High Ambitions, Low Places
SLADE
Her hands push into my waistband, boxer briefs and jeans together, and I lift my hips slightly and she drags them down my thighs. My dick feels hot and rigid as she wraps one smooth, cool hand around me.
Then she licks slowly up my cock from base to tip and my head drops back.
Her tongue swirls over the head. She takes her time with it, slow and teasing, sneaking coy glances up at me.
My wife is giving me a hell of a show and she knows it.
Her hand strokes the base while her mouth works the head. I reach down and grip the silky rose gold strands as her head bobs up and down and feel her hum against me in response.
The vibration of it moves straight up my spine.
She takes me deeper.
Her lips stretch around me, her tongue pressing up against the underside as she sinks down. My dick hits the back of her throat and she chokes a little. My fingers in her hair loosen immediately, giving her room, giving her the chance to pull back.
She gives me a fierce look.
And takes me deeper.
Her eyes water slightly and she gags again and she doesn’t pull back, doesn’t even seem to consider pulling back, just holds there with her hands braced on my thighs and her eyes on my face like she’s daring me to stop her.
Every time I think something is too much for her, she proves me wrong. It makes me wild, the way she wants this. Wants me.
She’s not pretending enthusiasm or just giving me what she thinks I want. She’s on her knees because she wants to be there. Because she likes doing this to me, the way I lose control for her.
That’s the part that sets me on fire. That she’s as hungry for this as I am. Her neediness sets me aflame.
“I’m so fucking gone for you,” I tell her raggedly.
Her eyes flick up as she slowly bobs her head up and down, humming with pleasure. The sight of her lips wrapped around my dick, dark and glistening from her saliva and my precum, is lewd and beautiful all at once.
My fingers tighten in her hair. “The way you take care of me… fuck, baby, you’ve got me drunk on you.”
I came into this storage room bleeding and in a dark mood with Boone Hutchins’s voice in my ears and the clock running down on everything I don’t want to lose. She turned it around in minutes. The dark mood is gone, because how could it not be?
My wife is on her knees with her mouth stretched around my cock.
It might be her kneeling right now, but I’m the one ready to fall at her feet.
She pulls back slowly. Pink tongue circling the sensitive crown. My thighs tense hard under her hands.
“That’s it,” I say roughly. “Just like that. Let me see that pretty tongue of yours.”
Her tongue drags again. Slower this time. Watching my face while she does it, watching what it does to me.
“You’re so beautiful,” I tell her. I tighten my hand in her hair, knowing she can handle it. “Take more for me. I know you can.”
She takes more. Sinks down until I hit the back of her throat again. The sounds she makes around me, the small wet obscene sounds of her deep-throating me, move straight up my spine and pool at the base of it.
I breathe through it. My whole body is pulled tight, every muscle tensed, my free hand gripping the edge of the crate hard enough to whiten my knuckles.
Something dark and possessive surges through me as I watch my wife with her mouth on me.
She’s mine.
She’s my wife and I’m never, ever letting her go.
“Come here,” I say roughly. “I need to kiss you.”
With me gently tugging her up by the hair, she comes up off her knees, her lips swollen and slick, eyes dark, so damn gorgeous I can’t believe she’s real.
I kiss her hot and deep and messy. And then I pull away, just slightly. I need to know that I’m not alone in this desperate, obsessive need for her.
And she does. She comes to me. Her hands fist in my shirt to pull me closer as she’s the one to initiate the kiss.
My tongue slides against hers and her body melts against my own. That innocent surrender is everything. It’s proof she belongs to me. Her every breath, every soft sound, every sigh against my mouth. Mine.
Then I turn her. Bend her forward until her hands hit the storage shelf, her palms flat against the wood. Her back is to my chest, my cock pressing against her lower back. I lean down and put my mouth at her ear.
“Just this once, you’re gonna have to be real quiet, baby,” I murmur. “No matter how hard I fuck you. Can you do that for me?”
“I’ll try,” she breathes.
I kiss her neck. “I’m too jealous to let anyone else hear those pretty sounds you make when I’m fucking you.”
