6. Elliot
Six
Elliot
I ’ve never been a fan of messy activities, but go ahead and add ‘Eating Claire Montgomery’s pussy’ to the list of my reasons for living. Holy fuck.
Her slick, warm folds… the desperate little sounds she made… the way she tugged on my hair so hard my scalp prickled, her whole body writhing against the sofa…
It was the best kind of sensory overload. And yes, I’m going to need to do that again, preferably every day of my life. As I sit back on my heels, knees aching where they dig into the floorboards, and wipe my mouth on my wrist—I’m already hungry for more.
“Again?” I rasp, rolling my stiff neck. Okay: maybe a glass of water first, then I’m ready. Or maybe I’ll say to hell with it, and dehydrate.
Claire chokes out a laugh, her arms tossed over her reddened face. She’s sprawled inelegantly over the sofa cushions, braid mussed and limbs flopped out to the sides. Her pussy is still bared to the living room air, pink and swollen and salty and so damn delicious.
When I lick my lips, I taste Claire. My whole body hums happily in response.
I need more.
More of her throaty moans and her hands in my hair; more of her body rolling against my tongue. More of her taste and scent saturating my skin, my hair, my clothes, until Claire Montgomery seeps into every cell of my body.
Obsessive? I suppose you could call me that. Plenty of people have.
Though personally, I prefer dedicated.
But when I lean forward for round two, gripping a wonderfully plump thigh in each hand, Claire sits up and bats me away, saying, “No no no, don’t you dare! Too sensitive. Way, way too sensitive.”
With Claire propped up on her elbows, we stare at each other for a long moment. It’s the first time we’ve made eye contact since my mouth was on her clit, and I could stare at this woman forever.
But my hackles rise when I see caution building in her gaze. I raise an eyebrow, questioning.
Claire smiles weakly, but it wavers.
My heart lurches, thumping faster.
No. No, this is wrong.
“You liked it,” I say, and my tone is way too hard. Accusatory. She stiffens in response. “You begged me, Claire.”
My baffling new wife presses her lips together and nods. “I did.”
“So why…”
I trail off, frustration leaving a metallic tang in my throat, because I’ve always struggled to read people, always lived with that nuisance—but why now ? Why with Claire?
I’m getting this wrong, messing things up when the stakes have never been higher, and the worst part is that I don’t even understand why.
I hate feeling like a fool. It’s rare, but so deeply unpleasant.
“You look unhappy,” I say slowly, testing out each word. “A few minutes ago, you seemed fine. Better than fine. But now, afterward, you look unhappy. Am I wrong?”
Claire sighs and lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. It’s not an answer, not anything at all, and Christ, this is frustrating. My wife sits up fully, blushing as she drags a cushion into her lap to cover up.
Hiding herself from me. I fight the urge to snatch that cushion and fling it at the wall.
“Tell me,” I grit out instead, scrubbing my mouth and jaw again with my wrist, trying to rub away Claire’s essence. It’s so hard to focus when I smell her pussy with every breath. “Tell me exactly where I went wrong.”
“You didn’t go wrong, Elliot.” Claire sounds sad. Why the hell does she sound sad? “It’s just… this is a lot, you know? I’ve wanted this for years—” she blushes fiercely, but raises her chin, refusing to take it back, “—and now it’s finally happened. And it was great, so wonderful, really, but it makes me wonder why you didn’t want me before.”
Ah. This, at least, I can fix.
I exhale, chest loosening with relief.
“I always wanted you.” My words are clipped, perfunctory, because this is so obvious. Claire’s a smart woman, but she can be so very blind sometimes. “Ever since that first math class, I wanted you, and everyone knew it. I didn’t try to hide it.”
Claire splutters, shoving a stray lock of blonde hair out of her face. “What are you talking about? You hid it from me, Elliot!”
I frown. “No, I didn’t.”
She’s sitting bolt upright now, her spine rigid.
“You never touched me,” Claire says.
“No.”
“You never tried to kiss me.”
“No,” I agree.
“You never asked me on a date.”
No… not explicitly, I suppose. But I did build my whole life around taking care of Claire, supporting Claire, making her life as easy and pleasurable as she’d let me. She’d never accept my money, so I built out my business and hired her as my P.A. She’d always wanted to leave our boring suburb and live in the city, so I set up my company headquarters here. I mean… how obvious can a man be?
“I didn’t know if you wanted those things, and I couldn’t risk misreading the signals.”
Claire growls with frustration, her fingers flexing like she’d dearly love to throttle me. “Elliot? No one knows that stuff going in. Not for sure. You can make your best guess, but you’ll never be certain. That’s why it’s so scary.”
Hm. Is that true?
The traffic rumbles outside, and my aching knees scream as I sit with that thought for a moment, examining it from all angles. Claire waits for a moment, watching me think, then sighs and rummages for her leggings.
She’s pulled them half on when I finally speak, my voice cutting through the tense silence. “You’re being a hypocrite.”
Claire snarls and yanks her leggings all the way up, hopping to her feet. I follow slowly, bones creaking, my whole body stiff from kneeling for so long. When I reach my full height, Claire bristles with anger down there, like a beautiful, mad little honey badger.
“Why am I a hypocrite?” she demands. Her fingers are flexing again, like she wants to prod me in the chest.
“Because you’ve wanted this for a long time too. You said so yourself.” Even in the midst of the worst conversation in my life, the memory of Claire saying that warms my insides, buoying me up. I inhale deeply and prop my hands on my hips. “But you didn’t say anything either, hence the hypocrisy.”
“Hence,” Claire mutters, digging her knuckles into her eyes. “ Hence . Don’t give me one of your smart guy lectures right now, Elliot.”
I scowl. “This is how I speak.”
“No it’s not.” Claire drops her hands with a huff. “Not with me. I know how you speak, okay? This is your smart guy bluster. This is what you do when you want someone to shut up and leave you alone.”
“See? At least one of us can read signals,” I say dryly.
And—shit.
It’s entirely the wrong thing to say, and I know it before the words even leave my mouth. If I could snatch them back, if I could chew them up and swallow them, I would. Christ, I don’t even mean them, I’m just being an asshole because Claire has closed off from me and the panic ringing in my ears is nearly deafening. Can’t think straight. Can’t think at all.
“Wait,” I say. “I didn’t mean that.”
She’s everything to me, and I’m messing this up.
Claire turns away. “Yes, you did.”
A moment later her bedroom door snaps closed, and I’m left in the light from the TV screen, empty noodle bowls strewn on the coffee table behind me. My throat is so tight I can’t swallow, and Claire’s scent is still in my nose, my skin, my hair. Can’t escape her now, can’t get even a moment’s relief, because she’s inside me. Burrowed into my cells; twined around my DNA.
I got what I wanted, and it’s torture.