Chapter 8 #3
For the first time since I went under the knife to get them done, I feel good about my oversized tits.
I was always well-endowed, filling a C cup by eighth grade and triple D at a low-thirties band size by high school.
That was never good enough for him, though, especially because they did swell naturally during pregnancy and then reduced again when I never breastfed.
Which meant sagging and wrinkles, a lack of the perky volume I used to have.
He complained and complained about them, made me feel like shit about them, talked endlessly about implants—which I refused to get, even for him.
Not after the horror stories I’ve heard about ruptured silicone and toxicity and whatever.
So we compromised and I got a fat transfer augmentation, using the excess fat I was carrying on my hips and ass.
A two-for-one, in Eddie's eyes, because that was another "problem area" on my body, to him.
“Hey." Cole's voice pierces my thoughts. "Come back."
I shake my head. "I'm here."
"No, you're not. You were somewhere else."
"Later," I murmur. "Promise."
"Was it something I said?" he asks.
I give him my gaze, shake my head. "No, Cole."
"Then what?"
I shake my head again. "I don't want to talk about that. Not now. Not ever, but especially not now." I grip his wrists and guide his hands to my breasts again. "I just want this."
He lets out a long, low growl. "Fuck, Lace." He cups the heavy weight of my breasts in big, gentle hands, supporting their weight while his thumbs brush soft circles over my nipples.
I groan at his touch, feeling my nipples tighten and tingle, aching and bullet-hard.
I sag forward as he fondles my breasts, and my forehead touches his chest, and my hands rest flat on his pecs. I toy with his flat little nipples, and then grasp his waist, holding onto him as he squeezes and cups, thumbs rolling my nipples.
"Cole," I whisper, whimper. “That feels…"
"Tell me," he murmurs.
"Too fucking good."
"You've got kind of a potty mouth," he says, letting go of a breast to brush a finger over the seam of my mouth. "I like it."
"Yeah?" I ask.
"Mmm," he hums, an affirmative sound. Another swipe of his thumb over my lips, and now he tugs my mouth open. "Wanna fuck this dirty mouth."
"Holy shit," I whisper. "Cole."
"You said you wanted to be bad." He slides his thumb over my lips, tugs my mouth open wider again, and then his thumb is in my mouth and my eyes are closed and I'm sucking on it, and I can almost, almost imagine it's him. His cock.
I could make him feel so good if I did that to him. He wouldn't know if he was coming or going.
Well, he’d know he was coming—you know what I mean.
With his thumb filling my mouth, I look up at him through my lashes—his brow is furrowed again, and I know he's thinking about all the things he wants to do to me, and I like to think adult Cole will have a whole bag of tricks to make me scream.
I want all of them.
This is such a bad idea.
I know it.
He knows it.
Yet neither of us can seem to stop ourselves. Our chemistry was always like this, though. We could never control ourselves around each other. One touch and we would combust; clearly, that hasn't changed.
He twists my nipple between finger and thumb, and a lance of painful pleasure sizzles through me like chain lightning, striking my core and leaving me breathless, aching all over, panting, whimpering, each breath shrill and small.
"Fuck, honey. Those noises." He tweaks my other nipple, eliciting another high-pitched gasp. "Straight to my dick."
My eyes flick down to his crotch, and I can tell he's not lying. The thing is bigger than it was before, visibly so—which should be impossible since he was enormous and hard as a rock. Now, though? You could hit a home run with the thing.
My fingernails dig into his sides as I resist the urge to shove my hands down his pants. But I look up at him, and I see nothing but attraction, arousal. My battered psyche is expecting him to make demands, expecting me to debase myself for his pleasure. But that's not what happens.
"Need more of you." His thumb brushes over my lips again, and then he's sinking to his knees in front of me, and his huge hands cradle my tits, and I love the way they look in his hands. The way his touch feels. The way he's staring at me.
"I'm here," I whisper.
He lifts my breast, offering it up to himself, and I can't breathe past the hot lump in my throat and the pulsing ache in my sex. He suckles my nipple into his mouth, groaning. I match his groan with my own, and my hands dive into his hair.
I feel his hands move, but I'm too lost in the feeling of his mouth on my breast to register what he's doing, and then he yanks, and my leggings are around my feet.
"No panties," he rumbles. "Naughty girl."
"Wasn't expecting to see anyone or go anywhere," I answer. "I wear panties and a bra normally."
He laughs at my answer, for some reason, but the laugh quickly fades, and I feel his eyes on my sex. His eyes are on mine, searching, assessing.
The air is cool on my naked flesh, and my skin pebbles. "Cole," I whisper. "Please. Please."
He palms my ass in both hands, cradling and caressing. "Please what, Lace?"
I shake my head. "I dunno. I dunno. I…" I drop my chin to my chest, trying to breathe past the ache of need. "I just—I can't—I need—"
"You're so fucking sexy, Lacey," he whispers. “Your body is…" he shakes his head, now toying with my tits, now with my ass, now with a hand on each. "You take my breath away."
"Cole…"
"But then, I don't think I've breathed right since…" he trails off, not finishing what we both know he means.
Since I left him.
But he didn't say it, so we don't have to think about that right now. I can't. I'm too aflame with need to think about anything but his touch.
My need.
The ache between my thighs.
I realize I have his head in my hands, his hair cool and thick between my fingers. He’s gazing up at me, a private smile on his face. "Show me what you want, Sweet Thing."
Every molecule of oxygen in my lungs leaves my body at the endearment, the one he used to use for me—only in private. Only for me, for us, together.
"Lace, shit, I'm—"
I push his face lower, guiding him where I want him. I've dreamed of this, too. Of pleasure meant only for me. Another thing I've been denied for far, far too long; I don't think I need to elaborate on that, at this point. I'm pretty sure the pattern is clear.
Cole's mouth teases me, ghosting across my belly, dancing down one thigh and up another, and then his breath huffs hot on my sex, and I'm quaking all over, shaking with need, with raw, ragged, overwhelmed sexual tension, unrestrained need.
"Cole," I whimper.
"Say please, Lacey."
"Please, Cole."
"Look at me, Sweet Thing."
My eyes burn at the phrase I thought I'd lost fifteen years ago.
I look at him, meet his eyes, not even trying to hide the wild tumult of conflicting emotions I'm feeling.
Not that I could ever hide my feelings from Cole.
He may not have always understood what I was feeling or why, but he always saw me.
He still sees me.
He still gets me.
I see it in his eyes, on his face.
"Scream." It's a growled order.
His mouth fuses to my pussy, and his tongue flits inside me, and then he's tonguing my clit and suckling it and thrashing it, and I come almost instantly on a ragged whimper, but that’s just the start.
He swipes a finger against me, tracing it down my seam once, twice, three times, each time slipping more of his finger inside me, and then it's in me to the knuckle, and his tongue is wild on my clit, and he's devouring me like he's starving.
The next time I come, it's with a full-throated scream.