by Dee Palmer
“Wait, wait…” Panting, her hands fly to my thighs, and I freeze midway on my downstroke.
“What’s wrong, are you all right? Did I hurt you?”
“You’ve decimated me.” Laughing lightly, she flinches, and I do, too, no doubt from the exquisite agony of the same muscles contracting. Her follow-up smile reassures me. “And nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re crying.” Her cheeks are wet, flushed, and glorious. Her eyes are bathed in glistening tears that continue to trickle even as she swipes them away with the back of her hand.
“No, you’re crying.” She bristles, she’s adorable, and her petulant retort makes me smile. She’s embarrassed, and I’m on cloud nine, having just witnessed the most beautiful sight possible, the woman I love coming apart in my hands.
“I don’t think I am.” I chuckle and release one of her legs so I can help her dry her cheeks with the pad of my thumb. I balance a few tears and suck them into my mouth. Acutely aware of the agony screaming at the base of my balls, I ask if she wants me to stop. “I’m not a monster, Hope, if you need a break, we can—”
“Not ever. Please don’t ever stop. You know I’m not crying because of this.” Her hands dart to my backside, and she sinks her nails, pinching playfully. I can handle playful.
“Mmm, I know.” I groan when she tenses, and her delicious internal muscles squeeze, dancing half the length of my cock. I think I’m going to cry, I so need to be buried deeper. She tilts her hips in a welcome invitation, and I ease slowly inside of her. Right. To. The. Hilt. And fuck! It feels like home. “Why did you say wait, baby?”
“It’s…I just, you feel that?” Fresh tears gather in the corners of her eyes, and this time, it has nothing to do with her talented core muscles driving us both crazy. This is another muscle entirely affecting her, and it’s fucking breathtaking.
“I do.”
“I’m crying.” She sniffs back more tears, and I kiss dry the stray ones on her cheek and pooling in the dimples around her mouth. Her hands lock around my neck, pulling me closer. My breath washes her face, and her pupils dilate, and all I can see is everything I’ve ever wanted. This is a first for her, and I can see it a clearly as if the tears had tattooed the words in their wake.
“I know, baby, it’s all right. I’ve got you.”
“You promise?”
“I do.”
“Don’t you ever break my fucking heart, understand?” Her light tone is edged with raw vulnerability.
“I do. I’ve got you, Hope, always.” As much as I want to ease her doubts, a lifetime of scepticism will take more than a month to vanquish. Still, that’s what I am hoping for, a lifetime, and my heart fucking swells tenfold when she echoes my thoughts out loud.
“And forever.” She beams, and then answers my silent prayers. “Okay, now you can move.”
“Fuck, yes!” My body surges to life, gaining momentum I have little control over.
“Yes, please.” Her cries are muffled silent with each bone-shaking thrust I drive into her. I don’t hold back. I can’t. Breathlessly wild and wanton, she meets me pound for pound, demanding, relentless, and fucking perfect. No longer two bodies together, we move as one, joined in every possible way, body, mind, and soul. Writhing like savages, clawing, taking, undulating against each other, eking out new sensations from every touch, every stroke, every bite. Electricity crackles and fires between us. Heat races over my skin like a wildfire, and we both gasp for the same breath to survive.
One stray spark ignites the moment, and time stops.
An endless second or a lifetime has me suspended in a state of ecstasy. I daren’t breathe. Then Hope screams my name, which falls silent in her mouth now lax with pleasure, her eyes are open, but dazed, and she detonates beneath me. An almighty unstoppable chain reaction that rips through her. It seems to start at her toes and like a freight train tears through her helpless body, seizing muscles, challenging my sanity, and grabbing my balls and my own orgasm on its way.
“NO MORE.” I SIGH, SATED, limp, and unable to move. I think I might be paralysed from pleasure. Is that a thing? Jørgen has been perfect. If being perfect means ruthlessly drawing orgasm after orgasm from me until I pass out, which, in my book, it does. I have no idea what the time is, how I got from the living room to our bedroom, or why my hair is wet. All I do know is I have this ridiculous smile on my face, and Jørgen has spent the last blissful minutes covering my body with soft sensual kisses and the occasional sinful swipe of his tongue.
