by Angel Payne
“No, baby,” I rumble into the tiny valley between her labia and thigh. “Not him this time.” And then kiss her there. And then again. “Just me. Your forever slave, serving you. Your eternal apostle, worshiping you.” I trail my tongue even deeper into the balmy mysteries of her feminine shadows until I’m licking the sensitive crack between her ass cheeks. “Your smitten lover…needing all of you.”
As I emphasize the last three words, I suckle my way back through the shivering folds protecting her most intimate button. I push my way through those layers, seeking out the stiff nub at the center of her pleasure…the juicy candy that all but beckons me to nibble and taste and treasure. And fuck, do I ever. First I lick, rejoicing in how she gasps and then shivers her thighs against my ears. After yanking on her legs and pulling her wider, I indulge a longer stay, tracing her sensitive ridge with the tip of my tongue before lavishing it with my lusty breaths. That results in every way I possibly dreamed and more. Emma turns into a writhing mess of arousal, dropping her hands to clutch at the comforter and beating the pillows with her heels.
“Sssshhh, baby,” I chide with a heated chuckle. “Don’t want the kids thinking we’ve got a fun game of our own going on in here.”
But oh God, how we do.
I dip in, bestowing a teasing kiss to the middle of her trembling clit. I’m ready for her responding moan, electrically forming her T-shirt into a twisted rope and then swiping it between her lips as a soft gag. The sight is so mesmerizing, with her plump mouth clamped against the yellow-and-blue graphic of the tee, that I keep gazing up her body while raining light kisses across her glistening pussy. Not that I’m going to be capable of doing it for much longer. My dick has turned into a lead door knocker, ramming at the inside of my fly, unwilling to stand down. Not when I watch her wide, turbulent eyes and imagine them bugging even farther as I fuck her. Not when I think about the mewls she’s capable of emitting around that gag with every new stab of my cock in her sweet, tight cunt. Not when I fantasize about pulling the fabric from her lips, only to claim the length of her scream as she…orgasms exactly like this.
“Unnnnhhh! Mmmmmm! Fuuuhhh!” Her muffled shrieks are like aural frosting on the cake of her climax, with her tissues weeping and undulating around my tongue. Greedily, I lap and gnosh and suck at her intimate entrance, proud as fuck of myself for the lusty, nasty mess she’s become. I love the crap out of this horny little bunny. I worship the fuck out of this ripe, gleaming goddess.
My goddess.
My hot, passionate, powerful wife.
My ardent, generous, openhearted lover.
The woman I’ll never get enough of. The sun flare I’ll never give enough to.
Even now, as I unzip my fly, set free my cock, and slide the entire, throbbing length inside her soaked, welcoming sheath.
Even as I withdraw all the way, hovering my head near her slit and my face barely above hers, until surrendering again to the call of her heat.
Even as I lunge all the way back in, this time with one hand at the back of her head, torqueing the ends of her gag tighter. Watching her gaze punch out wider. And her nostrils work faster. And her saliva start to wet the T-shirt as she huffs and moans and lurches and quakes beneath me. As her body takes in more of me. As her energy surrounds me and heats me…
“Fuck.” Seems to be my word of choice right now, though I’m stunned I still have one to use. The things this woman does to me…they’re beyond words. She’s beyond description. This miracle, every time I become one with her, beyond any tangible realm of existence. With her, I’m more than a man. More than a hero.
I’m just…more.
“Fuck. Fuck.” I whisper it past a dazed smile before trailing kisses over her bound and whimpering lips. “What a sopping, sexy little mess you are. My gorgeous, wet little goddess.”
I run my thumb along in the wake of my lips, fascinated by the mixture of textures I find in my extended study. Her plush lips invaded by the coiled fabric. Her stone-hard nipples and her satin-soft pussy. And the best contrast of all: her erotic little noises interspersed with the life that goes on around us. A world of such normalcy, oblivious to how she’s altering every synapse in my head and every molecule of air I take in. The rush of traffic through the downtown streets below. A helicopter thudding by, monitoring that traffic. The shooshes of the elevators up and down the tower below us. And yes, Lydia’s continuing shouts from the room next to us.
