“You can call them later,” he says, “because right now, I need you.”
His eyes are dark with hunger and I smile as I shrug out of my shirt. “I thought you might. You kept kissing me at the interview.”
“Only because I couldn’t do anything else.”
I laugh again, but then he kisses me while stripping off my bra, and I’m not laughing anymore. He steps back to shed his own shirt and pants, and I shove mine off.
Peter nods to the bed, and I get on it. I love that we’re reading each other’s cues, and we know each other so well that we don’t have to talk it out. I want us to get so close that we know what the other is thinking, and I know that we’ll get there.
The last item to go is Peter’s underwear, and he’s already rock hard. I want him, and whatever he’s going to choose for tonight. He climbs onto the bed, prowling up to me like a hunter and I’m the prey. I lay back so that he’s over me, let him look at me, and the world falls away. It’s just him and me.
“Spread your legs,” he says roughly, and I do. He thrusts in in a single stroke and no matter how many times he does it, I’ll never be ready. He’s too big and it takes my breath away every time. He catches my mouth in a kiss, and I’m dizzy with the lack of air as he consumes me. Everything comes rushing back as he releases me and I breathe. I’m squeezing down on him, feeling the fullness, measuring how much of me he takes up.
It’s everything.
Peter grabs one of my hands, and then the other, taking my wrists and pulling them outward and upward so we’re both stretched. Then he tucks his feet under my legs and pushes my legs apart until they won’t go further. He lowers his weight onto me, and I gasp. It’s been a while since we’ve done this. We’ve spent time fulfilling each other’s fantasies and experimenting with new things. But I forgot about this. How could I forget about this? It’s everything I need wrapped up at once.
I moan into his ear, and he moves his hips. “Together,” he says. Not just him, or just me, but both of us. Rocking slowly at first and picking up speed, I’m so near of him. I can feel the way he’s breathing because he’s pressed up against me and I can feel his fingers in-between mine, my ring squeezed against his finger. I can feel the delicious length and thickness of his cock as he starts to fuck me in earnest. And most of all, I can feel his attention equally on me.
This doesn’t just feel like sex, it feels like something more. Like a claiming, and a promise from both of us to the other. We’re breathing in sync, and I feel my pleasure rise to meet his. He kisses me, and I can’t stop him, don’t want to stop him. We’re in this together, and the wave of pleasure surges upward and swallows me whole.
We’re moving together as one, faster and more desperate, chasing each other’s orgasms until I scream into his mouth, the dam breaking open and everything flowing out at once. He comes too, his cock spilling heat into me as he pushes further and deeper, and I’m quivering on him, pussy gripping him, squeezing, every movement sending me higher.
I open my eyes and see Peter looking down at me, smiling. He looks just as happy as I am, glowing from the inside. “Hi,” I say. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” And I don’t think I’ve ever heard words from his mouth that are more true.
“I can’t wait to marry you,” I breathe.
Peter kisses me softly, and I savor the feeling of his lips on mine. “We’re going to have a wedding,” Peter says. “But you’re already my wife. I don’t need a piece of paper to tell me that.”
It rings true. I can’t imagine that a wedding license can make this deeper, any more real. “Then I love you, husband.”
“I love you wife.”
I giggle, and that’s when I notice that he hasn’t moved. That I’m still stretched underneath him and that his cock is still fully hard inside me. “I think I might need some celebration pancakes,” I say.
“I’ll be happy to oblige. Later.”
“Later?”
He grins, “Much later.”
And then he starts to move, and I’m lost in the pleasure all over again.
Copyright © 2018 Penny Wylder
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.
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1
Ollie
The doorbell rings, and I internally groan. I’m not even sure why I ordered food, I’m too sick to my stomach to eat. And I don’t want to see anyone. Not even the delivery guy. Closing my eyes, I lean my head back against the couch. Maybe if I ignore him long enough, he’ll just leave the food by the door.
I’m in clothes that no one should ever witness me wearing and probably would be better off in the trash: A t-shirt that’s so worn it’s falling off my shoulders and ratty sweatpants that would never be decent in public because they have more holes than pants. But I didn’t want to put on anything nicer. Not after tonight. These are the only clothes worth wearing in my state of mind.
The doorbell rings again.
Just go away, I silently beg him. Leave the mozzarella sticks and milkshake. Leave me to wallow in my self-pity. But he rings the doorbell again, and then my phone starts to buzz. Damn it. Answering the phone is even worse than answering the door. I know it’s the just the unfortunate person who’s trying to deliver my food, and I cringe.
“Hello?”
“Delivery.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice squeaking. “Can you just leave the food by the door?”
There’s an uncomfortable pause. “Sorry, you have to sign the receipt.”
“Oh,” I say. “Okay, I’ll be right there.”
Let’s get this fucking over with. I keep my blanket wrapped around my shoulders so that my ratty clothes are less visible, and go to the door. The guy is just standing there with my food and I feel even worse for making him wait. “Sorry,” I mutter, taking the receipt and not meeting his eyes. I give him a good tip before sealing myself back on the safe side of the door. My goal was no more humiliation for tonight. Missed that shot for a mile.
I suppose it’s my own fault though, I didn’t have to go on that date. In fact, Lorraine told me that it was a bad idea. But he was cute and I hadn’t been on a date in a really long time. I think it’s going to be another very long time before I risk that again.
Sinking back into the couch and my cocoon of pillows, I take a sip of the vanilla milkshake. Sweet bliss. I know that I shouldn’t drown my sorrow with sugar and fried cheese, but fuck it, I can go back to being healthy tomorrow.
I’m re-watching one of my favorite TV series—an overly polite British reality show about amateur bakers. I mean, amateur my ass. They may not get paid for their baking but you better believe they’re experts. I’m the amateur. I can’t make a cake that doesn’t come out lopsided. It doesn’t mean that I don’t try, though.