“I’ve missed a spot.” He kneels proudly between my legs and with his large, firm hands spreads my thighs wide. His grin is wider, and would not look out of place on Satan himself. He lowers his head and draws in a slow, deep breath, making me flush and melt. I quiver with anticipation and shudder at the darkly erotic stare he aims my way. I’m dripping, and he looks down between my legs as if I’m serving up a Gordon Ramsey Christmas dinner. “Definitely missed a spot.”
“Not possible, you’ve kissed and tortured every millimetre of my body at least a dozen times.” I’m in erotic hell, torn between utter exhaustion, a little bit sore, and a whole lot spent and being shamelessly insatiable, because he’s a fucking sex god!
“And look what it’s done to me.” He palms his angry-looking erection, his fingers almost reaching to touch around the girth. I did mention the large hands, yes?
“That does look painful.” I purse my lips, suppressing a knowing smile.
“Ease my pain, baby.” He releases his cock and grabs my hips, lifting and sliding me forward and into position. I sit up and hold myself just where he wants.
“Always,” I slide down, taking every thick inch like it’s the first time. Relishing the stretch and the feeling of being complete…and full.
“And forever.” His strong arms wrap my waist and anchor me to him. I can grind a little, but I’m going nowhere unless he says so.
“I said that, didn’t I?” I smile against his mouth, feeling a sense of peace and happiness envelop me like a sun-warmed cashmere blanket. I’ve never felt anything like it before.
I didn’t know, how could I?
Making love, and, yes, I know the difference, now. Staring into his eyes and forcing myself to see, to really look and believe, was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Which includes saying goodbye to my best friend when she emigrated or stopping my mother from bleeding out. Events which, in themselves, were tough but they ultimately weren’t about me. This…what he made me do, shook me. It rocked my foundation and challenged my hardcore wiring all in one innocent request.
What Jørgen made me face was me.
I was terrified of opening up and finding there was nothing to find: no depth, no capacity for intimacy, no hope of love. What if I opened my eyes, and he saw what I feared? What if what I feared was real and resolute? I wasn’t hiding, but honestly, why would I ever want to look? It wasn’t worth the risk.
Until him, I never had a reason to see.
“You did. Do you regret it?” My chest pinches at his words, and I reply before he finishes the question.
“No! Not at all. I’m not going to lie and say I’m not completely freaked out at the speed and insane intensity of all this, but no, I don’t regret a single thing. I just never believed.”
“Good. Good that you don’t regret, and good that I’m the one to enlighten you.” His full, soft lips cover mine, and his cock pulses inside me. I can feel every bit of him. Bliss.
“Oh, god…you feel amazing.” I drop my head back and sigh my euphoria to the night sky. The glass roof above the canopy bed makes this feel deceptively closer to the state of heaven I am currently experiencing.
“And you thought we might not fit.” He buries his head in my neck, biting down and drawing an erotic moan from somewhere deep in my belly. It feels so good.
“You don’t fit, and that’s what feels amazing.” My breath catches mid-sentence when, on cue, he seems to swell to painful proportions inside me, not that there was any sp
ace left to fill.
“I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be. I don’t flatter; I tell the truth. You’re built, everywhere. I’m a very lucky girl.”
“And will you be my very lucky wife?” He says this so calmly it takes a full second to sink in. The next second, my head snaps back and tilts sharply to the side.
“This is how you propose? With your cock buried so deep you’re making my eyes water?”
“I like when your eyes water,” His cocky response doesn’t miss a beat. “Answer the question.”
“I don’t get a ring? And there was me thinking you were old school.” I move my hands from his shoulders to rest on my hips, confident my balance is secure, what with his massive cock impaling me into place.
“I have a ring, Hope.” He reaches over to the bedside table.
