by Alam, Donna
‘So you were just sperm delivery,’ she asks, deadpan.
‘Need sperm? I’m your man. Literally.’ I return her expression. ‘Anywhere. Just say the word; I’ll come in you. On you, wherever.’
‘You’re so obliging.’
‘Yeah, I am. Now it’s your turn. Show me your tits.’
As eager for this to happen as I am and knowing we’re on borrowed time, she feeds her hands behind her back, her chest pushing forward. Seconds later, my Christmas comes early. I only hope I won’t—come early, that is—as I take her bare tits in my hands.
‘Perfect.’ The colour of cream, ripe and heavy even after feeding our son. Her nipples are darker than normal and, judging by the sighs she makes as I glide my thumb over the taut nubs, oh-so sensitive.
‘More like the perfect feeding machine.’
‘Are you seriously trying to get me to shoot my load?’ I ask with fake severity, pushing the full roundness of her breasts closer together. ‘Thoughts—mere glimpses—of these puppies feed my soul.’
And it’s true. My sex life is pretty much compiled of a Fin’s short-lived peep show as she dresses or disrobes, tiredness etched on her face. I get by on these glimpses, coupled with my memories and my dirty imagination, these thoughts then married with my hand.
‘You like the sound of that, do you? Are you going to tell me you’re into those pervy books? The ones where women get milked like cows.’
‘Hucows.’ The minute the word is out of my mouth, I long to bite it back. My thumbs immediately cease caressing her nipples, my brain frozen and anticipating her horror-filled expression. When my gaze eventually—tentatively—rises to her face, what I see instead is amusement.
‘And how would you know?’ she asks saucily. ‘Closet interest much? Come to think of it, you were pretty insistent we buy that high-end breast pump.’
‘Not funny,’ I reply. ‘That was so I could help you with the late-night feeds. My wife is not a hucow.’
‘But you’re obsessed by these?’ Her gaze flits down in suggestion to the roundness in my hands.
‘Aye.’ My tone is a gruff mixture of well duh and of course. I mean, what kind of question is that?
‘Would you like to fuck them?’ Her question is breathy and coy, her gaze no longer holding mine. Instead, she watches the finger she trails down my chest. The finger that causes my abs to quiver and tighten under my t-shirt—the teasing trail that causes my cock to plead for relief from its confines of denim.
‘Is that even a serious question?’ is my borderline incredulous response. Fin laughs softly, her gaze bright and shining. ‘No, really,’ I repeat. ‘Tell me you’re serious.’ Like really, really serious. And tell me I can do it now.
In answer, her hands fall to my belt, the chink of metal and swish of leather speak the words we don’t need. As I kneel between her legs, she pulls my jeans and boxers down over my arse and thighs, and as though fearful she’ll rescind the invitation, I jump up and shuck off my clothes with lightning speed. Then I’m naked, kneeling between her leggings-clad legs, my cock pointing towards her with accusation, my lizard brain in charge right now.
You said I could . . .
At a time I’d expect her to lean back, she leans forward instead. One hand on the sofa arm and the other on the base of my cock, she licks my length like I’m the best tasting lollipop. Our joint sighs hit the air in a mixture of longing and need.
‘Jesus Christ!’ My muscles of my core tighten as she feeds her hand around my waist, her fingers digging into the muscles of my arse, pulling me deeper into her throat. ‘Fuck! Fuck me!’ I push the strands of gold and blonde from her face to watch her as she sucks me deep.
My arms hang by my side, my fingers curled into fists. It takes every ounce of self-restraint to keep from lifting them. From cradling her head in, but not to be gentle. To hold her steady as I ram myself in. I want to fuck. To rut. Because, Jesus wept, this is so fucking hot.
‘Fin. Oh, fuck, Fin .’
The sight of my dick disappearing into her hot mouth is almost enough to make me blow my load. Her eyes closed, she works me in slow, lazy pulls, and as she hums from the back of her throat, I can feel the vibration all the way to my toes.
‘I’m not gonna last.’ My whisper is harsh. It’s also the truth.
Fin’s eyes are dark and hazy as, with one more deep suck, she pulls away with a soft pop. Her eyes are dark and sultry as she positions herself back against the arm of the chair. And I just . . . stare at her. My wife. My gorgeous, wonderful, fuck hot wife.
