Chapter Eleven
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It is truly a miracle we make it home. After we leave the restaurant, I press Lydia up against the door of my truck and kiss her so deeply, we both come up gasping for air. On the way to the house, we seem to hit every red light, and though my hand starts out politely enough on her knee, every time we come to a stop, my fingers creep a little farther up her dress. Until we pull in the driveway with my pinky dipping beneath the edge of her panties.
Once we get in the door, I lose control.
I feel like I’ve been starved, unable to decide where I want to touch her first. One hand slips the straps of her dress off her shoulders while the other picks up where it left off beneath her skirt. She’s wrapped her arms around my neck and runs her tongue along my jaw, and we nearly fall over the dog trying to greet us as we play what feels like an improvised game of stand-up Twister—right hand ass, left hand tits. There are buttons down the front of her dress, but after fumbling at them a minute, I realize they don’t actually do anything. So I spin her around to face the wall, making her laugh while I search for a zipper.
The most glorious thing is, nothing is getting in my way this time. There’s no bottomless, empty feeling, no wall of sadness blocking me from enjoyment. Just a strong, electric connection linking the two of us—like there’s always been. But still, I pause and take her hand, tugging her gently down the hall.
“Can we—will you just do something for me?”
I lead her to the bathroom and open up the cabinet, carefully removing the round pink compact of birth control pills. Some have been punched out, but more are left than are gone. I extend it to her, meeting her eyes exactly where we stood four nights ago when she very clearly said no.
“Your choice,” I say. “If you change your mind, I understand.”
Lydia takes the plastic case and turns it over in her hands. Her breath is calm, but she’s standing very straight and there’s a tension to her movements. Finally, she looks up and seems to search my face. I’m not sure what she finds there, but as I watch, her eyes fill with warmth and her lips slip into a tentative smile. She takes a deep breath, and the next thing I know, she drops the compact with all the pills directly in the trashcan.
“Let’s do this,” she whispers, laying a soft kiss on my lips.
And that’s all I need.
Forget zippers, I take her dress by the hem and pull it straight up over her head. She’s left standing there in just a set of sheer white lingerie, and I take a minute to let myself marvel at her body. At her full, round breasts that seem to float above a narrow waist, which then blooms into soft, wide hips. The kind of hips that just look designed to bear children. The kind of full, voluptuous breasts that could feed an army of infants. God. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember a college biology class where we learned about nature picking and choosing, and I realize now I’m being sucked in by the results. That my wife’s body is a con, a product designed to draw me in and get me to spread my seed. I know this, and I am fully fucking embracing it.
I slip my arms out of my jacket, pulling the massage oil from the pocket.
“Where should we—” Lydia’s eyes flash to the bottle in my hand, and she wrinkles her nose. “Won’t it make a mess?”
“Hopefully a big one,” I say, but I grab a couple of towels and stalk her as she giggles into the bedroom, mesmerized by the sway of her ass and the peek of nipple I can see through her sheer bra.
I drape the towels over our bed, hoping that will appease her, though I’d be just as happy to buy a whole new set of sheets when we’re through.
She glances at the bed, looking interested, if a bit wary. And for a moment I think she’ll need me to help disrupt her thoughts. But then she comes at me, laying kisses all over my face as her fingers work down the buttons on my shirt.
“I feel underdressed,” she says.
I growl. “I like you that way.”
I let her get my shirt off, then kick out of my shoes and socks and help her remove my jeans, if only because my cock has been straining inside them since dinner. But then my attention is fully back on her. I sweep her long hair to one side and run my fingers along the edge of her bra, circling the darker points of her nipples showing through the material.
“I would like to drip oil right here and watch it drizzle through the fabric,” I whisper. “But it’s too fucking beautiful on you. I can’t bring myself to ruin it.”
Instead, I turn her around and undo the clasp, sliding the straps down her arms and reaching around to cup each full, perfect breast in my hands. Her left nipple stands at attention already, but the right side is shyer, and I spend a few moments working and teasing it the way she’s shown me, convincing it to come out.
When it does, and Lydia lets out a light moan, I let my hands travel down, gliding over her curves until I find the waist of her sheer panties. They’re beautiful on her and I want to savor them longer, but I’m also dying a little of impatience, and they drop quickly to the floor.
I have no idea what time it is, except that it’s late, and we’re standing in the glow of a single bedside lamp, but it’s light enough to let me take in every inch of her naked body. Instinctively, she moves her hands to cover herself, but I grab hold of her wrists and stop her.
“Please don’t. You’re so beautiful.”
I bring her arms up until they’re stretched together above her head, then I hold her wrists there and whisper in her ear .
“Turn for me. So I can look.”
She hesitates for half a second, and then rotates, arms still in the air, breasts thrust forward, torso stretched long and gorgeous down to her round hips and naked sex.
“Fuck me,” I mutter.
And we’re not even to the best part.
“Lie on the bed,” I say firmly.
This is something we’ve discovered in our few months of exploration and sex therapy. Lydia likes to be bossed around. Not in a demeaning or hurtful way. But maybe because she’s so uncertain, she seems relieved when I take authority and tell her exactly what to do.
“Like this?” she asks, stretched out on her back like a banquet in front of me.
