Chapter Thirty Bram #2
“I thought about you being the nanny,” I grind out, ashamed and aroused and maybe a little angry, even, to be forced to admit this.
“My nanny. The pretty nanny walking around my house in her flirty little skirts, flaunting herself at me, knowing full well that I already knew how good her pussy was. I thought about having her whenever I wanted—available, wet, forbidden, but still mine mine mine.”
“Me too,” Maddie whispers, eyes fluttering. “Oh god, I thought about it so much. So fucking wrong, but I imagined you using me whenever you needed relief—fuck—”
We’re merciless with ourselves, and the noises right now, the wet noises, the chafing, slapping noises, the whole scene is beyond indecent.
With our shared nanny fantasy hanging in the air, it’s just plain wrong.
And yet, I’m there, and I’m so fucking depraved because the orgasm clawing its way up my groin is fueled by our filthy words . . .
“Don’t come,” Maddie gasps right before she cries out my name.
Her entire body shudders, rolls, fucks, as she keeps rubbing herself through the cataclysm shaking its way through her.
It’s wet on the counter underneath her, on her thighs, and I’m about to die because I can see the quiver and pulse of her climaxing cunt.
I make a noise I don’t even recognize from myself—something like a roar and a whimper together, one breaking apart into the other—and force my hand away from myself, having to curl my bare toes into the floor and brace every muscle in my body against the pleasure threatening to tear its way up my cock.
It surges angrily in the air, redder than the rest of my body, so swollen that the skin is satin and gleaming, the veins huge and furious and beating with my rabid heart.
But it holds. With several shredded breaths and more fluid leaking out of the tip, my orgasm holds itself at bay.
Maddie is still quivering, still riding it out, the flush on her cheeks and throat matched by her flushed cunt as she comes to the end of her trembling contractions. She takes a slow breath and lifts her hand from between her legs. Wet, wet, wet.
“Come here,” she whispers, and I’m helpless but to comply, coming to the counter and then accepting her fingers when she pushes them into my mouth.
I groan at the taste—sweet, light, all Maddie—and then let out a guttural, animal sound when she hops off the counter and grabs hold of my thoroughly edged flesh.
“Follow me,” she says, like I have a choice with those red-tipped fingers wrapped around my dick.
Like I’d ever do anything different. And then all five foot two of her leads all six foot four of me by my tender, throbbing cock up the stairs and to my bedroom, where Hester Prynne vacates the bed with a huff and stalks off to find somewhere else to leave an imprint of fur.
“Lie down” is my next order, and I do it, not bothering to pull down the covers, my mind fixed only on relief. I’ll do anything she says to get it. I’ll have her sit on my face. I’ll rub myself against the soles of her feet. Literally anything so long as she’ll let me come.
She doesn’t make me wait. She crawls over me, swings a leg over my hips, and then mounts me like I’m a service she’s paid for.
I clench my jaw as she impales herself, the squeeze of her channel so unfairly tight, all of her like silk, like a slippery glove I barely fit into, and when she sits up straight and starts using me with her hands braced on my chest, I find clenching my jaw isn’t enough.
My hands are fisting in the blankets, my breathing is coming in gusts from my nose like a bull’s, and after she whips off her sweatshirt to reveal her pert, bouncing tits, I have to close my eyes for a few seconds because I can’t handle it. I can’t handle it.
“Bram,” she says, her voice husky, private. “Bram, look at me.”
I look at her. I keep my eyes on her face, on those jewel-green eyes with those long lashes, on her upturned nose and wide mouth.
“I know,” she says. She says it like a benediction and a confession also. “I know.”
She’s riding me and I’m dying and she is looking at me with every version of herself—the brat, the lioness, the good girl—all of it is in her eyes and her face, all of herself, and I know that I could spend a thousand years with each version of her and still not get enough, and still need more, and maybe she sees that on my face, because she says, in a strange, bewildered kind of voice, “It’s never felt like this. ”
And then she jerks forward, her hot cunt clamping down on my length like divine vengeance, an act of God, and I grab her waist, brace my heels, and start fucking up into her with every minute’s worth of denied frustration, with every day’s and week’s worth of longing and need.