“Spread your legs wider, Velvet.” I whisper it against her ear…naughtiness for just the two of us. She responds with her sweet obedience…and an extended, sexy-as-fuck moan.
“Ohhhh…mmmmm.”
“I’m going to fuck you harder, Emma.”
“Ah. Ahhhh.”
“You like my cock this deep in your cunt, baby?”
“Yeah,” she sobs through the fabric. “Ohhhh…yeahhhh…”
“I love you, Emma.”
And then I can’t hear the rest of the world anymore. My existence is nothing but those words, issued from the farthest corners of my heart…
“I need you, Emma.”
The deepest trenches of my soul…
“Take me, Emma. All of me. Yesssss!”
The hammering heat between my legs.
Building. Growing. Swelling. Shooting.
And then detonating.
I freeze, my cock buried as tight and deep as I can possibly get, every muscle taut as the come finally breaks free from my throbbing head. I drench her womb in thick, hot ropes of the electric, ecstatic bliss, exploding a rough groan into the sweat-drenched column of her neck. With her throat beneath my lips, I finally realize that her strident scream has joined my outcry; the racing flutters of her tight walls tell me the rest. Well, not all of it. There are things her body can’t tell me—elements I can only feel through the union of our psyches and the magic of our love. The blazing pinnacle only our souls and spirits can take each other to. The sun storm of our consummation. The unmistakable light of our unbreakable connection.
The bond I’ll never let go.
The love I’ll always fight for.
The magic that’s my life’s eternal miracle.
Even with a crowd of caterwauling kids in the next room.
“Auntie ’Dia fall down! You out!”
I loosen the T-shirt in time to let Emma share in my reactionary snicker. “And she’s supposed to be the flexible one,” she adds, adding an adorable eye roll.
I release a contemplative hum into the valley between her breasts. The move gives my mouth an excuse to get into the same proximity as her delectable nipples. They’re still the color of ripe raspberries, begging for my bites with equally juicy appeal. “I don’t know about that.” I make my move, licking my way up the side of one creamy swell. “I like her sister’s flexibility just fine.”
She giggles as I blend a sensual snarl into the last two words, drawing them out—and buying myself some time to reach her proud peak. The stiff bud tastes better than I imagined, with the honey of her skin spiced with the salt of her perspiration. I take my time enjoying the treat, half-kissing the top like a kid getting sloppy with an ice cream cone.
Ideal analogy.
Because I’m the mess now.
And in this perfect, better-than-words moment, I let myself be. After the events of the last three days, my heart, soul, mind, and spirit are a giant, gooey mud bath of emotions. I grin as they slog through my psyche, trailing the mud of exhaustion in their wake. Nevertheless, I greet each of them with the recognition they deserve after the surreal events of the last three days. Joy, sorrow, triumph, tears, elation, confusion, regret, restoration, strength, weakness, thankfulness, emptiness—each of them tromps in and pitches camp in my psychological swamp, knowing they’ll likely be here for a while.
Not forever. Even now, some diligent note-taker in a back room of my mind is scribbling that reminder, but I order him to take a break for the night. This second, I’m just happy in the swamp. Without looking or asking, I
know Emma is cool with trudging through it with me. Hmmm. There’s a fantasy. The woman, naked except for muddy fishing waders. Smudges of dirt all over her bare, golden body…
Her silky giggle tugs me out of the reverie. “Must be a damn good thought, Mr. Richards.” Her saucy tone implies the double entendre for “thought,” especially as my fantasy-jolted cock gets some more encouragement from her hitching hips.
“Mmmm.” I growl good-naturedly into her ear. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Says the guy who just freed every prisoner in the Consortium’s hell hole, has given them all temporary housing and medical attention, and is lying here with his hot-as-hell wife while his three super-mutant kids are likely decimating the Twister mat in the next room?”
“All right.” Hearty snort. “So you probably would believe it.”
I finish it with a lopsided smirk—which fades from the second she raises her hand to the side of my face. Her touch, tender but earnest, matches the steady set of her new expression.
