Chapter 32 - Molly
Molly
Ishove his trousers down with little to no finesse and scrabble under his shirt tails to get his boxers down too. None of this looking-for-the-peephole-thingy bullshit. I want full access. To everything. Dick. Balls. The lot.
His cock springs out when I lower the waistband of his boxers.
Yes.
My mouth immediately waters. He’s hard, and huge, and smells so fucking male. He’s so hard, in fact, that the foreskin is taut and shiny around his shaft, his flared crown an angry red.
Woah. That’s a lot of blood flow there already. Maybe I should get the poor guy on the bed. But I’m feeling greedy. Impatient. And I know how good those drops of moisture leaking from his slit will feel when I use my tongue to rub them. Spread them.
I cast one last glance upwards through my eyelashes before leaning forward.
One hand goes to cup his balls, which are already high and tight as fuck.
You would not think he’d got lucky last night.
My other hand wraps loosely around his shaft and gives him a light, leisurely, teasing pump I know will drive him crazy and piss him off in equal measure.
My tongue darts out and licks up his slit before painting that hot, velvety crown with his own pre-cum.
Max jolts like he’s been electrocuted, and I smile to myself.
Good to know I’ve still got it. It’s not the first time I’ve gone down on him since we’ve been together second time around, but so far, the others have been opportunistic.
Hurried. And they’ve usually ended in him hauling me up so he can finish inside me.
He hasn’t come in my mouth this time around.
Not yet, anyway.
Predictably enough, his hands go to my hair as I give him a little more. Slurps instead of licks. Shallow sucks. Light pumps with my hands. My thumb running over his balls. I was in a rush to get my mouth on him, but now I’m here, I’ll take my time.
Even if I should have thought ahead and grabbed a cushion for my knees. I’m possibly getting too old to be on my knees, blowing someone on a wooden floor.
My knees will be fine. I focus instead on the delights in front of me.
Of having my mouth full of Max.
Of being as intimate with him as I possibly can.
Of soaking up the salty, musky taste of him, inhaling his scent, which is laundry liquid and shower gel and, best of all, him. Male and gorgeous and so riddled with pheromones that I don’t stand a chance.
Of feeling his pleasure. His cock hardening impossibly, the tiny tremors that vibrate through his entire body, his hands fisting and tangling in my hair with a desperation that has my soul soaring, because I can’t believe it’s come to this.
I can’t believe I get to do this. That I’m allowed to fill myself up with Max Rutherford. That he wants me this badly.
‘This is so fucking amazing, sweetheart,’ he grits out, one hand stroking my hair back off my face while the other one holds the base of my skull through a tangle of hair, as if he’s worried I’ll abscond before I let him finish.
‘Mmph,’ I agree, and I reward him by suctioning my mouth around him and sucking as I pull most of the way off him. I swirl my tongue around his weeping tip and push him back into my mouth, firmly, and he makes a very male, very agonised noise that’s catnip to me.
I fucking love doing this to him. Love the feel of his cock growing slicker as my saliva and his pre-cum mingle to lubricate my movements.
Love the ease with which my mouth and hand are moving back and forth over his length.
Love running my lips and tongue over the hard veins and ridges of his erection.
He’s so close; I can feel it. His entire body is vibrating now.
He slides a hand under my arm to hoist me up, and I release his cock long enough to say no way before diving back in.
‘Oh God,’ he shudders out. ‘Oh fuck. Molly—fuck. Mol. Jesus fucking Christ.’
I focus on taking him as far into my mouth as I physically can, which is definitely not all the way, and on making my pumps slower, harder, as he stills and goes rigid. And then he’s coming, pouring his arousal into my mouth in shuddery, jerky motions as he works through his orgasm.
When I’m sure I’ve wrung every last drop of his climax from him, I release him and swallow before taking him in my mouth one last time and sucking him clean.
His cock twitches, and I grin. I get carefully to my feet—holy fuck that floor is hard—and he gathers me in his arms, squeezing me to him in a vice-like grip.
‘Jesus, Mol,’ he says into my hair, his voice hoarse and wrung out.
I raise my face to his and he kisses me.
Hard. His tongue finds my mouth and devours me hungrily as his breathing returns to normal.
His hands rake through my hair and smooth it over my shoulders, sliding the straps of my bra down.
