by Angel Payne
The only human on earth who can fully satiate my sweet tooth.
With the spun cream of her skin beneath my roaming tongue. With the succulent strawberries of her breasts filling my mouth. With the flood of sunshine syrup from between her thighs, pouring down my throat as she pleads my name over and over again…
Annnnd now I’m officially obsessed.
Is there any other way to be, when a woman’s exposed her mighty lady balls and then all but ordered her husband to come and stroke them?
Yep. Obsessed.
Soon. Very soon.
Dear fuck, I can only hope.
I work my lips against each other, fighting the fucking need for her. For her skin, creamy as coconut. And her pussy, delicious as honey. And now, how I can even smell her out here. Her hair, full of wind. Her essence, full of sunshine.
“I’m not imagining you.” I deliberately say it aloud, as if doing so will make it true. “Damn it, Emmalina. I’m not—”
“No. You’re not.”
Oh, thank fuck.
I sure as hell didn’t imagine that, either. I just need to find the damn woman now. To get to the perfect lips belonging to that velvety voice. And preferably, the rest of what’s attached to that temptress.
Temptress…
I had to go and pluck that one out of the lexicon, didn’t I?
I had to seriously go and grab the perfect word for what my woman has become, as she peeks out from the draping green leaves of the weeping willow below and wiggles a quick but coy wave at me.
With her hair completely down.
With her shoulders totally naked.
With her beauty dropping my jaw. Beckoning me like a goddamned lighthouse from the sea of that tree. Its branches flow on the wind like waves, its layers rolling into and atop each other.
“Emma…lina?”
She laughs. Oh, fuck. Definitely a temptress.
“Come here.” When I’m stuck in place, riveted to the spot like a damn virgin kid, she stamps her foot.
Stamps her foot.
“Oh God, Reece. Would you come here before I faint in my own sweat just from looking at you?”
Never, in my entire existence, have I been giddier about a female ordering me around—or about the fact that said female grabs me by the neurons in my mind as well as the veins in my balls as I step into the shadows beyond the branches, where she’s standing next to a cute little swing dangling from the tree.
At the moment, that’s all fine by me.
“Oh, dear fuck.” The exclamation’s as mindless as the rest of me, a primal reaction to the sight before me. My sun flare fairy, clad only in her sparkly Keds, necklace, and wedding ring, has moved past the realm of temptress. She’s a damn angel now. A glorious, naked messenger from the stars. A miracle with the sky in her eyes and the sway of the sea in her step…
My miracle.
Mine.
Mine.
A glance to the diamond band on her left hand is a piece of glorious proof—but no sight punches the surety deeper into me than my surveillance across her face, where she’s stripped away her polite bride’s smile along with every stitch of her dress. Oh, she’s still smiling, but this is a radiance saved just for me today…an ebullience for my eyes only.
A gift for me alone to unwrap.
“Christ.”
A present I’m suddenly, stupidly, overwhelmed about accepting. That hits me so hard I crumple to my knees and drop my head. That continues to use my mind for its drumming practice, pounding incoherent rhythms, scattering my senses like grains of rice atop the drum skins. She re-centers me by moving close, and then closer still, until she’s wrapped one leg against my bowed back and encircled my head with her soft, loving hands. Instantly, the energy waves pulse between us and then through us. At once, I feel the hot, surging desperation of her need for me.
Holy hell.
I’m the luckiest man alive.
And yet here I am, letting myself be crippled by that comprehension. Fucking the shit out of this incredible moment—and not in any of the right ways—by getting lost in my internal war instead of ordering the skirmish to stand down so I can fully focus on this amazing woman.
She feels my conflict too. Her loosening hold is evidence as she drenches me with the confused turquoise storms in her eyes. And then asks, in the sexy grate that flips my nerve endings inside out, “Husband? What is it?”
Husband.
