Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
fawn
I think we’re staying at The Main, but after we leave the reception, Que drives us to Clay’s private plane. I immediately freak out, needing my babies, but they’re already on board, in a separate cabin with Jasmine and Grace.
We fly through the night, cabin lights glowing to match my mood—somewhere between elation and a strange, quiet melancholy for the girl I once was.
With her ratty long hair.
Her incessant self-doubt.
Over the past few months, I’ve been dreading the shift from little deer to Mrs Butcher.
That maybe when I became his wife—such an unspectacular, ordinary word for what I am to him—I might feel different.
He might act different. I might not need his cock in my mouth to feel tethered when the world grows too loud, too empty, too confusing.
And yet here I am…
Head in his lap throughout the flight, drifting between consciousness and dreams of a past I can't change and no longer want to.
Because it made me what I am and brought me to him—I'd endure it all if it ended this exact same way.
With his fingers tracing patterns in my hair like he is writing promises along my scalp, while I hold him in my mouth, not for pleasure but for proof of who I am to him.
Where I belong.
We land in Paris as a pale sun struggles through cloud cover, just after midday, where HJ and four Cosa Nostra henchmen wait to greet us and escort us to the hotel.
And woah… His Parisian penthouse stands opposite the Eiffel Tower, its lights gleaming through floor-to-ceiling rain-streaked windows. The suite is old-world luxury, dainty and pretty, all pastel colours and white wooden trimmings.
I gaze out the vast window, planning to climb that glowing tower, to feast on eight-course banquets, to take a cooking class from a Michelin-star French chef.
Seven days in France.
Then on to Dubai.
These places used to feel as distant as happiness.
Now I have him, nothing is out of reach.
I know this thing between us isn’t what everyone else has.
Not Cassidy, not Shoshanna, not Kaya with their Butcher Boys.
We all have something different and unique.
What Clay and I share is sewn together with blood, tears, loneliness, commitment, and love.
He’s the wolves’ leader, always alone, and I’m the little deer lost in the woods, forced to sharpen my teeth on concrete.
Mid-morning light filters in as I crawl across the massive king-size bed in my delicate Gucci lingerie, his cum sliding down my thighs. A dull ache in my core reminds me how thoroughly he’s fucked me over the past twenty-four hours.
He wants another baby.
And so do I.
My husband sits on the bed, his back pressed into the luscious, cushioned headboard, completely naked, long muscular legs stretched out.
As his clear-blue eyes track me, I force myself between him and the newspaper he’s reading.
He lowers the paper behind my back, eyebrow rising at my demanding entrance.
My body hums and trembles—satiated and fatigued. Planting myself on his lap, I enjoy the subtle amusement on his face as his blue gaze narrows on me.
“Yes, little deer?”
“You know, Sir”—I tease—“you can read the news on your phone, live, as it happens.”
He feigns shock, the pulse of his cock throbbing against my thigh. “Is that so, sweet girl?”
“Mhm.” I nod enthusiastically, beaming at my husband. He is so distinguished and smooth, so effortlessly powerful.
He stares at me. A charismatic smile sweeps across his breathtaking face, and I physically swoon. This is my well-fucked and at peace Clay Butcher. “What other pearls of wisdom do you have for me, little deer?”
I laugh aloud. “That, because I’m still breastfeeding, it might be harder to get me pregnant.”
“Your period returned fast, sweet girl. I doubt we will have a problem. Any other insights?”
I eye the empty espresso cup beside him on the glass bedside tabletop. “That, coffee isn’t good for your sperm count, Sir.”
“Christ.” He sighs roughly. “My sperm count is just fine. Any other facts to bestow upon me?”
My body is so warm from the hours of fucking, that sweat slides between my breasts.
“Prove it.” I lift to my knees, pressing my hard nipples to his lower lip as I guide his cock to my entrance. It thickens further in my hand.
He grabs my hips, halting me as the warm round head of his cock parts my delicate slit. “I beg your pardon?”
I blush, panting with excitement, anticipating the stretch. “You have already come six times in less than twenty-four hours, Sir.”
Seemingly unfazed, Clay reaches around me and grips his cock, holding it steady as I sink down, impaling myself.
