Page 93 of Married in Michigan
He stares up at me for another long moment, and then his hand slides down from my ass to my thigh, and he gently lifts and settles my left foot on the bench. He nudges my thigh away, opening me. I gasp, hiding a smile, keeping my fingers in his hair.
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
“Yes, please.”
He needs no more encouragement. His tongue finds my wet center, and soon he’s not just tasting me, teasing me, but lashing me to a frenzy. He holds me in place with his hands on my ass, squeezing, clutching, pulling me tighter against his mouth, and I ride his face to an orgasm I can’t even breathe through, coming apart so hard under his mouth that I nearly collapse.
He reaches into his pocket and produces a condom, makes quick work of rolling it on. I wait, and then grasp him in one hand, guide him to me, nestle his thick erection at my opening, staring down at him with my lower lip caught in my teeth, heart caught in my throat, eyes welling with emotion.
I sink down on him, and we both groan at the same time.
He leans back against the piano keys, and I grip his shoulders as he holds my ass and lifts me up. I rise on him, and he lifts, and his mouth sears against my breasts, and then he lets me fall, and I slam down hard, and his grunt is rough and hoarse.
There is no rhythm to this—it’s hard, rough, fast. Uncontrolled. He grunts, and I scream. I moan, and he snarls. I whimper, and he whispers my name.
It’s quick. Fresh off of one orgasm, it takes me less than half a dozen thrusts of his huge beautiful erection inside me to bring me to the cusp again, and our eyes are locked on each other, moving together, in thrall with one another. I rake my fingernails down his chest as I come, leaving eight parallel red tracks on his skin, and I growl his name in my throat again and again as I fall into pieces on top of him. He thrusts through my climax, each movement drawing clanking, tinkling notes from the piano as his back moves against the keys. His eyes never leave mine, and I rise and fall on him through my climax and to his own—slamming harder on him to bring it out of him. To get more and more. To make him come harder and harder, until our joining is a syncopated symphony of tinkling piano keys and slapping flesh and ecstasy-lost voices.
When he comes, I feel him fill the condom, and bury his face between my breasts. I’m writhing against him until we’re both sweaty again, and frantic.
Finally, we’re both done, and I rest my cheek on the top of his head, and his face is still buried in my cleavage, and I think he would live there if he could.
I lift up, pressing my breasts together around his face, laughing. “You like my boobs, I take it.”
He groans, nuzzling them. “Love 'em.” He replaces my hands with his, cupping them. “They’re the best. Literally, the best, ever.”
“Well, they’re yours now.”
“Not yet they aren’t.” He stares up at me. “I know it sounds crazy, and maybe it is, considering how we feel. But, Makayla, I don’t want you to marry me for the arrangement anymore. It would’ve worked if we were two strangers who only sort of tolerated each other.” A pause. “But now that I know we’re falling in love, marrying this soon seems kind of…”
I put my fingers over his mouth. “I still want to.”
A slow blink. “You do?”
I nod. “It’s still crazy, and honestly crazier than it was when it was supposed to be a fake thing, and temporary. But I want to.”
He sucks in a deep breath. “Would you still want it to be temporary?”
I shake my head. “No, Pax, I wouldn’t.”
A grin. “Funny enough, I think this will piss off Mom more than anything else could.”
“So win-win all around?” I laugh. “Get married, keep your family connections, plus you get a wife who actually loves you,andpiss off your mom.”
He blinks hard. “Wife.”
I choke. “Husband.”
“You’ll say I do?”
I nod. “And I’ll mean it. It’s batshit crazy, Pax. I mean, agreeing to marry you for what amounted to financial reasons was crazy enough.Wantingto marry you when I’ve known you for a matter of months is even crazier.”
He rubs the tops of my thighs. “You really want to?”
I nod.
“Why?” he asks.
I shrug. "It’s hard to put it into words.” A pause as I think. “I’ve worked nonstop my whole life. Done the responsible thing. Been the breadwinner, the hardest worker in the room, the one willing to take extra shifts. I’ve never had a serious boyfriend because I haven’t had time. I haven’t been willing to let myself fall for anyone, because I couldn’t handle the thought of him leaving me the way my father did, and because if I got my heart broken, I’d fall apart, and Mom needed me too much to let that happen.” Another pause. “I’ve always done the responsible thing, the selfless thing. It’s all been for her, for Mom. This would be for me. It’s reckless, it’s crazy, it’s probably kind of stupid, but I want it. I want you. I want us. I want to do this because it’s selfish.”