As much I savor her blatant pleasure in getting to finally speak it, all I can do is drop to my knees and press my head into the soft refuge of her stomach, splaying my fingers along the smooth planes of her hips. I silently beg her to stay here. Right here. Just like this. Just for a few seconds more. To be my angel anchor until—dear fucking God, please—some words finally manifest for me.
“Reece?” She winds a hand deeper into my hair. “What is it? Are you…do you…” And then hauls in a wobbly breath. “Do you not like the gift after all?” The wobble becomes an awkward attempt at a laugh. “I’m sure we can find you a toaster somewhere on the gift table.”
“Fuck.” I half laugh it myself—because despite our request for everyone to make a donation to RRO in lieu of bringing presents, the table in the ranch house’s foyer is piled high with wrapped boxes. “I don’t want anything—anyone—but you, my beautiful wife.”
She huffs. “Then what…”
“My beautiful wife.” I draw out the word to stress it even more, releasing my breath in a hot rush against her skin. At once, I know what effect it’s wrought on her. Even if my nose wasn’t poised a few inches above her crotch, I’d scent the heady honey of her arousal and feel the tremors moving through every corner of her womb. Her subtle physical surrender helps to finally twist free the locked parts of me. I turn my left hand over, trailing the curve of my wedding ring against her quivering skin. “You’re mine now, Emmalina. Completely mine.”
She sighs. Tightens her other hand in my hair. I sweep a look up her body, reveling in the sight of her erect ruby nipples reaching for the stars as she arches her head backward. “I’ve always been yours, Reece Richards.”
“But now it’s real.” With whispered brushes of my lips, I retrace the shivering path I created with the sweep of the white-gold band. “You’re really mine to keep happy. To keep cherished. To keep protected.”
“Yes.” She pulls her hands back until they’re positioned on either side of my face. “Happy. Cherished. Protected. But not like cut crystal.” She drops her head and jumps her brows, more threatening than Rainbow Johnson with a curfew-breaking kid. “And not like blown glass or freshly fallen snow or rice paper.”
“Yeah. Okay. I know,” I concede, really meaning it. “I know. But—”
“But what?” Her lips barely move because she seethes it so tightly. “You can’t go for the whole but-you-are-a-mere-mortal thing anymore with me, right?”
Bullish snort. “Fine. Right.”
“Or that I can be your partner in some ways but not others, right?”
“Yes,” I hiss. “Right.”
“So where are you going with—”
“You’re my wife, Emmalina.” I power back to my feet but keep my hands where they are, bracing her hips. All the better for keeping her locked against me as I take my turn to loom over her this time. I gather her close, feeling every tremor with which she reacts to my nearness…how easily she melts beneath my touch…how sweet and soft and perfect she is, enveloped by the shelter of my body. Completely safe in my arms. “You’re my wife,” I repeat, betraying the intensity of my longing to keep her like this…forever. “And that means caring for you, Velvet,” I whisper into her hair. “And getting to take care of you, damn it.”
And abruptly, my lips aren’t filled with her tousled strands anymore.
I’m consumed with the soft, wet hunger of her.
The urgent lift of her mouth, seeking every inch of mine. The slick sensuality of her tongue, pushing up and in and across mine. The consuming ambrosia of h
er, lust and champagne and woman, mixing with the inescapable perfume of the fresh desire from between her legs.
Fuck. That scent…
“Then take care of me, damn it.”
And that voice. Her gorgeous, sassy mockery—calling me on every drop of my misplaced nobility and yet venerating me for it too. It’s like she’s cutting me with my own knife but then licking the wound shut at the same time. In other circles, I’m damn sure they call this topping from the bottom—but in the bubble of her and me, it’s simply the perfect, passionate spirit of the miracle I call Emmalina. The woman I now get to call wife. The lover I get to say other things to as well. Illicit things I’ve never bared for anyone before. My most carnal ideas. My most secret fantasies.
Secret…
And special.
Because my depraved libido has spun them up especially for her.
No time like the present to get started.
