Darius
“ Y ou’re mine. ”
The words punch out of my chest, throbbing with possession. And I know it’s too much, too fast, it surely wouldn’t be in any How To manual, but I don’t care. This is a law of nature.
Lucy is mine , she always has been and always will be, and I’m going to spend the rest of our lives convincing her of that fact. Showing her, through my actions and words, that I’m not a bad bet. I can love, and love right, because I’m already turned inside out over her. I’ll do this right.
She’s rewritten my DNA.
She’s burned into my blood.
And right now, her sweet, salty tang is on my tongue.
Best thing I’ve ever tasted. Who needs food? Whenever I get hungry from now on, I’ll burrow under Lucy’s skirt—especially if it gives her that glazed, blissed-out look. So beautiful.
Never seen her so relaxed. My Lucy is normally so uptight and tense, keeping everything running smoothly in the background, always crucial but never really thanked. Her To Do list is a mile long, and it plays in stressful loops in her brain.
Now, though, she’s turned to jelly. A pink flush stains her gorgeous chest, and her smile is dreamy. “I’m yours, huh?”
All. Mine.
She won’t regret it, I swear. Screw those fears. Now that I’ve found the center of my universe, now that I’ve surrendered to this, I’m ready to orbit around her, meeting her needs, building up her confidence. Bringing out the vixen I know is hidden inside those cardigans.
Not that I want to change her clothes.
In fact, next time we do this, I want her wearing those glasses. The cute little tortoiseshell ones that make her look like a librarian.
Christ. Gripping my shaft, I jerk myself once. Twice.
I’m so hard I could drill through concrete.
Want to keep going. Want to claim her fully. Want to thrust and rut and paint her insides, but I’ll never push this woman faster than she’s ready. Will never make her feel pressured. I’d rather die, I’d rather throw myself off a cliff—
“,” Lucy says, reaching for me, smiling that well-pleasured smile. “Come here.”
She guides me on top of her, stretching longer on the sofa. Lets me lower my bare body on top of hers, hooking her ankles around the back of my calves.
“I’m yours,” she says again, feathering kisses over my jaw. My gut swoops, and my cock is so hard it vibrates. “So prove it. Take what you want.”
What I want is Lucy in my bed every morning, with my ring on her finger.
I want her sleepy Sunday smiles, and to bring her coffee and pastries in bed, and I want to bicker over the crossword together.
But, okay: I definitely want this too. When my shaft glides over her slick folds, coating the head in her wetness, my heart thumps hard enough to bruise.
“We don’t have to…”
“I want to.” Lucy nuzzles my throat, humming, and Christ, that’s the best thing I’ve ever felt. Memory bank hall of fame. “If you want to, I do too.”
Ha!
What a question. As if my gut is not already cramping with the need to be inside her.
“I’m going to be good to you.” My muscles shake as I lower down, rocking harder against her. Getting good and slick. But I’m not shaking because I’m tired, not with all this adrenaline coursing through my system—no, I’m nervous. This is it.
“Don’t listen to the gossips, Luce. I’m going to love you so fucking much that we’ll be a boring married couple to them. They’ll lose interest in us completely, because we’re so stupid in love with each other.”
She laughs weakly, winding her arms around my neck. “I know.”
When I nudge at her entrance, we both hold our breath.
And when I sink inside the first inch, we let out twin groans.
So tight. So hot. So slick and hungry, sucking me deeper, even as her body strains to adjust. Lucy whimpers and keens and shifts beneath me on the sofa, her glossy hair spread over the cushions. Over in the fireplace, the flames pop and crackle.
“Tight,” I mutter, sweat beading my forehead.
“Virgin,” she says. “Remember?”
As if I could forget. And this is both a huge, life-changing gift and a hell of a lot of pressure, so my focus arrows down on Lucy’s face as I thrust gently, working my way deeper.
I’ll never hurt her. Not now, not ever.
But apparently Lucy has less patience than I do, because after several long, slow thrusts, she huffs and yanks me deeper with her heels. Her hips rock, and that blush spreads, and her eyes flutter half-closed.
Lucy’s moans are the best thing I’ve ever heard.
Wedged halfway inside her, it feels like angels should be singing. Tooting hard on their heavenly trumpets, celebrating the best goddamn day of my life. Of any man’s life.
Gritting my teeth, I press deeper.
In.
Out.
Slowly. Gently.
Letting her body adjust and her breaths get heavy. I work my girl open until she’s rolling her hips up to meet mine, and I’m burrowing all the way deep with each thrust, teeth clacking together as the sofa creaks.
Poor Leo. I’ll confess tomorrow and buy him new furniture. He’ll probably change the locks, but it’s worth it.
“, I— hngh. ”
I lick a stripe up Lucy’s throat. Her skin is salty with sweat.
Delicious.
Love when she says my name. Love when her eyes roll back and she loses her train of thought, too busy working herself on my shaft.
“D–,” she tries again, face creasing as I thrust harder, pounding her into the sofa cushions. “Shit. Yes. Like that. Just like that. Oh, god.”
As my lady wishes.
