8. Elliot
Eight
Elliot
“ W hat on earth are you doing?” I shove my chair back to peer beneath the desk. Two hands land on top of my thighs, squeezing gently, and I nearly jolt clean out of my skin. “Claire?”
Her giddy laugh floats out to greet me. “Isn’t it obvious? Come on, smart guy.” She rubs my thighs through the dark fabric of my pants, and my brain short circuits. There’s nothing but a high pitched buzzing sound in my skull. “You can figure this out.”
Uh. Can I?
Because as far as I can tell, Claire and I had a terrible fight last night, and we were just discussing divorce papers. Now the woman of my dreams is on her knees beneath my desk, her clothes rustling as she shifts out of sight—and though I know what I hope is happening, this is not an assumption I’m about to make.
“If you want something from the mini fridge,” I start to say, breaking off to curse quietly as Claire starts working my belt loose, her pale hands moving in my lap, “I can— fuck. I can pass it to you.”
There’s a pleased hum, then my belt slides through its buckle. Claire’s hands pause in my lap, resting torturously high up my thighs.
“Elliot,” she says, with so much affection it makes my head spin. “I don’t want another water. You know what’s happening here.”
Christ. Yes, okay, I do. The signs are unmistakable, even for me.
“Are you okay with it?” Claire pushes, her voice gentle. “Do you want me to keep going or not?”
Is that seriously a question? Is there a hypothetical universe out there where I wouldn’t want Claire’s mouth on me? Of course not. So…
To hell with it. To hell with divorce papers, and treading carefully, and doing the right thing. To hell with everything except Claire’s hands on my thighs, their warmth searing me through the fabric of my pants.
My heart slams against my rib cage.
She’s mine.
Turns out she always has been. Now we just need to get out of our own way.
“Keep going,” I rasp, rolling my chair back so Claire has to crawl after me—because if this is about to happen for the first time, you’d better believe I want to see every detail. Want to see her cheeks hollow as she sucks me down. Want to wrap her wild hair around my fist. “Fuck, keep going, sweetheart. I’d give anything for you to keep going.”
Claire smiles up at me as she gets into position between my spread legs—and there’s so much love in that gaze, my whole chest shudders in response. Am I dreaming?
“I’m sorry about last night,” I choke out.
Claire nods and pops my pants button open. “Me too.”
“I just—I’ve loved you for so long, and you’re so perfect, Claire, and I lose my head when it comes to you—”
“Elliot?” My wife pulls the zipper down, the crackling sound so loud in this silent room. The hairs on my arms stand on end. “Me too.”
She gives me a wicked smile, her cheeks already flushed. Those sage green eyes are so bright, so clear, so beautiful.
“What if I don’t want to get divorced?” I grit out, the chair creaking as I shift my weight. Then every cell in my body goes still, entirely focused on Claire as she reaches into my underwear, her fingertips skating over my hard cock. Yes. She draws me out into the cool air, fingers wrapping around me and giving an experimental squeeze. “What if I never want to get divorced?”
“Then burn those papers.” Claire’s thumb rubs a bead of moisture over my cock. My stomach twists with pleasure—both at the sensations, and the possessive glint in her eye. “I don’t want them either. This is it for us, Elliot Ramsay. You and me.”
“You and me,” I repeat those sacred words, breaking off with a shocked grunt as Claire’s lips close around my shaft. The wet heat of her is so sudden, overwhelming my senses, and my hips strain to buck up, thrusting into her perfect mouth—
“Mm,” Claire hums, pulling off all too quickly with a shameless pop. Her hand keeps pumping, teasing, twisting, and my pulse thuds madly in my ears as I fight to keep still in the desk chair. “You taste really good.”
I do?
I mean—good. Yes. I am rigorous with my personal hygiene, and I’m very glad that Claire is satisfied that—
“Fuck!” I bark out as she takes me deeper this time, her cheeks hollowing. My baffling, perfect wife sucks like she’s trying to draw out my soul, blonde head bobbing, while I cling onto the arm rests of this chair for dear life, my fingertips bleaching white. Every muscle in my body strains to move.
Keep it together. Hold back. Don’t scare her off.
Claire moans, the vibrations tingling through my nerve endings. I grit out a curse and keep still, a bead of sweat rolling down my spine beneath my shirt.
The slurping sounds she makes… they will haunt my dreams. A world-class concerto could never compare.
“You’re holding back,” Claire says the next time she comes up for breath, her chest rising and falling beneath—is her t-shirt on backward? “ Elliot .” My eyes snap back to her face, and then I’m lost again, tumbling into the perfect abyss of Claire. “You’re holding back,” she says again, “but you don’t have to. I like it when you lose control. Remember?”
