Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Betty
Narrator: Maybe it’s just me, but things seem to be getting more intense, don’t you think?
How do you think this Dwight-Atlas thing will play out?
Are we in the trenches, barreling toward a third-act breakup?
Heavens to Betsy—or Betty—I hope not.
If this author is smart, they’ll just play around with dipping the dong, shout out the I love yous with an epic tie-in to the town, and write an epilogue to inspire all other epilogues.
But that almost seems not their style, doesn’t it?
Soup is staying warm.
Bread is ready to be toasted.
And the drinks are chilling in the fridge.
When I got home after enjoying a long walk through the property, I took a shower, redid my hair with a blowout, and put on some mascara, but kept it at that.
I had a hard time trying to figure out what to wear, because I didn’t want to seem too fancy, but I also didn’t want to come off too casual, so I chose a sweater dress but skipped the leggings.
It’s warm enough in the cottage with the heat from the furnace and the stove that I’m comfortable.
I also made sure to spritz myself with some perfume, a scent that I hope drives Atlas wild.
Nerves bounce around my stomach as I wait for him to show up, wondering what he might possibly have gotten me.
I lift up the lid to the slow cooker and give my cheddar broccoli soup a stir, the carrots and broccoli I added looking really good.
I hope he likes it.
I set the lid down just as there is a knock at the door.
Excitement pulses through me as I move toward it, adjust my hair and dress, and then open it up.
Atlas is standing on the other side, wearing jeans and a green sweater, his hair still wet because he’s fresh from the shower.
“Hey, you.” He steps in and wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me in close. “Christ, you smell amazing,” he says right before he kisses me.
I smile into his kiss and loop my arms around his neck, so happy that he’s here.
When he pulls away, he gives me a quick once-over. “You look fucking good, Betty.”
“Thank you,” I say, my cheeks burning from the compliment.
“I like this sweater thing you have on.” He tugs on the fabric. “Easy access.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and it makes me chuckle. “Now, close your eyes. I couldn’t wrap what I got you, but I want it to be a surprise.”
“Okay.” I close my eyes and hear him step back out onto the porch.
“Open them.”
I open my eyes and catch him standing on the porch, holding a mini-Christmas tree and a box of Queen Anne chocolate-covered cherries. “Merry Christmas,” he says sweetly. “I noticed you didn’t have a Christmas tree, and that tends to be my specialty, so I thought I’d bring you one.”
“Oh my God, that’s . . . that’s really sweet.”
“And the chocolate-covered cherries are because they’re your fave, but there is a stipulation: You must eat them with me.”
“I think I can handle that.” I loop my arm around his neck while standing on my toes. “Thank you,” I say softly before kissing him.
“You’re welcome,” he replies in the same tone before resting his forehead against mine. “I thought about these lips all fucking day.”
“I thought about you too,” I say, bringing him into the cottage because I’m starting to get a chill. “Maybe a little too much.”
“There’s no such thing.” He sets the cherries down on the counter and then says, “Holy shit, Betty, it smells amazing in here.”
“Thank you. I hope you like cheddar broccoli soup.”
“Love it.” He holds up the tree. “Do you mind if I find a place for this?”
“Not at all.”
“I was thinking over here in the corner. It’s not next to the heat, which won’t dry it out, but it’s still in a prominent place.”
“I love it,” I say as I lean against the counter, watching him set up my tree. It very well might be the cutest present I’ve ever gotten, especially given that it’s coming from him, the guy who spends his life helping people find the perfect tree to create memories around.
He turns toward me, smiling, clearly proud of himself, and then walks up to me, placing his hands on my hips. “I didn’t get you ornaments . . . yet. Wanted to make sure you liked the tree first. Next step would be decorating it together.”
I smooth my hand up his chest. “I’d love that. Maybe we can make some.”
“We have some popcorn garland kits at the farm that I can grab. Maybe you can come over to my place and we can make some popcorn garland . . . naked.”
I laugh. “Obviously, it would have to be naked. I can’t imagine making popcorn garland any other way.”
“And this is why you’re perfect for me,” he says, lifting me up on the counter and moving between my legs. He glides his hands under my dress and moves his lips across my jaw to my ear, where he asks, “Is the soup okay for a few minutes?”
“Yeah, it’s on warm.”
“Good,” he says, and then takes the hem of my dress and pulls it up, shimmying around until he pulls it completely off my head.