He reaches between us with one hand and cups my breast, his thumb strumming my nipple, and the ache that’s been building in my breasts and between my legs while I worked him with my mouth becomes more intense.
I arch my back to get more of his touch.
‘I want everything off,’ he orders. ‘Want my hands full of you all day long.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ I squeak.
A whole day. With Max. No kids. No early wake up call. Just white gorgeousness all around me, a bed that’s calling my name, and the hottest, most thoughtful man in the world putting his hands on me, and hopefully other body parts in me, and hours and hours for us to enjoy each other’s bodies.
This time, it’s he who walks me backwards, shuffling because his trousers and boxers are around his ankles.
I giggle as we go and match his pace. He lowers me to the edge of the bed with his hands, and I allow myself to flop back, my body hitting a thick cloud of a duvet and my arms falling above my head.
He stares at me as he stands there in front of me. Those hazel eyes have a dangerous look in them. A hungry look. He makes quick work of his shirt buttons, and I stretch, lazy and catlike with gratification as he peels it down his arms.
Max.
Naked.
(Well, almost naked. He just needs to get those trousers the whole way off.)
It’s the best view in the world.
‘What are you going to do to me?’ I ask, my voice betraying my excitement with a quiver as he bends and gets his shoes and trousers off (and, hopefully, his socks too).
He straightens up. ‘Everything,’ he says with a wolfish smile.
Holy crap.
I really am the luckiest woman alive.
Mmm. I lie there and luxuriate as Max lifts my feet to take off my shoes before hooking his thumbs in the sides of my yoga pants and yanking them and my underwear down my legs. He assesses his handiwork appraisingly.
‘Nearly there.’
I arch one shoulder off the bed so he can undo the back of my bra and pull it over my raised arms.
His mouth curves up slowly. Triumphantly. ‘Just beautiful.’ I think he’s going to jump on me, but he looks around before his gaze alights on something on the bed. Next thing I know, he’s pulling the cord off the nearest robe and flexing it in his hands.
‘I assume you still like this?’ he asks, his tone carefully impartial.
I inhale sharply. The sight of Max, naked and already semi-hard again, standing at the foot of the bed flexing a restraint, albeit an innocuous one in wholesome waffle cotton, causes an immediate physical reaction.
My nipples pinch, there’s an instant pulse between my thighs, and my heart rate ratchets up out of nowhere.
Because I haven’t done this since Max. Felix didn’t tie me up, nor did the casual partners I had before I met Felix.
Max and I used to fool around with a bit of low-key bondage—the odd silk tie, or a pair of stupid fluffy handcuffs courtesy of my girlfriends, or a trusty dressing-gown cord.
And from the looks of it, this boy scout hasn’t forgotten his skills.
‘Why don’t we see?’ I say, and his eyebrows rise.
‘You haven’t…?’
‘Nope,’ I say in a tone I hope shuts down that particular conversation.
‘Well, well, well,’ he says. ‘Even better.’
Instead of coming around the bed, he puts a knee up and straddles me.
‘Scoot up a bit.’
I wiggle myself up so my legs are on the bed, too.
‘Arms up.’
I raise them in the air, holding them together like a good girl as he braces his powerful body over me, winding the cord around my wrists and securing it tightly while affording me a most excellent view of his sheer physicality. He gives my wrists a tug.
That seems like a solid knot.
My breath hitches.
The thing about Max is that when you get him in the bedroom, he goes from laid-back to predatorial, and I fucking love it.
I know I’m completely safe in his hands, but I also know I’m in for a treat.
He’ll reward my trust and then some. The knowledge of this, and the knowledge that, for now, I’m his sexual plaything, gets me so hot and bothered that he’ll barely have to touch me before I’m coming.
The power dynamic in itself is turn on enough.
He touches me gently on my inner arms, prompting me to lay them back on the bed above my head.
Then he’s crouching down on me, the heavy sac of his balls resting right at the top of my thighs, his erection brushing my stomach as he leans forward.
I stare up at him. Trustingly. Impatiently. Wanting everything he has to give me.
His hand comes to my hair, my cheek, as he braces on one arm. ‘So fucking sexy,’ he tells me. ‘Mol, you should see yourself. You are every man’s fantasy right now, and I am one hell of a lucky bastard.’
‘I’m the lucky one,’ I tell him, my words turning to a moan as he swipes both palms roughly over my exposed breasts, a shock of heat lancing south at his touch.