Chapter 53
gooey center
Lorien
Their house is nice. As in nice.
I saw the library. I saw the movie room, though I left Ayla, Cian, and Renée to it on some movie marathon. Sariah and Wills went to bed.
I did, too, only to find the sheet still smelled like Liam. Poe must like that, because she’s curled up on his pillow and hisses at my intrusion.
I was the one who wanted a cat. I suggested it to be outrageous, but it’s something I’ve wanted, though the time was never right. This little thing isn’t soft or cuddly. She doesn’t care if I exist. In fact, she seems annoyed that I exist.
My hair is a mess and my pajamas, which were appropriate for Liam’s house, are less so in a house full of children. And male adults.
But something is better than nothing, I change and slide under the covers, messing with my new phone and enjoying its newness. The bedroom door opens and Liam’s eyes hit mine. “I need to shower and I’ll be right there.”
“Okay.” My voice is soft. I can feel the exhaustion written all over him, can see the pain that rests on his features. “Liam?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Did you take your pain meds?”
He shakes his head. “I forgot them at home.”
“Want me to see if Ayla has something?”
“You don’t have to do that.” His words say one thing. His face says another. He pushes open the bathroom door and the sound of water hitting tile meets my ears.
Me: Do you have any pain meds? Liam forgot his and I think he’s hurting.
Ayla: Yes. I’ll bring something up.
Ayla: I’m glad he has you. I don’t know what’s... shifted. But he needs someone to take care of him. If you ever repeat that I said that, I’ll deny, deny, deny.
I don’t respond. I don’t know what shifted either. I hope it’s not the sex. I really hope it’s not me.
I promised him uncomplicated. I promised myself I could walk away with no strings.
But I never counted on Liam Murphy.
I never counted on the gruff exterior with the gooey center.
I never counted on falling in love.
I slide out of bed to the knock and another hiss. The cat hates me.
Ayla’s at the door, her eyes going wide when she sees my get-up. It’s not overly sexy. But it’s not something that a woman who has an arrangement with a stand-offish neighbor would wear to bed.
She grins, not even attempting to hide her glee. “Here you go.” She hands over a bottle of prescription strength pills and an empty glass. “Have a good evening,” she sing-songs.
“Thanks, Ayla.” I would say more. But no more needs to be said.
She, like her brother, has that whole safe harbor thing down to a science.
I’ve almost shut the door when she moves close. “Thank you.”
And I swear there’s depth and meaning to it aside from an expected response.
Liam
My wife putters around in the world’s shortest shorts, ass cheeks clearly on display with another top with those tiny straps. This one is a coral color and has no lace, just satin or silk or some shiny shit that will surely feel like water under my hands.
“Who was that?” It comes out as a bark of accusation. What I want to say is who saw you looking like that because I’d hate to have to kill someone in my family.
“Ayla.” She heads my way, extending a putrid orange bottle and a glass. “You looked like you were hurting.”
I was.
I am.
There’s no getting around it with what happened this weekend. The bruises on my knees are swollen and annoying. Gunshot wounds get all the attention.
I reach up and trace the pad of my index finger across the purples around her eye. “Yeah, Wifey, shit hurts.”
The slinky thing cascading over her body is calling my name, but I can’t take my eyes from hers. Ever so slowly, I dip my face to hers, stopping a whisper away from her lips.
There’s something to be said, but I’m at a loss. Instead, she licks my lips in an attempt to lick her own.
Game fucking on.
My mouth takes hers, dominating, possessing, as my arms slide around her body. One hand goes to her hair to tug, positioning her face where I want it, allowing me deeper access, folding her backward as I drink deeply. The other goes down inside her shorts, cupping her bare ass cheek, kneading.
There’s no doubt through the thin clothes she tempts me with that she can feel what’s between us. And I don’t mean the emotions. My cock is thick and hard, seeking her out.
Her moan slides down my throat, and I release her enough to lift her under her armpits, hoisting her legs around my waist, forcing the towel to fall to the carpet. I should get a medal for this shit with what’s happening in my shoulder.
She shimmies, her heat seeking my own and I groan.