Lucy is so perfect like this, shameless and wild. With her tits jiggling and her mouth swollen from my kisses, her eyes bright and hair mussed. No one else sees this side of her, only me, and that makes the beast in my chest roar in triumph.
“What are you trying to tell me, sweetheart?” Hooking her thigh higher, I change the angle, hitting a spot inside Lucy that makes her howl and claw at the cushions. “Go on, spit it out.”
She glares, but her mouth twitches with humor, even now. God, I love teasing this woman—especially when she gets her revenge by clamping down on my length, squeezing me with her inner muscles until I nearly choke on my tongue.
“ Hngh ,” I say.
“Spit it out, .”
Rallying, I snake a hand between us and thumb her clit. And when Lucy’s head tips back, when her moan floats up to the ceiling, I know I’ve won this particular battle. “Tell me.”
“I want you to…”
Lucy grunts, burying her face in my throat. And I keep thrusting, rubbing, chasing her higher, even as my back muscles tremble and sweat slides down my spine.
“Yes?”
“Want you to c—” Lucy breaks off, tossing her head, raking my chest with her nails. Little spitfire. “Want you to… to come in me. Please .”
Holy hell.
My gut cramps, sparks zipping down my spine, and as my thumb rubs circles on her nub, I send up a silent prayer that I can last through this. That I can get her there first.
“You first, sweetheart.” Tendons stand out in my neck, and I keep thrusting, plunging deep. “Come for me. Show me how pretty you are when you fall apart.”
The answer: like a goddamn angel.
As though she was waiting for my command, Lucy tenses up, breath seizing. Her channel clamps down on me, twitching and tight, and I can’t wait any longer. Wedging as deep as I can go, I follow my girl over the precipice. Soaring, flying, falling.
I’d follow her anywhere. To the ends of the Earth.
And when I pump her full, flooding her with spurt after spurt, my frantic heart finally settles in my chest. The beast inside me purrs.
Yes.
Lucy is mine. Claimed and filled until she drips.
About time.
* * *
One year later
It’s eight AM on a Sunday, and that means I’m behind schedule. Power-walking down the sunlit street, with launderettes, cafes, and used bookstores passing in my peripheral vision, I clear my throat and walk faster.
There’s no reason to stress like this. Not really . Lucy won’t care if I bring coffee and pastries to her reading nook rather than waking her with a kiss on the forehead, but I care, damn it. I swore a private oath.
Besides, bringing my wife breakfast in bed is one of my great joys. And if there hadn’t been an unexpected line at our favorite bakery, if some tourist hadn’t spent forever umming and ahhing over custard tarts and bear claws, I’d already be home—picking flecks of pastry off Lucy’s pajama top, rather than here, zooming around a young mother with a double-wide buggy.
It’s a bright, warm day, and the air is crisp. Away from the city center, we actually get some quiet on Sunday mornings, broken only by the rumble of occasional passing cars and the smack, bounce of neighborhood kids playing basketball.
My chest throbs with the need to get home already. To see my wife, and deliver her special decaf coffee. To rub her feet, sore and swollen from her third trimester, and reassure her for the millionth time that she doesn’t look like a hippo. That, frankly, I wouldn’t care if she did .
Lucy is always beautiful to me.
Our building is quiet when I reach it, my steps echoing on the lobby tiles. There’s an ancient elevator, but I hit the stairwell instead, because I can climb faster than that thing rises.
My paper bag crinkles. I’ve brought her almond croissants today, lightly dusted with icing sugar. The pastries seep warmth through the paper, clutched carefully to my chest.
Did Lucy sleep alright?
Did the baby kick and keep her awake?
Lucy, Lucy, Lucy.
My wife is always on my mind.
Our door is painted green, cheerful and bright. Sliding the key into the lock, I try to open it quietly.
“?” a soft voice calls.
Damn. My heart sinks, but I let myself in properly and close the door behind me.
Our apartment is sunlit and cozy, with kitschy throws on the furniture and overflowing bookshelves. When I reach the living room, Lucy smiles at me from her favorite armchair, her feet propped on a footstool.
“Shit,” I say, crossing to her and handing her the croissants and take out coffee. “I knew I was too late to wake you.”
Her sweet laugh follows me into the kitchen as I fetch her a plate. “Oh yeah, shame on you, . Bringing me breakfast like this every Sunday morning. What a jerk.”
The burning sensation in my chest fades as I go back to her, turning to something warm and gooey. If Lucy’s not disappointed, then it really is fine.
I’ll still do better next week. Treat her right. And in the meantime, I lift her feet off the footstool then sit there, settling her heels in my lap.
Lucy moans, eyelids fluttering as she chews her almond croissant. Maybe from the foot rub, maybe from the pastry. Perhaps both.
“Hippo feet,” she murmurs, crumbs dropping to her pajama shirt. There’s icing on her top lip.
“ Perfect feet.” I nibble her big toe to prove it and Lucy squeals, trying to wriggle away.
Not happening.
Lucy is the center of my world, and she’s mine.
And I’ll spoil her for the rest of my days.