Her fingers close around the metal shelf. Already she’s got a tight grip on it, like she knows she’s going to need it.
I push her skirt up.
She’s wearing a lacy thong that makes her ass look incredible, blue lace against her skin, barely there.
I take one second to appreciate it and then push it to the side because I’m too far gone for patience right now.
I dip my fingers into her and find her slick and hot and clenching and I exhale hard against the back of her neck.
“You’re soaked,” I say roughly. “Sucking my dick made you this wet?”
“Yes.” She turns her head and gives me a little smile. “I love it.”
So close to: I love you.
I’ll take it.
“Sweetheart,” I rasp, “I really am the luckiest man in the world.”
I notch my cock at her entrance and push in. One hard thrust and I’m all the way in to the hilt.
She gasps and her back arches and her hands grip the shelf hard. I stay buried inside her for a moment, feeling her stretch around me, feeling her body adjust to the sudden fullness of me.
“Breathe, baby,” I murmur against her neck.
My hand runs up her spine slowly, over the soft fabric of her sweater, all the way to the back of her neck where I grip gently, my fingers wrapping around her nape.
Then I move.
The shelf rattles against the wall with the first thrust and I don’t care, I don’t care about anything except the heat of her and the moan that comes out of her and the way she pushes her ass back against me.
I set a hard driving rhythm, my hips snapping into her, my hand tightening at her nape with every thrust, and I feel her everywhere, tight and hot and perfect around me, her body taking everything I give her and pulling me deeper.
“Your pussy is so fucking perfect,” I tell her, low against her ear. “You were made for me. So soft and tight but feel how you take this dick. Feel your hot, needy cunt gripping me like that.”
She makes a sound that would carry if the bar wasn’t loud.
“Quiet,” I remind her, teeth grazing her ear.
She tries, muffling her moans into her hand. I thrust harder, my blood turning molten at how she’s trying and failing. She’s not in control right now.
I am.
And she trusts me with that completely.
That trust is the most intoxicating thing of all.
“Just can’t help it, can you?” I say tenderly against her ear, lips brushing the shell of it. “My good, sweet wife, who loves a hard, dirty fuck.”
I reach around and wrap my hand around her throat as I thrust into her, squeezing the sides.
Her pussy clenches around me in response and I nearly come right there.
She’s so soft and gentle and yet she loves the way I fuck her, rough like this, with my hand around her throat.
The trust she has in me makes me nearly lightheaded with ecstasy.
As my hand wraps around her slender, delicate neck, a powerful wave of affection surges inside me.
The pleasure of possessing her like this, so completely, is nearly overwhelming.
Pleasure at her trust in me, her acceptance of my brutal side, flows through me as strong as the liquified heat flooding my veins.
But churning within it, like sand caught inside an ocean wave, comes the anxiety and desperate fear she’ll disappear. That this happiness will vanish like a mirage and I’ll lose her forever.
My hands find her hips and I pull her back to meet me, changing the rhythm, harder now, deeper, my fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips hard enough to leave marks.
“This,” I say low against her neck, my hand sliding around to her stomach and pressing flat. “Is mine. I’m gonna fill you up with my cum over and over until I get you pregnant. You want that, baby?”
She trembles, nodding. I don’t know if she’s saying it to make me happy or she really means it but either way, I can’t stop the words pouring out of me. I’m now obsessed with the idea of making my wife pregnant. It’s primal, beyond logic or reason, and I can’t stop.
“When my baby’s in you, I’m gonna keep fucking you,” I murmur in her ear, my tongue tracing the delicate shell between thrusts. “I want to feel your belly get big. Feel your tits fill up with your milk. All these curves I love and I can’t wait to feel more of them.”
I mean every word of it in a way that would have baffled me six months ago. I’d never wanted commitments, never even wanted to fall in love. But the truth, the one I’m only understanding now with her body against mine and the words still in my mouth, is that I just hadn’t met her yet.
Lila is the one.
I want us to make something that can’t be taken back. Something that outlasts any contract or agreement or plan we ever made. I want us tied together for life.
