Page 44 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

Connor

I know she's delaying, but it's impossible to chastise her for it when I see the intent in her eyes. When she reaches for my zipper, the light whisper of her fingertips against my crotch drains the blood to my groin. I know, then, she’s succeeding in distracting me.

She lowers the zipper and stares at the tent in my boxers, and all thoughts drain from my mind.

I feel myself grow thicker, longer, harder under her perusal. I lean back in my seat and slide my thighs apart. She moves forward on her knees until she’s positioned between them, still watching my crotch with big eyes.

"Take it out," I growl.

Instantly, she reaches inside my boxers and closes her fingers around the hard column.

Goosebumps pepper my skin. My thigh muscles burn with need.

Every muscle in my body seems to lock in.

I’m a quivering mass of tension, lava building up at the base of a long dormant volcano, pushing at the seams and ready to explode.

She pulls me out over the waistband of my briefs.

Without looking down at myself, I know the head will be swollen, the crown engorged and almost purple with need. And when she licks her lips, I’m sure there’s precum oozing from the slit.

"Lick it off," I command.

Instantly, she dips her chin and licks up the column, curling her tongue around the head of my shaft.

"Fuck," I bark out. My thigh muscles bunch. I can’t stop my hips from lifting off the seat, so my dick slides over her tongue.

A small smile curves her lips. A knowing smile filled with feminine delight.

My Fever’s discovering her power over me.

She’s realizing I wasn’t lying when I said she holds my future in her hands.

Certainly, the most important part of me at the moment, too.

Though, I could argue that the most important part of me is now outside of my body.

I stare down at her bent head. As she opens her mouth wide, she, unprompted, takes me down her throat.

"Jesus Christ." I hold the hair back from her face so I can watch my cock disappear inside her mouth.

To call it erotic would be doing her and me a disservice.

It’s almost sublime to see her close her eyes and feel her gag around my girth.

To watch the tears squeeze out from the corners of her eyes and the spit drool from the edges of her mouth.

I ease her back until my length is poised at the rim of her mouth.

She looks up at me from under her heavy eyelids, her hazel eyes shimmering like forest leaves dotted with early spring rain. The golden flecks in them allude to how aroused she is.

"If I touch you between your legs, will I find you wet, my Fever?"

A breathy whimper emerges from her lips. The black of her pupils encroaches further into her irises.

"Does using your mouth to bring me pleasure turn you on?"

She jerks her chin.

"And does the thought of my taking your other holes in the same way turn your cunt into a raging river of need?"

Her chin trembles. The tendons of her throat flutter, the pulse at the base like a caterpillar struggling to be released from its cocoon.

She seems caught in the midpoint between pleasure and pain, that perfect knife’s edge where she could shoot out into the stratosphere or enjoy the security of staying tethered within the sweet bonds of torment.

"Want me to bring you some relief, baby?"

She nods eagerly.

"Then put your hands behind your back and keep your mouth open."

She instantly complies, her pulse beating faster, her chest rising and falling with anticipation. "Breathe through your nose." That’s all the warning she gets before I ease her forward.

My cock slides down the slim column of her throat. The walls press down on my shaft, kindling a thousand little sparks in my bloodstream. She gags, and the sensation goes straight to my head.

"Woman, you’re killing me." I ease her back again. Anchor her with my gaze, even as her knees tremble.

"Hold on." I begin to fuck her mouth in earnest. Each time I slip down her throat, she moans, her torso undulating like a reed in the currents at the bottom of the sea. Slim but curved in the right places, she’s a thing of beauty.

An object of desire. The most intriguing secret that I've stumbled across.

One I intend to keep, and own, and make mine in every way that counts.

I intend to coax her to bare her burdens, so there are no shadows between us.

Sweat beads her forehead, and she squeezes her thighs together. The sugary scent of her arousal is heavy in the air, fanning those sparks into infernos of desire.

I slip the top of my shoe between her thighs, coaxing them apart.

Instantly, she begins to hump onto the curved surface, her actions desperate, saliva hanging in threads from her chin, mascara running freely down her cheeks.

She looks like a goddess. Like she’s consumed from within.

Like she’s lost her mind, all coherent thought vanished from her head.

Like me. Her eyes are big, feverish with need, and that, strangely, makes her feel innocent.

A butterfly pinned to a table by the knife of longing.

I increase the pace of my actions, fucking her throat as gently as possible, wanting to extend the pleasure, wanting to make sure she comes along on this ride with me.

"Get yourself close to the edge," I direct her.

Her eyelids flutter. She sinks down further onto my foot.

Through the leather of my shoe, and the fabric of her yoga pants, I sense the throbbing bud of her clit.

Sense the moisture drenching her panties and dripping down her inner thigh.

And when she arches her spine and every nerve in her body draws tight, I know she’s almost there.

I pull out of her mouth, then bend and close my lips over hers.

I kiss her deeply, savoring the briny taste of my precum combined with the sweetness of her tongue.

I reach under the waistband of her yoga pants and find her melting center.

I stuff three fingers inside of her, capturing the cry that erupts from her.

I hold her in place with my other hand on her shoulder and fuck her with my fingers.

I trace the swollen nub between her pussy lips, and her spine snaps straight. As if every fiber in her body is braced for impact. And when I curl my fingers inside her to touch the spongy bead behind her clit, she explodes.

Her lips lock, her muscles twitch and she throws her head back as she lets out a keening cry.

Her eyelids flutter down as the climax has her in a chokehold.

Her pussy clamps down on my fingers, and her orgasm goes on and on.

I hold her in place, continuing to fuck her with my hand, until she slumps.

Then I urge her to sit back on the balls of her feet. "Open your mouth."

She does.

I squeeze my swollen, painful cock and swipe my hand from base to crown in a hard twist, again and again. Now that I’m confident there’s no turning back, now that I know we’re on our way to get married, it feels like it’s inevitable that she become my wife. Something knotted inside of me loosens.

Here on my turf, on a flight which feels like a metaphorical midpoint between where we started and where we’re emotionally headed, I give in to the feelings I have for her. I accept what my subconscious has always known: that this arrangement was never fake.

But for someone whose survival hinged on unwavering control—on camouflage, detachment, discipline—this is the first time I allow myself to relax . To let go .

The pressure at the base of my spine breaks through the barriers I imposed on it, and I let myself come. My orgasm crashes out from my tailbone and up my spine and radiates out to my extremities. Strings of my cum paint her mouth, her neck, across her cheeks.

She licks them up, still spasming with the aftermath of her own release.

I come and come, and she swallows everything she catches in her mouth.

When I’m done, I scoop the mess off her face and into her mouth.

She swallows, opens her eyes, and I witness a thunderstruck expression in them like she’s seen something holy. It certainly felt that way to me.

When she begins to slump, I put myself to rights then scoop her up and into my lap and cradle her.

I hold her until she finally opens her eyes and looks up at me. "You finally came." She yawns.

"And you’re wrecked."