‘You are . . . beautiful.’
‘Waiting.’
We both speak at the same time, and then laugh, too. This could be awkward after such a long time. It might still be awkward especially if I end up embarrassing myself. But no matter, she’ll still love me. And how fantastic is that?
Bracing myself on the arm of the chair, I run my thumb over her full bottom lip. Her mouth yields at first touch as I lean down and cover her mouth with my own. Fin tastes of woman and wine and sweet, sweet need. And as her fingers graze the sensitive skin of my cock head, everything inside me is lit. Like a bolt of electricity to a lightning rod, the sensation travels down my cock and through my body until I’m wild with want. Our kiss deepens, all nipping teeth and tongues and, as she tries to sit up—to get closer—I press her shoulder, pushing her back into the chair.
‘Do it,’ she rasps. ‘I want you to.’ Her eyes are dark and complicit before she seals the dirty deal, taking her gorgeous tits in her own hands.
So I do what any red-blooded male would do. I stick my dick where the lady deigns.
It’s not the best of positions as I straddle her body, but the feeling of her soft flesh against my very sensitive skin is sublime. And the visual? My favourite piece of my anatomy framed by my favourite part of hers? I can’t even put it into words.
‘Are you going to just stare?’ Her words quiver with ill-supressed laughter.
‘I’m getting to it.’
And I do, thrusting myself between her tits. Nothing can quite compare to being inside Fin, but this is pretty cool. Skin against skin and enough to make me want to shoot my load all over her creamy—’
‘Fuck!’ Carried away with my dirty thoughts, I slip and end up slapping her under her jaw with my dick.
‘Careful!’ Again with the laughter, which is a relief to my currently pounding heart.
‘Ah, sorry!’ I lean back, my cock standing between our bodies like an exclamation point. ‘You okay?’ I ask, cupping her cheek with my hand.
‘I’m fine. You’re not hurt, are you?’ Propping herself on her forearms, Fin’s eyes flit down my body, her relief evident. ‘We wouldn’t want you to break my favourite part of you.’
‘And here I was thinkin’ you loved me for my wit and sparking personality.’ Falling forward, I kiss her again. Kiss my words and my need against her lips. ‘And all along, you married me for my cock.’
‘It is a considerable part of you,’ she whispers back, beginning to squirm as I lower myself over her, flesh to flesh. One flex of my hips and she wraps her legs around me and I know if I were to feed my hand under the waistband of her leggings, she’d be soaking wet.
The tone of our kiss changing instantly, becoming a kiss of desperate need. Tongues thrust and teeth clash, our pleasure audible in the air in a series of sighs and throaty moans. We’ve been this close to sex before since Niall was born, and perhaps the experiences add to our desperation. We know it’s only a matter of time before our wee dark overlord gets an inkling that I have my paws on his mother, and he starts screechin’ loud enough to bring the whole building down.
‘Hurry,’ Fin pants as I make my way down her body. And while I understand the sentiment, there’s no hurrying here. Not as I reach her breasts, her fuck fantastic breasts, which are, quite frankly, show stopping. I think I might be obsessed.
‘Oh, God,’ she whispers tremulously as I take her darkened nipple into my mouth. ‘That’s .
. . that’s . . . so different.’
‘What are the chances of these having some kind of built-in early warning system?’ I ask, reluctantly pulling my mouth away. I frame their fullness in my hands, licking the hardness of her nipples, each in turn.
‘For Niall?’ she asks. Or moans. Moans, definitely. She’s undeniably enjoying herself.
‘I love how sensitive these are.’ My gaze flits to hers and back to her tits just as quick. ‘Reckon you could come from nipple stimulation?’
‘Don’t even joke about it.’ With one eyebrow cocked, she attempts to look unamused. ‘They’re overused as it is and generally not the good kind of sensitive.’
‘Aye, right.’ Message received, I kiss each of them gently. ‘Will you let me do that again?’ I ask, sliding down until my knees hit the floor. There’s a method to my madness in getting off her, and that’s to whip her leggings and knickers down her legs.
‘Let you do what?’ she asks as I feed my hands under her bottom, grasping the elastic at her waist.
‘Fuck your tits,’ I reply, pulling her leggings off in one motion.