Equally as sober, with gaze glued to mine, she states, “I believe in you, Reece Richards.”
The swamp expands as more emotions dive in. Humility and astonishment. How did I get lucky enough to lock down this amazing creature? It’s a daily question for me—for which I always have the same answer.
Stop asking, damn it.
Just make it your mission to fucking keep her.
Especially when fate gives me the perfect words with which to do so. It doesn’t always happen like this, but with inspiration like the loving lights in her eyes, the inspiring lift of her chin, and the golden glow flowing from the middle of her chest, I don’t need to ask the universe twice about what wisdom to speak. It’s just there—like my love for her always has been.
“I believe in us, Mrs. Richards.”
A divine goddess smile stretches across the breathing curves of her lips. “Ohhhh, mister, you really knew that right answer.”
I break out my most roguish wink, along with the smirk that brings out my deepest dimples. “I usually do, sweet bunny.”
Chapter Six
Emma
As I watch the sun peek over the eastern foothills, its golden streams washing over the awakening metropolis below, a corresponding warmth stretches through me. A goofy grin and a happy tune aren’t far behind, though I’ve really got to stop humming the same four lines from “A Million Dreams” sometime soon. Three hours is more than enough for a Pasek and Paul homage.
But it’s the perfect fit for this amazing new day.
Between lines about bright colors in my head and visions of the world to be, I sip on my third cup of coffee, despite that it’s not nearly six a.m. yet. I’ve already been up for two hours, rising with Reece as he excitedly prepared to go out and do what I’ve been humming about. Making the world a place that a child can dream about again.
That our children can dream about.
The phrase feels so right in my head and more so in my heart. And it feels damn good to acknowledge them there, as the truth of my spirit and not just noble phrases spoken to Reece just because of the swoony feels he gave me yesterday afternoon. Okay, so maybe they were a little more than swoony at the time—but the swoon factor was definitely an ongoing theme for the evening, when we borrowed our “Steven and Sophie” getups to venture out with the kids for a few hours at Two-Bit Circus, followed by ramen at Daikokuya and dessert at Honeymee.
Ohhh, yes. Swoons were certainly this mom’s mood of choice while watching “Steve” go a few rounds of virtual tank battles with Lux, followed by midway games with the girls. More of the same as he slurped noodles at dinner, pretending to “accidentally” hit himself in the face with them in the name of distracting Mis and Ira from their trepidation at the bustling Little Tokyo traffic. The final match to my killed-by-swoons fever was his walk through the Village Plaza with both girls hoisted on his shoulders, protecting them from the “lava rock” bricks lining the plaza’s pretty pathways. Even Lux got into the act, pretending to be a marauding dragon with little “flights” aided by his unique new power, until one too many onlookers wondered if they were looking at reality or a product of their sake-soaked brains. Fortunately, it was easy to distract my son with a Yuzu Affogato, which he downed in roughly five and a half bites, before asking for extra corn flakes in his cup.
Needless to say, I spent part of the last two hours messaging Anya about stocking up on cornflakes at the ridge.
The ridge.
I exhale in contentment with just the thought of finally returning home. Our real home. Our little three-day stay in the city, first for simply hosting ’Dia and Sayer’s engagement party, became a week-long roller coaster of life-changing events. As of this morning, the Source is officially erased from the planet and the roll call of our family has grown by two special names. Two amazing little girls. Two spirits I can’t imagine our lives being without, even now.
Two special people who fill the penthouse with their sleepy giggles and voices…
Before appearing together in the doorway to the office. And making my morning even brighter with the joy beneath their impish smiles.
“Well hello, you two.” I set my coffee on the corner of the desk while crouching to their level and opening my arms. “And good morning!”
My bid for hugs is unsuccessful. Though they both scoot a little closer, their steps are timid and soft. I hide my slight letdown. It’s only the start of their fourth day in the real world—which they still don’t really understand as the real world. Hugs will come once their trust does. I have to be grateful for the little things, such as the fact that last night passed nightmare-free. Damn good thing too, since by the time we got home from our outing, Mama Richards was looking at Papa Richards with something far more than the swoons. The I-gotta-jump-yous had gotten their turn for attention after all.