At last, the man kisses me back the way I need him to—that I’ve all but been begging him to. And then grips my naked body like his lightning rod in a storm. And plunges his hot, commanding tongue down my mewling, moaning throat. And sears every inch of my skin with the jolting force of his touch—before taking up the space between my thighs with the straining urgency of his huge bulge.
Yes.
Dear God, yessssss.
I barely comprehend that I’ve also blurted it aloud, until registering the intensified storms in Reece’s eyes. Holy hell. He’s clearly taking his caretaking duties super seriously now—a realization that brings a lot of daunting pings on top of my racing thrills.
But unbelievably, my arousal has nothing to do with his blatant sexual presence, infusing our little glade more potently than a lion sniffing all over his Nala. Nor does it connect to the ferocity across his face, infusing an alpha edge to his dark male beauty. And it’s not linked to the savage flares of his nostrils, along with the harsh huffs he punches onto the air—all the while keeping our bodies brutally mashed and our mouths securely fastened.
It’s the fact that he simply knows I need all of it. All of it. He knows without even asking. Without waiting for me to ask. He just…knows. And he’s known since the second I left him behind on the dance floor, already knowing I’d be waiting right here for him.
Nude and wet and ready for him.
Craving to be claimed by him.
Just…
Like…
This.
Yet still, so hot and frantic for him. Knowing now that I need…
So…
Much…
More.
A more he starts to give me, turning his kisses rougher and bolder. Descending his snarls into barbaric baritones. Tightening his hold until his fingers will surely leave bright-red dents after he’s done taking me. Fucking me. Loving me.
But still not grabbing deep enough.
With barely any thought, I tell him so—and show him too. “Please,” I rasp, hitching my hips up into his grip. The new pressure of my skin against his fingers is painful and primal and perfect. The slide of my uncovered pussy along his steel-hard crotch is enflaming and enrapturing. “Reece. My beautiful husband. Yes. Please.”
“Fuck.” He dips his head to finish off the snarl with a brutal bite into my neck. He licks greedily at the sting, turning the pain into pleasure, while crooning into my skin, “Emmalina. Emmalina. My incredible, insatiable, extraordinary, exquisite wife.”
I curl my head in, letting my stare go heated and hooded while watching my fingers do a sensual dance with the thick strands atop his head. Though all I’m drunk on is desire, the textures mesh in my view like I’ve truly had a few. Chestnut silk flows over my exploring touch. The tanzanite stone on my right hand and the diamonds on my left are racing through the lush, dark forest of strands like stars flirting with night shadows.
And still, his litany of worshipful words continues.
“My gorgeous goddess. My seductress of sunshine…”
But in return, I can’t formulate a single word for him. I try and then try again, but the syllables aren’t there. This refulgent man—my incredible, astounding hero—has stripped every sound out of my mind faster than he first had me agreeing to this naughty tryst. Can I be blamed for capitulating? I’m helpless against the force of his thrall, especially when he looks at me like this. Like an intense, elegant beast that’s just tromped through a summer storm, bringing the savagery of his seduction along with the force of a lightning-filled sky. He’s made it impossible for me to utter anything. To do anything. All I have the power for is returning his liquid silver stare…
And hoping to survive the tempest.
Or not.
Because maybe this survival thing is really overrated.
Especially if I’m about to be on the receiving end of the erotic promise in his eyes…and the explosive glory beneath his caveman rumble…
Ohhhh, God.
Ohhhh, yes.
Obliteration is sounding better by the second.
But first, I have to take at least one more try at getting all of this expressed in a more constructive way for us both. I have to get out the damn words.
“Reece?”
“Hmmm?”
“I—I need to know something.”
“Okay. Ask away.”
“I—well, I…”
His body tautens. His stare narrows. Yes, that fast. Yes, that easily. Yes, almost too intensely. I make a note to talk to him about readjusting the setting on his mind-reading thing—not that he’ll really listen since he thinks the talent is simply paying attention to the woman he’s crazy about—though he’s got that spotlight cranked to laser strength now and is stressing himself out for no good reason. “Hey. What is it, Bunny?” he presses. “I’m here. I’m here. You can ask me anything, Emma. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, baby. I do know.”