‘Such poetry.’ She giggles. ‘Rory the bard strikes again.’ But I don’t answer, my eyes glued to her centre. Hello, perfect stranger.
‘Oh, how I have missed you. Let me count the ways.’
‘You said count, right?’
‘Shush,’ I reply, spreading her knees wider.
‘Look at you, all pink and wet and gorgeous.’ I draw two fingers down the neat strip of hair, my words rough as I fight the urge to drive right in—to slake my thirst. Instead, I slide my fingers down her slick lips, opening her fully to place a gentle kiss on her clit.
‘Rory,’ she groans, feeding her fingers into my hair. ‘Rory, I need you inside me. We don’t have time for the fun side bits.’
But again, I’m not listening, lost to the scent of her. Lost to my need as I swipe the length of her pussy with my tongue. I kiss her as I have her mouth, all base gluttony and no finesse. Over and over, I work her with wet, greedy swipes and hard flicks, sucking her hot, swollen clit between my lips. Distantly, I become aware of the tugging on my hair; the kind that isn’t to draw me closer or position me better. The kind that’s desperate.
‘Please, I need you. Hurry.’
And then I realise why. Niall, the little cock blocker—his sniffles and tentative displeasure amplified through the room courtesy of the baby monitor.
‘Quickly,’ she gasps, all bright eyes and desperation, pawing at my shoulder as I attempt to get my knees on the sofa. ‘Get up here.’
‘Woman, I’m trying,’ I reply, suddenly over her as she takes my face in her hands.
‘Fuck me, Rory. Fuck me like we might never get this chance again until he starts school.’
If she’d meant to shock me into action, she certainly does. As trite as it sounds, I thrust my way home, my pleasure hitting the air with a roar. Rooted deep, I still, the pleasure of being inside her like a dream. For sure, her hot walls pulsing around my cock certainly feel like delirium.
‘God, I’ve missed this. Missed you.’ I angle my head to kiss her again, but her eyes are closed, her mouth working in a silent litany.
Please. Please. Please.
Pulling back, I dig my knees into the sofa for leverage, hissing her name as I drive into her again and again. My skin is alive with the feel of her, each of my nerve endings strung tight as my hips rock and pivot, driving my need into the very core of her.
‘Oh, God, that’s it,’ she pants, her hips rising to meet mine on the up thrust, her hands tight enough to bruise my biceps. ‘Oh, God, I’ve missed you. No one has ever made me feel like this.’
‘You mean no one has ever fucked you like this,’ I grate out, my mouth hard on the skin of her neck. Sucking. Biting. Owning. ‘Fucked you hard.’
I’m instinct—pure, rutting need. Nothing sophisticated or practised about this moment because it’s what we both need. Lusty and greedy, my hips rock and grind as Fin locks her legs around my thighs.
‘I’m . . . oh, God!’
Her body tightens, her spine almost stiff as she rides out her climax, unashamed. She calls out my name, her pussy pulsing around me as she breaks on the knife edge of climax. She’s pure passion. Pure ecstasy. A thing of absolute beauty, her hands on her tits . . . and then I see why as white fluid runs between her fingertips.
‘Oh, God, I’m such a mess.’
Somewhere between her orgasm and our son’s burgeoning cries, nature kicked in, letting her milk down. And hotness fucking abounds.
‘I can help with that.’ How is it I know my smile has an edge of wickedness to it?
‘Don’t you dare.’ There’s no edge to her words, rather they’re long and languid and she makes no attempt to move. ‘How would you feel if someone stole your comfort?’
‘You’re my comfort. You’re my everything.’
With one snap of my hips, I begin to fuck her in earnest. Fuck her solidly until my balls draw tight, and when my own orgasm threatens to barrel out of me, I do what any man obsessed with his wife’s breasts would do. I pull out and, to her surprise and delight, cover her tits with hot jets of spunk.
‘Well, the TV weatherman did say there was a chance of white stuff tonight.’
‘The dirty bastard.’ I sound like I’ve just sprinted a mile. Braced on my forearm above her, I lean down and kiss my darling wife. ‘God, I’ve missed you,’ I whisper, my eyes starting to sting.
‘Oh, Rory, I’ve so missed you,’ she whispers, her palm resting on my cheek. ‘But can we do the emotional bonding later. Your son and heir sounds as though he’s about to burst a blood vessel.’
