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And then I circle her clit, nibble, and circle again, working to a rhythm, testing for what makes her wild.
She cries out wordlessly, coming so hard, her entire body shakes, and her pussy clenches around my fingers. Once she’s well and truly done, I remove my fingers and stand over her, one hand stroking my dick through the fabric of my suit pants.
Marci’s gaze is hazy, sated, but desire flashes through her eyes again.
“I want more,” she says, adorably petulant.
She’s fantastic in that wedding dress with those rings on her finger.
Mine.
All fucking mine.
Finally.
Twenty-Eight
MARCI
This is happening.
It’s actually happening.
Jesse Taylor made me lose my mind, my body, my soul, my every-damn-thing. I never understood the infatuation with guys who liked to eat pussy. Because nobody has ever touched me the way Jesse did.
“Jesse,” I say, cupping one of my breasts through the lace of my wedding dress.
He’s ruined my panties. Torn them apart in his haste to get to me. I kind of want him to do the same to the rest of my outfit.
“Wife.”
I shiver, moving my fingers down to the remnants of my underwear.
“Don’t touch yourself,” he says.
“What?” My temper flares hot. “I want it.”
“I’m the only one who gives it to you. Next time you eventhinkabout making yourself come, you call me.”
“But what if you’re not in the mood?”
“I don’t foresee that being a problem,” he says. “But if it is, Angel, I will drop everything to make you come.”
The rational part of my brain knows he probably won’t be able to do that, but it turns me on anyway.
“I want more,” I say again, aware of how I sound.
Demanding.
Needy.
“I love it when you talk like that. You’re spoiled.”
I raise my chin, defiant.
Jesse unzips his pants and strokes his cock, showing me the full length, the girth.
“Do you think you can take it?” he asks.