I grab a pillow and slide it gently under her head, then slip out of my boxer briefs and grab the oil off the nightstand. I lick my lips. “Just like that.”
There are no instructions on the bottle, so I just shake it a couple times and break the seal. Lydia looks up at me, watching, her body pink and flushed in anticipation. And suddenly, I’m flooded with gratitude—that I get to do this with her, that we’ve been able to work through some major hurt in our marriage to have this moment together, despite our flaws.
“I love you,” I murmur, then position myself over her with the bottle and watch oil drip and slide over her skin, running down between her breasts.
Lydia watches me do this with wide eyes, almost like she’s surprised, pressing her breasts together to catch the oil as it runs over her body. I was already hard, but just the sight of this has me biting my lip, my cock turning to fucking steel.
I take her hand, and she glances up at my face as I drip oil across her palm and place it on my shaft. “Stroke me.”
And she does.
Oh. My. God.
Her hand slides up and down, slick and wet, and for a minute it’s all I can do to concentrate, stay under control. Not let loose and end our night before it’s really begun .
Once I feel I can safely move, I go to work on her while she continues to work me. Pouring oil absolutely everywhere. Probably using up most of the bottle, but I don’t care, because my wife looks like something out of a porn video, a fantasy, or at least a wet fucking dream. Every inch of her skin glistens . Slick and warm and so. Fucking. Hot.
Some part of my non-primal brain must still be working, because I remember this was supposed to be an actual “massage” and not just Anton’s X-Rated Fantasy Oil Play , so I run my hands all over her, kneading her muscles, rubbing her skin, and pretending I have any idea what I’m doing while having the fucking time of my life.
Three or four months ago? No way anything like this would have ever happened. But here, tonight, Lydia is down with it. One hundred percent present and accounted for, closing her eyes and tipping her face toward the ceiling. Her hand has fallen away from my cock, but I’m so focused on her I don’t even care, watching as gradually, her body seems to sink into the bed, visibly relaxed.
At some point my hand slips between her legs, and when it does her eyes flutter open, gazing at me through a haze of contentment as I slide one oil-slicked finger very intentionally up and down her folds, finding her clit.
She gasps in response, then narrows her eyes. “Is that a legit massage technique?”
“Mmm-hmm,” I murmur. “If your masseuse is a sex-crazed lothario without a license.”
She turns her head away and laughs. Until I slide farther down, dipping one finger inside her, and her laughter turns into a moan. Sensing I’ve landed at the elusive right time and place, I follow with a second finger and lean down to find her clit with my tongue.
I didn’t buy a flavored massage oil, but it doesn’t taste bad—and it is everywhere, so I lose myself a little, lapping up the taste of oil combined with Lydia, and getting lost in her velvety folds. My fingers keep a steady rhythm hooked inside her, and when her hips begin to thrust, I reach up her body until I locate her left nipple, standing out, waiting to be found. A few firm tugs there, several more thrusts of my tongue, and she comes apart, singing like a songbird, her pleasure echoing through our house.
When she comes back to earth, a big shy smile on her face, she looks over and grabs for me, starting to pump my shaft again, a little too fast and hard.
“Whoa, easy.” I laugh, flinching away.
She looks up, shamefaced. “Sorry . . .”
I shake my head to reassure her, kissing her hand and shifting until I’m between her legs, staring down at her glistening pussy. Then I rub my cock up and down her slit, sliding easily through the mix of oil and her natural juices.
“Fuck. You’re so slick.” If I don’t push inside her soon, this won’t end according to our new plan, so I meet her gaze with intention and ask again. “You ready? Should we do this?”
She looks down at my cock poised outside her entrance, regarding it for a second like it’s some kind of loaded weapon. And truly, I feel a bit like a cannon ready to go off inside her, so maybe we’re on the same page.
She bites her lip, then looks back up at me, takes a deep breath, and nods. “Yes.”
About a second later, I am buried deep in my wife, all the way to the fucking hilt. And God, I know we used some extra lube, but I can’t remember her ever being so slick and warm and inviting. She has barely adjusted to my intrusion before I start thrusting, nearly losing all control. It’s jarring. Obviously, I have been inside Lydia before, and lately sex has been so much better. But this time, with this new goal in mind—to create something, put a baby inside her—a strange, almost primal feeling takes over.
I watch my cock sliding in and out of her, watch her oil-slick tits bouncing with every thrust, and my thoughts are consumed by what will happen when I fill her with my seed. I am overtaken by abstract, carnal need , and with all of that churning through my mind, it doesn’t take long for me to reach my peak—with a few great thrusts, I release inside her, and it is the most fucking fulfilling sensation I have ever had. I continue to rock into her, slowing, until I am completely spent. And then I gather her in my arms and pull her to me, overcome with joy, with gratitude, with emotions I can’t describe.
“Thank you.”
She strokes my hair, not saying a word, lying against my chest as we listen to each other breathe. I’m vaguely aware when she slides out of bed to go to the bathroom, but she soon returns, nuzzling back into my arms under the sheets.
“I love you, Mr. Richie,” she whispers into my neck, and my heart is so full in this moment, with these words.
“I love you, Lydia. So much.”