My hips drive forward. As I fuck her, my hand slides lower to find her clit. I circle slowly, obscenely slowly given how hard I’m pounding into her, and she makes a broken sound and her knuckles go white on the shelf.
“This,” I say, fingers gliding along her pussy.
“This is mine. Mine to fill, to make you come. Only me. Forever.” I groan against her neck and thrust deep and hold there, buried to the hilt, grinding against her, my fingers working her clit in tight circles, and I feel her start to fall apart around me.
The trembling starts in her thighs first, working its way up through her whole body. Her grip on the shelf is slipping.
I hook my arm around her, hand closing around her tit and squeezing as I pull her flush against my chest. It changes the angle, lifting her slightly onto her toes as her body arches back into mine like she’s trying to get closer, deeper, more.
I fist her hair and pull her head to the side, then put my lips to her cheek and press hot, open-mouthed kisses down her jaw, her neck. I bite and suckle her soft skin between my teeth, knowing I’m leaving marks.
Good.
My fingers on her clit don’t stop. My hips keep moving. My arm keeps her locked against me, her back to my chest, and I feel the moment she shatters, the full body clench of it, her inner walls locking around me, her head dropping back onto my shoulder as her whole body trembles.
I hold her through it, both arms around her now, keeping her upright while she comes apart.
I last about three more seconds.
It hits me hard and low and total, the pressure releasing all at once, my face burying in her neck, her name in my mouth, my hips driving forward one last time and staying there as pleasure rolls through me in long waves.
Pure bliss. Every thought whited out. Every dark thing from the last hour gone.
The bar thumps on outside the door. Muffled bass and laughter and the clink of glasses, the whole world continuing on completely indifferent to the fact that everything just shifted in here.
“You feel better?” she asks breathlessly.
I press my lips to the back of her neck. The warm skin there. Feel her shiver.
“Yeah,” I say. “I feel better.”
She laughs softly. Turning her around, I cup her face in both hands and kiss her. I kiss her with everything I don’t have words for yet: the gratitude and the desire and the feeling that’s been building inside me for months.
When I pull back her eyes are soft.
I help her put herself back together. Smooth her skirt down over her hips, my hands running over the fabric, making sure everything is as it should be.
Straighten her sweater at the shoulders.
Then I turn her gently and brush her hair back from her neck with both hands, working through the tangles carefully, and she stands completely still and lets me and watches my face in the dim light with those dark eyes that I suspect always see more than I know.
“I can’t believe I just fucked my wife in a dive bar storage room,” I say with a heavy sigh.
“I liked it.” She gives me that flirtatious smile, the one that has been making it difficult to think straight since about the first week she was in my house. “In your truck, in a dive bar storage room.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “I want to fill out the full bingo card.”
“Is that right?”
“I have high ambitions,” she says with dignity. “In low places, preferably.”
With a huff of laughter, I pull her in and hold her to me. My life before I met her feels like it belonged to someone else. Now I don’t know how I survived it. The solitude, the impermanence.
Every season a different team, a different city, but every rental apartment the same. Sterile and bland and none of it mine. Meal prep containers lined up in the fridge. Lights out by ten, up at four. The gym, the ice, the tape sessions, the film reviews. A life reduced to its most efficient form.
No softness anywhere. No color. No candles on the dinner table or plants on the windowsill or a dog at my feet or a beautiful woman to hold and kiss and talk to at the end of the day.
No one to cook for. No one falling asleep on my shoulder. No one making me cinnamon muffins I can’t stop eating.
I used to think that needing nothing was the same as being strong.
I understand now that it was just fear. Fear of building something, of having something, because then it could be taken away.
Fear of this: the happiness of having my wife in my arms and the terror that one day she’ll be gone.
Her fingers trace a slow absent pattern on my back through my shirt.
I press my lips to the top of her head and stare at the storage room wall and feel the words rising up through my throat before I can stop them, before I can think better of them, before I can run them through whatever filter I usually run everything through.
I say, “Come with me to Denver.”