Wordlessly, I roll to the side, allowing Fin to slip from under me. Phew, close call. I’m pretty sure Dad’s aren’t supposed to get all mushy and stuff. Not that I’d know, being a bastard and all.
‘Nice arse,’ I comment as she makes her way naked from the room, her hips swaying just a touch.
Turning her head over her shoulder, Fin shoots me a saucy wink. ‘And I thought it was the sight of my boobs that had reduced you to tears.’
Shite.
Chapter Five
IVY
THE EVE OF CHRISTMAS EVE
‘I want a houseful of kids.’
Dylan’s words rumble in my ear, his palm pressed against the wall, fingers splayed just inches from my face. We’re barely in the door from lunch, and he’s already on me. And it isn’t even bedtime! Maybe I shouldn’t be as excited as I am, but lately, our sex life has become a little predictable. A little staid. Between Dylan’s work schedule and raising our son, the heat of our relationship has dimmed from a bright flame to a slow simmer.
I’m sure parents everywhere grumble a similar refrain. The difference is, we can’t step out our front door without someone snapping a camera in our face, and that is just a massive lady-boner killer as far as I’m concerned. Nothing’s sexy about being plastered on gossip rags next to speculations of your relationship status, and even, in one case, headlines suggesting your marriage is a sham. Innocent pictures of us holding hands, other girls superimposed next to us suggesting some kind of love triangle, from Dylan’s innocent co-stars to girls who’ve claimed they’ve shared some tryst with him. Girls desperate for five minutes of fame. These rags have even latched onto his assistant, labelling her his side bitch! Which is just ridiculous. Abby’s more likely to hit on me than him, if you know what I mean. Not that she would. She’s far too professional. Besides, I happen to know she likes her ladies a little less femme.
But something has changed since we flew back to the UK. Whether it’s the smaller number of paparazzi following us, or just the simple result of being able to chill out together, I’m not sure. What I do know is the simmering flame between us is fast reaching critical heat, lately turn into snatched kisses in the hallway and frantic fumbles in the laundry room. We just can’t seem to get a minute together, alone, between the demands of parenthood and having my parents stay with
us for the holidays in our London home.
Following lunch at a local hotel, said parents have taken our toddler out for the afternoon. Hello, daytime sex! And as Dylan presses his hard body up against me, I’m about to combust.
‘Just imagine it,’ he whispers, his mouth hot at my ear.
‘Oh, I am imagining.’ Imagining the nightmare of his description. ‘So no. No way.’ My denials come out in a high, wobbling laugh. Day drinking is so not my thing. ‘As much as I’d enjoy the making of said babies, raising a houseful of kids sounds . . . not fun.’ As it is, the one we have runs circles around me.
‘Come on, half a dozen, then.’ His hand moves from its position on the wall, curling around my hip and spinning me around to face him. His eyes are so dark they’re almost black. Dark and serious with just an edge of mirth. No way he wants six kids even as he says, ‘Three of each.’
‘Procreation doesn’t work like that,’ I reply, laughing lightly still. ‘You can’t pick and choose.’ Well, in LA some people seem to. But that place is mad. ‘Didn’t you take biology at your school?’
‘I must have missed that class,’ he answers with an insouciant shrug. ‘I was probably hanging out behind the bleachers, making out with whichever girl was around.’
‘Slutty McSlutterson!’
‘Must be why I’m such a good fuck, huh? I got you to marry me within a weekend on the strength of my mad tongue skills.’ He makes a lewd gesture with his obscenely talented tongue.
‘On the strength of the booze,’ I return, ignoring him as I begin to unbutton his coat.
‘But think of the practising.’ Lord, there’s a reason this man is paid so well. Those emerald green eyes and dark hair. The Scots-lite sultry purr and rolling r’s—I’m sure he could talk a nun into staring in a porno.
‘But think of all the travelling with school-aged kids,’ I respond in the same tone, slipping the coat from his shoulders. Because he’s on location an awful lot and where he goes, his family goes. That’s me and wee Alisdair at the very least. Sometimes my mum. Sometimes my mum and dad. And sometimes, when the salon can spare her, even Natasha. I think we’re viewed as a curiosity on set, at least by those in the business. A sort of oddity. And foreign, but I blame my dad’s accent for that.