I fuck her like I’ll die if I don’t; I fuck her like I’ve never even heard the word good.
I fuck her like I love her.
And then with her still orgasming around me, the climax catches fire, burning me from within, searing up my cock and exploding as I start unloading pulse after pulse deep into her pussy, every jet of semen coming with a rush of pleasure so intense that static fuzzes around her, that my fingers are going numb and tingling.
It’s never felt like this.
It’s never felt like this.
My ears are fucking ringing.
Her green eyes are the only thing in the world.
I’m spilling into her body, each surge coming with a hard thrust from underneath, my orgasm leaking out around us as I stab up into the tight kiss of her cunt over and over and her hands scrabble at my chest as her head falls forward and she shudders and shudders until we—finally—both go slack.
I’m still seeing sparks.
Maddie collapses onto my chest, warm and quiescent, and I stroke her back with fingers that have yet to fully regain circulation.
“Good boy.” She sighs happily, and a rush of satisfaction floods through me. No wonder she likes being called a good girl. It feels fucking great.
I keep stroking along her spine, enjoying her little shivers since I’m still deep in her body. “What you said earlier,” I start. But I’m not sure how to finish.
“Mmm?” She nuzzles my chest and snuggles in closer.
“When you said that it’s never felt like this . . . it’s the same for me. Which is strange to say with having been married before, but that was different, and this is different, and I want—I want . . .”
I don’t know what to say next without terrifying her. Without running roughshod over all the rules we agreed to.
I finally settle on: “I want this, Madelyn. I want all of this.”
“I know.” It’s a murmur against my chest, dozy, sweet. Like she’s agreeing with me.
“You’re growing all over me. Like wisteria. Like—” I smile even though she can’t see it. “Like jasmine.”
And it’s a bad idea to murmur the rest, but I don’t stop myself, I won’t, because she is right, she is right. It’s never felt like this. “I want to keep you, Madelyn. Let me keep you. Let me water you and feed you and move you into the sun. Let me . . .”
I don’t quite have the courage to finish the last sentence, though.
Let me love you.
Let me love you.
But maybe I don’t need to. Maddie props herself up to look at me, her hair tousled to hell and back, her cheeks still flushed.
Her pupils are big and there’s a softness to her face that I rarely see.
“You’d be a good gardener of me, Bram,” she says.
Her voice is full of something, and I can’t quite name it, but it feels fragile and hopeful, and it makes my heart beat twice as fast underneath her.
I love her. I love her, and this, whatever this is, is the only thing I’ve ever had just for myself, and she is the only person I’ve ever let have all of me—my attention and my friendship and my care and my carnality.
My darknesses and worries and certainties and the joys closest to my heart, and I want everything of hers in return, and I’ll nurture it, all of it, the thorns, the carnivorous parts, the clever, seeking roots.
The sweet, silky petals that bloom only under the right touch.
And yes, I’d be a good gardener of her, but she’s already the best gardener of me, the only one I ever want.
“It’s just as well,” she says, closing her eyes, “because I suck at gardening. I can’t keep a plant alive to save my life.”
“Everyone can keep something alive,” I tell her, a fond amusement curling around all the other emotions blooming in my chest. “Even a preschooler can keep an aloe plant happy.”
Maddie opens one eye to glare at me. “Tell that to my graveyard of dead aloe vera plants, Bram. I killed an air plant last year. They said I was supposed to mist it. But how much mist? And how often? Oh, one mist too many? Dead. You know what? It’s gaslighting, that’s what those plants are.
Succulents too, they can fuck right off. ”
I laugh, shaking her where she’s lying on top of me, which makes her laugh in return.
“I’ll make a plant mommy out of you yet,” I say, and lift my head to kiss her. She kisses me back, that soft hope staying in her face and making a summer inside my chest.
“You make everything out of me,” she says. “And you make me want things I shouldn’t want.”
“Who says you shouldn’t want them?”
She moves to kiss me, her dark hair falling around my face, her eyes going from green to black as her hair screens our faces from the sunlight. “I don’t think I know anymore,” she whispers, and presses her mouth to mine.