He tosses it to the side and then takes me in. I’m wearing a matching deep green bra and thong, both see-through.
“Christ,” he says, moving his hand over his mouth. His fingers glide over the strap of my bra. “Did you wear this for me?”
“I did,” I say as his hand travels to the see-through cups, his thumb running over my nipple. “Do you like it?”
“Like it?” he asks, looking stunned. “Babe, I fucking love it.”
Then he reaches over his head and tugs his sweater off, giving me the view that I want, his expansive, well-toned chest, a view that will never grow old . . . ever.
He grips the back of my head and pulls me against his body only to claim me with his mouth, kissing me with force and possession, his fingers digging into my scalp as his mouth parts, allowing his tongue to dive against mine.
I moan against him, falling deeper into the feel of him as he cloaks me with his body, bringing me in close so our skin is touching. When his mouth leaves mine, he trails his lips along my jaw and down my neck.
“I can’t get enough of you,” he says as his hands move to my bra straps.
“I fucking need you.” He unclasps my bra, and then slowly slides the straps down my shoulders and pulls the fabric off.
Then he lays me down on the counter, the cold surface shocking me for a moment, but he doesn’t give me time to adjust as he licks his way around my breasts, lapping at my nipples and then sucking them in between his lips.
“God, yes,” I say as I squirm beneath him. “I love how you play with me.”
His teeth lightly nibble on my nipple, tugging ever so gently, just enough to elicit a yelp from me. He pulls up, worried. “Did I hurt you?”
I shake my head and pull him back down, showing him I want more, and he does just that.
He squeezes my breasts, playing with them, tweaking them, licking and sucking until I can feel my arousal start to grow wetter and wetter, my need for friction increasing.
Something to ease the buildup of tension that’s forming between my legs.
“Fuck me,” I say. “Make me come.”
“Not yet,” he says and then reaches above me and grabs the box of chocolate-covered cherries.
With one hand and his mouth, he opens the box, while the other hand pulls down my G-string and tosses it to the floor.
He rips open the box, pulls back the cellophane, and then plucks a cherry out. Turned on and wondering what he’s going to do, I spread my legs for him, which makes him smile.
“That’s it, Betty. Keep them spread.”
And then to my surprise, he bites off the bottom of one of the chocolates and tips it over, letting the cherry syrup land right above my pubic bone.
“Oh God,” I say as he does the same to another cherry, but this time, he moves it lower, right on top of my pussy. He wets his lips with his tongue, his eyes growing heady as he stares at my spread legs.
Grabbing one more cherry, he tears off the bottom and lets the juice fall all over my arousal before bringing the cherry and chocolate up to my mouth where he feeds it to me. I let my lips linger on his finger, pulling and licking him clean, which only makes him crazier.
Leaning back, staring at the cherry syrup and me, he undoes his pants and pushes them down along with his briefs, freeing himself before he starts stroking his length.
I’m about to ask him what he’s doing, but then he lowers his large body between my legs, still gripping his cock and stroking, and he juts out his tongue, licking the syrup off my pubic bone.
“Yes,” I cry out, bringing my hands to my breasts, where I start playing with my nipples. I catch him looking at me as his tongue glides just below my belly button.
“That’s it, Betty. Play with your tits.” Then he kisses along my inner thigh, across my stomach, and to my other thigh, while I flick my nipples, making them into hard pebbles.
After a few seconds of him teasing and driving me mad with need, he releases his cock and parts me before bringing his mouth to my center. His tongue peeks out, and he laps up the syrup, causing me to cry out.
“Fucking delicious,” he says and then continues to lick, flattening his tongue and lapping at my clit, cleaning every last drop of the syrup off me. “Jesus, I want you for dessert every goddamn day.”
He spreads me even farther and rapidly strokes his tongue over my clit, over and over again, building up my pleasure and forcing all my muscles to contract.
He grabs another cordial cherry, holds it between his lips, and rubs it over my slit, running it up and down, across my clit, only to lift up and snatch it in his mouth.
His eyes on me, he says, “So fucking good.” Then he bends down and licks me clean, playing with me, teasing me, refusing to give me the release I need.
“Please,” I beg. “More.”
He parts me with his fingers and drives his tongue against my clit with long slow strokes, making my chest arch off the counter, my heart beating rapidly, as my muscles start to tingle. But I need it faster. I want to feel him inside me. I want . . . I want so much more.