“A cock ring doesn’t count,” I sass, impressed his long arm is able to reach over without the need to shuffle our bodies closer to the edge of the bed. He retrieves something and is completely covering whatever it is when he lifts it free of the drawer. In one swift unclip and breathtaking reveal, I am rendered speechless, but not for long. “Oh, my god, Jørgen, I…I don’t know what to say.”
“I think you do.” He lifts the solitary diamond ring that could easily be seen from any low flying aircraft from its crushed velvet bed and holds it between his thumb and forefinger.
“Shit.” My hands clench into tight, sweaty fists.
“Hope.” His tone is edged with uncertainty, and it’s all I need to leap from my own scary precipice and into his world. My hand trembles until he captures it, secure, safe, and as he slips the ring on with a perfect fit, more than my words or this rock, I know in my heart…I’m his.
“Yes, yes, I’ll be your very lucky wife.”
“I DON’T WANT TO LEAVE,” I grumble, my words muffled and incoherent against Jørgen’s soft sweater. He’s wearing more clothes than he has in the last month in preparation for the inevitable climate change and temperature drop. Which is another reason I’m grumpy. We’re going home.
“We have to face the world sometime.” His heavy arm across my shoulder squeezes me, and his chest rumbles with laughter. He kisses my forehead just as I look up. We’ve just been called to board, and surprisingly, the fear washing through me has little to do with the upcoming flight.
“It’s not the world I’m worried about. It’s my mum; she’s going to kill me.” Groaning, my head drops with a dramatic thump to his chest. He steps back and tips my chin high, a wry smile lighting his face with amusement.
“She’ll see how happy you are, and all will be forgiven.”
I’m not convinced. However, our conversation is interrupted as we board the plane, take our seats and get comfortable. A very easy task in the luxurious first class lounge. Once the plane is cruising at some ungodly altitude, Jørgen turns to me, his expression intently thoughtful. “You said yourself she’s a romantic, and what could be more romantic than a whirlwind courtship culminating in a marriage in paradise.”
“Courtship?” A sudden snort-chuckle has my hand slapped to my mouth to stop myself coughing up and spraying champagne over the fine upholstery.
“I’m sure that’s the right term.” He has this cute wrinkle on the bridge of his nose when he looks affronted. English may not be his first language, but one would have to be real arsehole to point it out. His English is impeccable. Besides, it’s not the words, it’s the way he says them, just adorable.
“In the nineteen forties, maybe.” I nudge him playfully.
“I’m a little old-fashioned.” He bristles, and I can’t help myself.
“Says the man who likes my finger in his ass while I suck his cock.” His eyes look like they are about to pop, and I have to wave him down. “Jørgen, relax. No one heard, and I promise I’ll try and watch my ‘turn of phrases’ when we get home. How is that for a compromise?”
“Greatly appreciated, thank you.” He downs the rest of his champagne even though the flute was full.
“You looked like you were going to have a heart attack there for a second. You’re going to need to chill a little, I think.”
“And I think you may be the death of me, Hope Jensen, but at least I will have died a happy man.”
“Fifty shades of bipolar, babe, and no safe word.” I wink and gulp down the rest of my champagne. “For better or worse, you promised to love me and my shades.”
“I did, and I do.” He swoops close to kiss me, and we both end the kiss with goofy looking smiles.
“I do, too, love you, I mean. I tend to joke when I get scared, and I’m not just scared, I’m terrified.”
“I know.”
“This is real and I understand the one day at a time philosophy that makes it less daunting, but this is it for me; you know that, right? You’re it for me.” Even if it’s a little late in the day now, he lured me kicking and screaming to the white picket fence side of happily ever afters. It’s only right he understands that for me, this is as real as it gets. “I don’t do anything half-arsed. I’m an all-arse kind of girl.”
“Lucky me.”
“Jørgen, I’m serious.”
“I know that, too. I’ve got you, Hope, always.” He shifts, unclips my belt and lifts me onto his lap, where I tuck my legs up as best I can and curl up against him. Of all the storm of emotions coursing through my veins, making me feel desired and sexy, secure and safe, treasured and cherished, this one is the best, because this feels like home. First class rocks.