“I told you I don’t care about the neighbors. I don’t. But I give a shit about my family, and I’d never hear the end of it.” I lay her back on the bed, looking down at the feast being served to me. “I’ve changed my mind. Those moans are for me. Your cries of ecstasy are mine and mine alone.”
Her eyes dilate and the look on her face is something I’m not ready to face.
She’s not agreeing with me for the sake of me getting my way.
She’s giving me what I need, because I need it.
She reaches up, combing her fingers through my beard, watching their trek.
When her gaze hits mine, she nods. “You’re jealous? ”
“Of your pleasure. Of your orgasms.” I run a hand over her nightie. “Of anything that touches you.”
I lift the top over her head and drop my mouth to one perfect breast, trailing my fingers up the inside of one thigh.
“Wait.”
I look up from my damn near perfect vantage point. My brow furrows and my lips purse. “Yeah?”
“Well, do women get to…” She clears her throat as her eyes pinch shut. “Do I get to be that jealous too?”
I grab her hand and pull it between us, wrapping it around my shaft. “Feel that?”
Her eyes spring open and she nods.
“You did that. And, baby, make no mistake, this is for you.”
“So I get to make rules too?”
I blow on her nipple. “I think we’re living by your rules.”
“While breaking yours,” she fakes annoyance.
“Is my cock annoying you? I could get myself off, I guess.” I take our joined hands and tightly stroke down to the root.
“Well, if you get my pleasure and my orgasms, I get yours.” She thumbs my slit and I groan.
That’s not a bad bargain for me. Especially since she’s proven she can keep up with me.
“Are negotiations over then? Because I’d like to get down to fucking my wife and making her come.” I thrust into her hand.
My eyes hold hers as my mouth hits her nipple, sucking deep, as I pinch the other. She bows off the bed and a noise bubbles low in her throat.
“Mine, remember?”
“Yours,” she says, and somehow, I know our conversation shifted and isn’t just about sex, isn’t just about orgasms.
Our joined hands stroke me until I’m too close and have to back off.
“I need to touch you.” And the words are true. It’s need not want. It’s oxygen and I’m drowning.
“Please.” It comes out on a breathy moan.
She releases my dick, and I lift off her, pulling those thin shorts off her delicate legs.
I find her center, not trusting to eat her. I’m ravenous and I wouldn’t stop even if her cries filled the whole second floor. But her clit is engorged, her juices are running from her center, and I’m tempted beyond reason. One swipe. Just one.
One is never enough. I know it.
“Baby, if I hear you moan, I stop, but I want to feast. Hear me? Feast. So I need you to stay as quiet as possible to help me, okay?
She moans, “Yes.”
I bite her clit, growling around it. “Quiet. Those are mine.”
She holds up four fingers, just below her belly button.
“What?” Lick.
“Is?” Suck.
“That?” I faceplant in her pussy, spearing her, lapping her juices, devouring her taste.
She writhes under me, her hips wiggling until I pin her lower half with my forearm.
“Six.” Pant.
“To.” Gasp.
“Four.” Moan.
She throws a pillow over her face and pulls it down with force.
I suck hard on her clit, pulling deep as I feel her convulse and watch her insides seize around my fingers trying to milk me. The tip of my tongue presses into that most sensitive bundle of nerves, stretching it out.
Lorien thrashes and screams into the pillow and groans. Her pussy strains. She wants me. She wants more.
“Love this greedy pussy.” Now, how will I ever satisfy it? I swipe a finger through her wetness and watch her jerk under my touch.
Her chest rises and falls. Her tits bounce with the movement. Her pussy glistens. And all of it is gift-wrapped in Lorien Anderson. The bookish, nerdy, do-gooder with awful taste in music, terrible baking, and a heart of gold.
A heart of gold.
And a perfect pussy.
And for the first time in my life—the first time ever—I wonder how I can have this every moment of every day until I tumble to my grave.
Not an arrangement. Not a contract. Not paperwork over tacos with no fanfare.
But a wife. A mom to my kids. A partner who sees me in pain and finds a way to fix it.
A woman who ties me in knots. Makes me hard. Who stands before both our families vowing to choose me just as I choose her.
Lorien.
My wife.
The one I’d die to protect.