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“I am your wife, after all.” She snorts.
“And there's no one else like you.” No one else—not my fellow Marines, not my father or my brothers or my nephews, and definitely not my son’s mother—can look past my facade, to the sentiments that lurk underneath.
She blushes further, then bites down on her lower lip. I can feel the tug all the way to the crown of my cock. I can’t stop myself from bending my head and covering her mouth with mine.
Her taste is drugging, and evocative, and the stuff my dreams are made of. It shifts something in my chest, then turns my thighs to iron and my balls into obsidian.
When I tear my mouth away, both of us are panting.
I search her eyes. Can she tell what she already means to me? That my life will never be the same again. I’m no longer Quentin Davenport. I’m first and foremost, my Raven’s husband. Her protector. Her defender. Her lover. Her dominant.
She must sense something of my thoughts, for her eyes widen. Her lips curve in a soft smile. She dives in again for a kiss, but I evade her mouth.
I can't tell her what I feel for her. It's too much, too soon. It makes me feel too vulnerable. But I'm so grateful to have her in my life, so grateful that she’s gotten me in touch with my emotions again, the least I can do is make her come. So what, if I’m avoiding talking about feelings by making her orgasm, I will tell her what I feel for her. Just not yet.
“Q, please—” she begins, but I grip her hips and lift her up. Thanks to our height difference, I'm able to position her over my face. She balances her knees on my shoulders, clutches my head for support, then stares down at me. "Wh— What are you doing?"
"I'm contemplating my wife’s cunt; you have a problem with that?" I stare at her glistening pussy, and her stomach muscles clench. I press soft kisses up one thigh, then down the other, before I pull her close to my mouth. “Ride my face."
"What?" The shock in her voice makes me chuckle.
"Press that sweet little slit into my mouth and let me lick it until you come."
"You already did that,” she squeaks.
"This time, I won’t use my fingers."
When she hesitates, I apply enough pressure, so she has no choice but to bend her knees and bring the flesh between her legs close to my lips. I instantly latch onto her clit and suck.
She cries out, throws her head back, digs her fingers into my shoulders, and tugs. A burning sensation sparks down my neck, my spine. My cock jumps in anticipation. I growl against her cunt, and her thighs quiver. I slide my hands down until I’m cupping her butt cheeks. I squeeze them, and she whimpers.
The sounds she makes form the symphony of my life. Her lips, her pussy, her fingers, the touch of her skin on mine, the sound of her voice, her scent, the way she smiles, her little moans when she’s aroused, the way she doesn’t hesitate to go toe-to-toe with me, how she cares for the people in her life, how she embraces her submissive side and doesn’t hesitate to open herself up to new experiences—all of it has chained my heart and locked it, and she has the key.
I’m hers. Does she realize that? Can she sense it in how I handle her body? And she is mine. She belongs to me.
That fire under my skin turns into a blaze. I begin to lick between her pussy lips, around her clit, then down to her slit, where I stuff my tongue inside her warm, wet channel. She whines and squeezes her thighs around my face, and fuck me, but this is heaven. Between her legs, with her thick thighs suffocating me. I slide my fingers down the valley between her butt cheeks and play with her back hole. At the same time, I curl my tongue inside her and her body bucks. She curves her back, throws her head back and screams. Moisture bathes my mouth, drips down my chin, and she convulses as she orgasms.
When she goes limp, I bring her down to my chest, where she curls in.
We stay that way until the water begins to cool. Her shoulders twitch, and she snoozes. I don’t want to wake her up, but I also can’t stop myself from trailing my fingers over the curve of her shoulder. I bend and sniff her throat, inhaling the scent of her body now infused with the notes from the rose-scented bath salts especially for her. For her, I’ll allow myself to smell like flowers.
I push the hair from her face, then bend and kiss first one eyelid, then the other. I kiss the tip of her cute little nose, her lips. She parts them, and I slide my tongue inside, then stop when she stirs.
I don’t want to wake her. She deserves to rest. She must be tired. I take full credit for her orgasms. I allow myself a small smile. I wore her out, and her muscles are so relaxed, she’s almost comatose. It’s been a long day, and no doubt, her emotions have been all over the place. I draw back slowly and wait until she settles, and her breathing deepens.
I rise up and step out of the tub, holding her in my arms. I manage to dry her and bring her to bed, where I tuck her under the covers. Then I deposit the tray of food back in the kitchen and do a quick sweep of the house to make sure all the doors and windows are locked, and the security system is active. Not something I’ve done before, but with the most precious thing in the world under my roof, I want to make sure everything is secured. By the time I crawl into bed with her and pull her into my chest, I’ve already missed being with her, and we were apart for less than ten minutes.
She’s becoming a necessity, an addiction. One that’s settled deep into my skin and bones and become a part of me in the way no one else has. All signs that I’m in love with my wife. She has the power to hurt me more than anyone else on this earth.
Something I’ll worry about later.
For now, I’m going to enjoy the curve of her butt, the contour of her waist, the honeyed softness of her skin, the rose-tinged scent of her shampoo, combined with the familiar scent of my soap that smells different on her. She smells like mine, and I know I’m fucked. There’s no escaping the fact that I’ve made myself vulnerable to her.
When Felix’s mother left, I swore I’d never allow anyone else into my life. Yes, I was at fault for what happened with her. And no, I hadn’t loved her, but it didn’t make the aftermath any easier to bear. It pushed me to bury myself deeper in my career. I was confident I’d never let myself be that vulnerable again. Yet, here I am, in love with a woman less than half my age. A woman who’s my wife. Who I’m wedded to and have no plans of letting go.
But what if she grows tired of me?
If she leaves me too, what then?