“Sir.” My eyelids flutter.
“And this will be seven.” His large hands stroke up my spine, sliding around my bare skin, supporting me as I circle my hips over his lap.
My eyes flutter, locking with his as they grow heavy.
I circle my slim arms around his shoulders, holding his face to my chest. His tongue slides out, flicking the aching bead of my nipple, then sucking it into his mouth. Hard.
A rumbling sound moves through his chest, hitting mine, sending vibrations through my entire body. For reasons I will never understand, this formidable man responds to me as if I am the only one capable of making him feel this way.
Feel this good.
Feel this complete.
I lift my chin, hot and bothered, moaning with abandon to the ceiling, taking him a little deeper as he sucks my nipples, switching from one to the other.
I know I’m lactating—just a little. It’s impossible not to when he’s stimulating them.
He doesn’t seem to mind, licking the beads of milk, lapping at my tight nipples as if trying to relax them.
“I want you swollen again, sweet girl,” he growls against my skin, allowing me to slide up and down his length at my hesitant pace. “Barefoot. Belly full. Pussy needy. Pert tits leaking. My perfect, fertile little deer.”
My pussy ripples around his thick cock, his words of claim and possession tightening pleasure into an explosive ball in my centre. “I want that too.”
His arms wrap around my back. “Never change.”
Panting, I lean back to look him in the eyes, still moving slowly with him inside me. “I don’t know how to.”
“Good.” His heated blue gaze holds my unfocused stare. “Keep your eyes on me, little deer. I want to see your orgasm in those dual-colours.” Locking me to him, he bucks, shoving into me, spearing me even further.
“Oh, God, Sir.”
I hold on, absorbing the shock of his upwards thrusts that force my already aching pussy to swallow him over and over and over again.
“I’m going to come inside this tight pussy so many times over the next few days, you’ll regret ever questioning my fucking sperm count!”
Eeeek, he wasn’t unfazed after all.
Rough hands, deep pumps, and his dark declaration throw me into the depths of an orgasm. Holding his dangerous gaze as I was told to do, I come, pleasure punching through my veins to the beat of his perfect rhythm.
“So pretty,” he rumbles.
Then a groan fills his chest moments before his mouth parts, heavy breath and carnal sounds expelling while he fills me again. I mewl on his cock, defenceless as his cum bursts inside me, sliding down and wetting us both where we connect.
My forehead meets his.
I close my eyes.
We gasp in unison.
Sweat beads between our bodies, both damp, hot to touch, and humming from pleasure and fatigue. I want this forever. This kind of connection.
I picture myself decades from now, old, grey-haired, with loose skin, still kneeling before the Don of the Cosa Nostra.
At the feet of the most powerful man in the world.
Will he still look down at me then, when I’m no longer young and pretty?
Will I still find peace in sucking his cock when my knees and my jaw ache?
Clay Butcher promised to give me everything I ever wanted. That is what I want for our future.
I lift my head and open my eyes to find his already on my face. “Do you remember when you said you would give me anything? Everything”—I clarify—“I ever wanted.”
He hums, pulsing his cock inside me. “How could I forget saying such a thing to such a demanding little woman?”
I giggle, my body trembling around his penetration, the sound and movement drawing another groan from him. “I demand we grow old together.”
“I thought I had already ensured that.”
“Will I still be pretty then?”
His lips curl smoothly at the corners as he purrs in that dark, deep timbre of his. “Prettier.”
I mock-gasp as if offended but tuck my body against his warm, sweaty tattooed chest, my head under his jaw, closing my eyes and dreaming. He speaks lies and truths—prettier in a way only he sees, maybe.
Many decades from now, I want to gaze up at him through eyes brightened by years of being loved by him, and he will look at me as though he can’t bear not to.
With his cock in my mouth and his tattooed fingers in my hair, I will find my place.
I will feel his heartbeat through the vein against my tongue, taste the salt of his mortality, and know that someday, he might not be here.
I hope I still hold him in my mouth, not for release but to soothe, while he smokes a sweet cigar and drinks whiskey.
Until his last moon falls. Until age takes my greatest good thing—Clay Butcher.
THE END