the house quietly through the back door, a canvas shopping bag hooked on each arm. I slide my shoes off so that I am socks only then, with as much stealth as I once exercised in the military, I place the bags on the table and unload them.
Graham crackers, apple sauce, and fish sticks shaped like dinosaurs for our two-year-old son Sloan. Decaf coffee for Maddy since she is nursing our infant daughter Amelia. Bottle inserts for the extra milk Maddy expresses. Half a dozen other newborn necessities. Milk, eggs, three different juices. Steel-cut oatmeal and raspberry yogurt.
Putting everything away, I double check against the list on my phone to make sure I didn't forget anything.
Finished with the afternoon chore, I pad quietly down the hall.
The first open door I reach is Sloan's room. A glance at the bed tells me he has found somewhere else to nap. Reaching the nursery next, I note the empty crib. Lifting the skirt, I make sure Sloan isn't camped out beneath.
Still seemingly alone in the quiet house, I reach the master bedroom. Centimeter by careful centimeter, I turn the knob and push the door inward.
Everyone I am looking for—everyone I live for—is on the bed. Maddy sleeps with an arm around each child. Amelia is on her stomach, the small head filling the valley between Maddy's breasts. Softly snoring, Sloan is plastered against his mother's side, one hand lightly holding his sister's foot.
Wincing at the
sound of my clothing brushing against itself, I ease my phone from my back pocket, open the camera app and take a few shots. Putting the phone down, I place one hand against Amelia's back before I whisper Maddy's name.
She wakes as quietly as she slept, her gaze instantly shifting to the baby. I lift Amelia and return her to the crib. Re-entering the master bedroom, I find that Sloan, sensing his sister's absence, is sprawled against Maddy's chest.
Just as gently as I did with Amelia, I detach him from the mothership and put him in his own bed. There is a moment's protest in which he doesn't fully wake, and then he is out like a light once more.
Retrieving my phone, I crawl onto the bed next to Maddy and thumb through to the pictures I took.
"You know I'm hormonal," she protests with a sniffle.
Grinning, I shake my head. None of this is hormones. I know because the chemical chaos of pregnancy will fade. We have been through this before with Sloan. From the day of his birth to this morning's breakfast, Maddy shines whenever she looks at him—shines if she so much as thinks of him or Amelia.
Or me.
"Baby, I wish you never had to live with the feeling that you wouldn't be a great mother or that your children would never know how much you loved them."
Enlarging the display on the phone, I slide from the angelic face of our infant daughter and then to our son.
She doesn't need anyone to translate what the pictures reveal. Her head bounces in a tight bob and then she curls into me. I brush the hair from her face, kiss her tear-stained cheek. She fists my shirt, holds me tight, a tremor running through her lush frame.
Sliding a finger under her chin, I bring her lips to mine and kiss them until the quivering stops and Maddy is pushing eagerly against me.
"Thank you," she rasps.
I squeeze her to me, press a hard kiss against her forehead.
"This is all you, love," I say. "Your strength, your bravery."
Fisting my shirt, she looks up, her topaz gaze so bright I feel like I am staring at the sun.
"Your patience," she adds, her body melting into mine. "Your gentleness…"
I stop Maddy with a kiss. I roll her onto her back, stroke a finger against each eyelid so that she closes them. I caress her cheek, her shoulder, each whisper of my flesh against hers meant to soothe her back to sleep.
Her breathing evens, her body relents. I pull a throw blanket up and wrap it around us then hold my beautiful wife in my arms and follow her into dreams—and promises—fulfilled.
Thank You For Reading & Reviewing!!!
Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed the story and will consider taking a quick minute to drop off a review at the eretailer where you purchased this book. Every single review means so much to me, and helps us authors so much in terms of book visibility. Reviews not only affect online presence on eretailer search engines, but also marketing/promotion opportunities as well. And most of all, it helps readers like yourselves find books and authors. It’s one of the best ways you can support us indie authors and help our books find their way into more readers’ hands. Review or not, I appreciate all of you readers for continuing to hang out with the characters in my head and letting me continue to do what I love.
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Also by Christa Wick
the Far Too Tempting collection
[available now]
Tempted Beyond Reason (Wake & Lacey)
Tempted Beyond Relief (Wylie & Rhea)
Tempted Beyond Return (Logan & Lily)
Tempted By Trouble (Austin & Gina)
[an extra steamy Far Too Tempting standalone]
the Untouchable Curves collection
[available now]
Curvy Attraction (Aiden & Cecelia)
Curvy Seduction (Owen & Gemma)
Curvy Perfection (Cayce & Ashley)
His Curvy Temptation (Declan & Melanie)
[an extra curvy Untouchable Curves standalone]
the Irresistible Curves collection
[available now]
Chasing Her Curves (Hawk & Ginny)
Claiming Her Curves (Blake & Pippa)
Capturing Her Curves (Shane & Velda)
Keeping Her Curves (Ian & Juno)
[an extra alpha Irresistible Curves standalone]
the His to Claim (alpha cowboy) series
[available now]
Book 1: Every Last Doubt (Adler)
Book 2: Every Last Touch (Walker)
Book 3: Every Last Look (Barrett)
Book 4: Every Last Secret (Sutton)
Book 5: Every Last Reason (Emerson)
And there are even more books coming in August & September (32 more re-launches to be exact).
Stay tuned!
About the Author
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Christa Wick is a bonafide wallflower (a dandelion, if she can choose the flower) who has been accused of hiding her light under a bushel in the past. Truth be told, attempting to write this bio took more drafts than her books take. Here is what she came up with:
Christa Wick has been hybrid publishing since 2012 (yep, she’s one of the O.G. indie authors). She’s written 50+ romances starring curvalicious heroines and alphalicious heroes whose stories span the spectrum of: steamy & sweet, steamy & emotional, steamy & suspenseful, steamy & paranormal, steamy & dark, and…well, you get the idea. She also writes sci-fi thrillers and suspense novels under other pen names.
Website: http://christawick.com/
Enewsletter: http://christawick.com/alerts/
Places to find Christa hiding (other than her bushel):