“Then what is it, Bunny? What do you need?”
I don’t make him wait any longer—no matter how silly the question is going to sound. This really is a bewildering point for me.
“I need to know…is it really like this…for everyone? I mean, is every other bride in the world feeling like this today? Is every couple, with their new rings and their fancy clothes and their little private moments away from everyone, drowning in as much happiness as we are?”
For a long moment, he doesn’t respond. He considers my words with an expression that turns the lightning in his gaze into a texture more like the Northern Lights, full of hypnotizing colors. A fitting comparison since the haunting ways of those glacial lights is a perfect definition for his answering tone.
“I want to tell you yes,” he finally murmurs. “I really do, Velvet. But the answer is likely no.” He traces across my cheek with his fingertips, which are warmed to the point of resembling light-blue gamer buttons. “You’ll always get my honesty, so I’ll shoot straight here as well.” Another deep exhalation as he pushes his fingers back into my hair. “I’ve definitely thought I was in love before.” His lips purse. “Wasn’t a lot of times, and the circumstances were probably shit you’ve already read in the tabloids. Some of it’s true; most of it was fabricated. The press adores nothing better than a reformed billionaire bastard.”
I copy his move, pressing my hand to the plane between his stubbled jaw and his defined cheekbone. “And the queue to be your Pepper Potts was likely a few miles long.” Who the hell am I kidding? If the posts on the Bolt fan pages are any indication, the line was that long as of yesterday.
“At the time, it was more like the Beatrice to save my Dante.” He pushes out a quiet chuff. “But lo and behold, none of them kept me from tumbling into hell anyway.”
“Why?”
“Silly Bunny.” He punctuates the rebuke with a kiss to the space between my eyebrows. “You already know this answer, don’t you?”
I look up at him through my lashes, attempting—and likely failing—to put a coy spin on my reply. “Maybe I just want to hear you say it.” And surprise,
surprise—returning his honesty turns out to be the wisest move, earning me more of that warmth across his face, permeating into the grip he gains around my body before taking my lips in a long, languid kiss.
We’ve barely pulled apart, sharing sighs and a few more nips, before he quietly declares, “None of them were you, Emmalina Paisley Crist Richards.” As he caresses his way between my waist and ass and back again, he continues. “None of them were you, showing me everything my world could be and everything I could be in it. With none of them did I feel like part of an us. Like part of our us. With none of them did I feel like my every breath, my every thought, my every moment didn’t just matter to someone else but was shared by someone else. Seen and known and understood by that someone, as if her being was carved from the side block of cosmic stone as mine and then brought to life by the same special band of angels.”
Now I’m the one who dips into silence—but unlike Reece’s contemplative version of the pause, mine doesn’t consist of any linear thought. I’m nothing but raw feeling. Stunned elation. Overwhelmed love. I pray he can see the message in the teary ponds of my gaze, because my stupid lips aren’t finding their way past this giant ball of emotion right now.
I get my answer, in brilliant fullness, as he plunges his hand along my scalp and then grips the curve of my waist, fitting our bodies together like the two sides of yin and yang, only with a pair of better colors than black and white. We’re azure and amber. A laser blast and a sun dot. Silver and gold.
Man and woman.
Husband and wife.
A magic called us.
We think it together. Feel it together. And as we do, we move to consummate it together. He yanks me in tighter. I grab on to his hair with one hand and grip the bulge of his bicep with the other. Even through the layers of his coat and shirt, I feel every new ripple of his anticipation, matched to the climbing burn of mine. I breathe in and out, perfectly in sync with his labored huffs. I’m already his surrendered sunshine, ready as hell for the dark domination of his electric kiss.
And all at once, I realize that he’s right.
It’s not like this for everyone.
I really have been struck by lightning.