“You girls hungry?” It’s much safer than asking how they slept and earns me an instant pair of eager nods.
“Pop Tarts,” Mis declares at once.
“Cornflakes,” Ira chimes in—and barely flinches when I send her a quizzical look. More progress. A couple of days ago, even a show of mild curiosity would spark the girl’s open panic. Slowly but surely, they’re both realizing that even if I fully scowl, that won’t equal their instant punishment. Though the girl’s shoulders hunch in a little, still programmed by her lifetime of degradation and shame, she makes a clear effort to roll them back and then jog up her head. “Cornflakes,” she repeats with bold ferocity, and I seriously crave to hug her again. “Like Luxie.” And even more now.
“Well, okay,” I chirp, adding in a cute little dance. “Cornflakes it is.” And then make up a little cornflakes song—kind of a Pasek and Paul-meets-classic Madonna thing—to go with my dorky moves. But their fairylike laughs are all I need for encouragement, along with the fact that I’ve somehow rhymed “best cereal” with “stellar material” to keep up the schtick all the way out into the hall.
Where the twins have definitely not followed me.
I rush back into the office, most likely overreacting, but I can’t help being freaked that they might be the same. The distant booms, courtesy of the demolition teams that are turning the Source into a solid maze of destruction, have continued for the better part of an hour. Most of the city assumes the muffled noise is Water and Power Department servicing issues, but a few of us know the difference, and I’m damn sure that legion includes Ira and Mis. Oh, damn. Are they affected by the destruction? Are parts of their hearts mourning for the only place they’ve ever known as home, despite Faline’s sick and twisted version of the word? Or are they afraid we’re preparing to shove them back down into that darkness, even after wrecking it all?
I hit the entrance to the office at damn near full sprint.
And then hit my full stop lever, my feet chirping on the wood floor from the abruptness.
The silence I sensed from the girls is just as palpable now.
Except they’re not usi
ng it to dissolve into tears.
They’re strolling along the side of the room that overlooks the desk. More specifically, they’re peering at the knickknacks and framed photos arranged on the built-in shelves along that wall.
My heart aches, watching them study the images of memories great and small for Reece and me. A snap of us kissing on the beach, with the sunset in the background. Another picture of Reece and the whole Team Bolt crew before they even called themselves that. To the right in the shot, Kane is cuddling Mitch from behind, his rugged face taking up a good chunk of Mitch’s shoulder. There are a few fun pictures of Lydia in her slick advertising shots for tennis rackets and athletic shoes and another one of us in formal gowns for one of her awards ceremonies. Concurrently, there’s a long set of shots featuring Reece and his siblings: one big oval with the three handsome Richards dudes together, grouped with small circles containing solo shots. It’s one of my favorite pieces because the guys are all in stunning bespoke suits and ties—from the waist up. But since the shoot was a Mother’s Day surprise for Trixie, they mixed things up with wild Hawaiian shorts on the bottoms.
A smile warms my lips when I observe Mis and Ira taking a liking to the shots too—though it wavers when watching their interest turn into obsessed stares and then perplexed glances at each other. By the time they pivot around to fix me with the same puzzled looks, I’m back to crunching a full bewildered frown at them both.
“Girls?” I query, taking care to keep my steps soft and my voice considerate. “What is it? Is there something troubling—”
“Father.”
I’m not surprised when it’s Ira issuing the interruption. Despite Mis busting out of her comfort zone for the Pop Tarts request, Ira’s usually the one who speaks for both of them, especially when it’s a matter seemingly this dire. I quickly nod her way, though include Miseria in my regard as well. “Yes,” I ensure. “That’s right. Father is in there. Right there.” My stomach knots in a strange way as I tap at Reece’s solo photo. I should consider it a good thing that they recognize the ties, but I feel a little like the new stepmother, wondering what kind of trash the ex-wife has already been spilling about my husband. And probably me.