My ears pop, waking me, and I have to surreptitiously wipe the dribble from my mouth when I raise my head from Jørgen’s chest. The wet patch on his shirt is a dead giveaway that I slept like an infant most of the flight.
“Are we nearly there yet?” And I sound like one, too. He smiles and nods, helping me ease myself from his lap and back into my seat. My tummy rumbles loudly, and I’m acutely aware that I haven’t eaten for hours, although it feels like days. “I’m starving.”
“I thought you might be.” He signals for the flight attendant.
“Did you have anything?”
“I did. It was a little tricky, though.” The flight attendant hands me a tray with a selection of delicate looking sandwiches, pastries, and a steaming cappuccino.
“Oh, sorry.” I offer Jørgen the pick of my plate, but he shakes his head.
“I wasn’t expecting you to sleep the whole way. For a moment, I was worried if I would ever feel my legs again,” he quips, rubbing his wide thighs and tilting his face to show me the teasing grin quirking his lips.
“You should’ve moved me.” I’m speaking around the mouthful of creamy egg mayonnaise white bread sandwich, which evidently tastes like heaven, given the sex sounds I’m emitting with each bite.
“I liked having you there, and truthfully, we were laid out flat for most of the time. I’ve only just put the seat up.”
“Oh, that’s okay, then.” I barely finish my drink when the seatbelt sign lights up and the captain announces our imminent arrival at London Heathrow.
I can’t fight the smile on my face and, for the life of me, don’t know why I would want to. I’m on cloud frickin’ nine, strolling through the arrivals lounge, hand-in-hand with the sexiest man on the planet, my husband.
“You really should’ve put me back in my seat, you know. You could’ve gotten a clot and died.” I shudder at the remark, the dark thought popped into my head on seeing a sign near the newsagent about deep vein thrombosis. He looks at me, and I nod toward the stand with the advert for flight socks.
“Like I said, we were lying down. You weren’t constricting anything, and I can think of worse ways to go.”
“Listen, buddy, if you’re going to die with me on top of you, it better be because I’m riding you like a—” My shoulder socket jolts backward with the sudden lack of movement. Jørgen is frozen to the spot, pale as his tan will allow, and is frankly scaring the crap out of me.
“Jørgen, are you all right? What’s
wrong?”
“Hope.” My name sounds all wrong spoken in that tone, harsh, and as ugly as the twist of his lips.
“Jørgen, you’re hurting my arm.” I tug my hand free, and confusion overwhelms me. What the hell has just happened? I look around the busy airport, throngs of people fill the space, trolleys clash and squeak their way across the polished floor. There’s so much noise I can’t think, but I can hear the accusation in Jørgen’s hushed tone like a bullhorn.
“Is this true?” He points to a selection of foreign newspapers, and when I fail to catch on to what he’s asking, he storms over to the display in the store and picks up one specific paper. I walk closer to try and read what has clearly upset him.
“Is what true? My Danish isn’t that great.”
“Have you ever received money for sex?”
“No! What? Is that what it says?” I take the newspaper, and the jumble of words look less clear, because my eyes are now filling with tears. However, the word prositueret does look a little familiar, and the picture of me taken from my social media page is less than flattering.
“You know this man?” He slaps the page as if trying to smash the smug expression off the grinning idiot pictured next to me.
“No, yes, a little. We hooked up once.” My mind races trying to remember the night, the guy’s name, and piece together what the hell made it newsworthy. This is surreal, and at any other time, I might laugh, but the hostility and fury rolling off of my new husband and toward me is devastating.
“You had sex with him?” The judgmental tone, however, is less upsetting and just pisses me off.
“No, Jørgen, I was a virgin until you deflowered me on our wedding night. Of course I had sex with him. Look at him!” My snark retort may not be helping to defuse the situation, but he started it, and right in the middle of Heathrow fucking airport.
“He paid you.” It’s a statement, not a question, and despite my initial response to tell him to fuck off, the agony torturing his face cuts me like a stiff blade to my heart. I put the paper back in the stand and take both his hands in mine.