My fingers flex against the armrests as I replay the memories from last night—the way Claire moaned louder, shook harder, when I let myself get carried away by the moment, losing myself in the wonderland of her body. Christ, I could have licked her pussy from dusk until dawn.
“I…”
Can’t think. Can’t speak. Not with my heart drumming out a war beat, and my muscles trembling with the effort of holding still, and every single sense focused on Claire. Does she really mean that?
“Come on,” she whispers, giving one slow, teasing pump of her wrist. Her eyes sparkle with mischief, and god, she knows exactly what she’s doing. What she’s coaxing out of me. “Live a little. Sometimes it’s good to get messy.”
Right.
Well, then.
I snatch both of her hands in one of my own, holding them easily, and Claire laughs with delight as I lunge up out of the desk chair. It spins away behind me, rattling over the floorboards, but I barely register that fact as I scoop Claire up from the floor and set her down on the desk. She’s so soft and warm in my arms.
“Is this on backward?” I mutter, plucking at her stripey cotton t-shirt, voicing the question that I can’t quite let go. But you know what? It doesn’t matter. If this piece of clothing is a distraction, there is an obvious solution.
I tear the t-shirt clean off in one go, tossing it over one shoulder, then peel off her bra next. Claire lifts up her hips to help me get the jeans down her thighs, and I toss her sneakers and socks too, wrinkling my nose at how soaked they are.
Panties next, then she’s bare. Fuck.
Claire Montgomery is naked on my desk, bathed in the pale light of morning. Divorce papers crinkle beneath her ass, getting creased and torn as she shifts her weight, and— good.
This is right. This is how things should be.
All is well with the universe again.
Can’t believe I stayed up all last night with an exhausted lawyer on the phone, drawing those papers up, trying to make sure Claire got the best possible deal out of me. What a waste of energy, when if I’d just knocked on her bedroom door, I could have been doing this all night instead.
Lesson learned. No more panicking and pushing each other away; no more stupid fights over nothing. We’ve both confessed, and there’s no turning back. The knowledge is a balm to my sleep-deprived soul: we’re in this.
Finally.
I gust out a long breath, pausing to center myself, both hands gripping Claire’s waist. The calm before the storm.
“Come on,” she teases, squeezes her thighs around my hips, her warm body arching to rub against my shirt. “What are you waiting—”
My mouth captures hers, kissing her hard and deep, smothering her breathy sound of surprise. Claire moans and wraps both arms around my neck; she squirms and writhes and kisses me back like I’m the best thing she’s ever felt.
The feeling is mutual.
Something clatters off the desk onto the floor—a pen, maybe. Who cares? Well, normally I would, with even a small amount of mess in my office lodging in my brain like a burr, but it’s impossible to care when Claire Montgomery licks a stripe up my throat. Blood pumps hot through my veins.
My hand delves between Claire’s thighs to find her slick already, swollen and needy, and she gasps against my mouth when I press a finger inside. And yes, I remember this in vivid detail: the warm clutch of her body, the slick slide of her channel, the way I can stroke a sensitive spot and feel shudders wrack her whole frame.
“Claire,” I choke out, pumping two fingers inside her now, my face buried in the crook of her neck. She smells light and floral, like a spring meadow, with the slightest hint of fresh rain. She hums and holds me tighter.
“Do you want me, Elliot?”
Is that even a question? “ Yes .”
Claire hooks a finger in my belt loop, dragging me even closer. “Then take me. I’m ready.”
Christ. My abs tighten, and when the weeping head of my cock brushes Claire’s slit, it’s like a shock wave travels through my insides.
This is happening.
“It’s both of our first times,” I mutter, frowning down between our bodies as I notch at her entrance. Is this a good angle? Guess I’m about to find out. “Don’t—don’t judge it harshly, Claire. We may need some practice.”
She laughs and kicks the back of my thighs with her heels, urging me to press inside. “Elliot? I don’t care.”
“Well, you say that now, but you might find that—”
“I don’t care,” Claire interrupts, catching my chin and waiting for me to meet her gaze. As soon as our eyes lock together, the raw nerves in my chest are soothed, and I exhale. “You could finish in two seconds flat and I wouldn’t care.”
My scowl deepens. “Don’t jinx me, woman.”
“We could break this desk,” Claire continues, “and I’d only laugh. We could be the most awkward, unsexy, uncoordinated pair to ever get it on, and it would still be perfect, Elliot, because it’s us. The rest of that other stuff—the cool moves, the finding our rhythm, figuring out how to press each other’s buttons—that will come in time.”
She’s right. I know that Claire is right. She usually is, after all.
So I kiss her forehead, grip her thighs, and hold my breath as I push forward into heaven.