Chapter 19 Mila
Chapter 19
Mila
I swallow thickly, unwrapping my arms from Fin’s neck. Aftershocks of pleasure pulse through me so hard, I’m surprised I can coordinate my limbs.
“You’re so beautiful when you come,” Fin whispers, pressing his lips into my hair. I hear the smile in his voice. Feel it pulling at my heartstrings.
I’m a good girl. The thought drops into my chest in a wash of confliction. I’m embarrassed, but I clearly liked it. Oh, hell. I got off on it.
“Well, that was ...” I begin as I pull away, but I don’t get very far, as something blooms hotly inside me. And, oh , his fingers grip my bum. They grip it so tight, I feel like his fingertips might become embedded in my skin. I like it a lot.
“Did I say you could go somewhere?”
His low tone causes a ripple of pleasure across my skin. So this is daddy energy. I like it. I like it a lot. Oh, hell.
“I just thought we were ...”
“Done?” There’s a note of dark amusement to his tone. “Not even close, honeybuns.”
“No, not done, not exactly,” I say, ignoring his taunt. “I just thought that I could ... that I could ... because I can’t ...” say those words out loud!
“Mila.” He makes a warning of my name, and I just about melt. “Spit it out.”
“I don’t come ,” I whisper as my face flames. “Not very often.” I give a tiny apologetic shrug that he can no doubt feel. “I probably should’ve mentioned that before. Not that it wasn’t a good orgasm ...” My words trail off when he presses me back to better see my face. Which is probably puce because—how mortifyingly uncomfortable.
“You don’t come.” A statement, not a question.
I shake my head. “Not easily. Open your ears, for God’s sake, Fin! Stop trying to em—”
“You don’t remember how many times you came on our wedding night?”
“Don’t tell me,” I retort tartly. “Dozens? And don’t expect me to believe it either.” My mouth tightens, and his expression changes too. Only he looks like I just reached out and tickled him. Rather than the other way around. Though the brush of his still-hard cock isn’t exactly a tickle. It also doesn’t make me want to giggle. Which brings me to my point. “It’s just, with Adam, I’d usually—”
His happy expression dissolves. He suddenly swoops, and I find myself hauled unceremoniously over his shoulder.
“Oh!” My stomach flips with surprise. And pleasure. Not that I’d admit it in a thousand years. And never to him—I’d never hear the end of it!
“Don’t tell me what Adam did,” he grates out as he turns and carries me through the garden.
“Not much, actually. I meant more what I’d do for him.” I swipe my damp, dangling hair out of my face and use my other arm to try and support the girls, before my body stiffens. “Hey!” I shout—yelp—as his hand swats my bottom.
“I said don’t tell me.”
“I was trying to suggest I might reciprocate!”
“That’s very decent of you.” His amused drawl still makes me feel hot all over, and my bum cheek tingles, not unpleasantly.
“I don’t feel like it now.” My words come out snipey from embarrassment.
“The stone would be too hard on your knees, anyway.”
“Oh.” The fire drops out of me. But what kind of man doesn’t want a blow job?
“And I plan on taking my time with you,” he adds, his tone annoyingly conversational for someone walking through a garden stark naked with a woman draped over his shoulder like a side of beef.
His feet stop quite suddenly, and my damp hair swings in my face.
“Pfft!” I swipe at it. “What is it?” I ask, trying—and failing—to see around him and not enjoying how my boobs peel from his skin.
His answer is to stroke up and over my backside, the caress soft yet possessive. With just a hint of a squeeze.
“What—ouch!” My right bum cheek immediately stings.
“Keep still,” Fin reprimands as his hand strokes, elevating the sting to a tingle. “I caught a glimpse of your reflection. I had to pause to appreciate it. My wife’s ass is like a work of art.”
“Like a bag of laundry, more like.” The words leave my mouth without thought. Fin’s hand comes down again, sharp and swift.
“Cut that shit out,” he growls. “You don’t get to insult my little slut muffin.”
“ Your slut muffin?” I ridiculously repeat. Though I appreciated his “little” prefix, my bum wobbled, and I should not be fine with that. But his growling reprimand and the throbbing between my legs seems to drown my indignity out.
“Mine for the next five days. That’s what we agreed. And don’t tell me you don’t like it,” he adds as his fingers tease ... where they have no business teasing, sliding along the crease where my thigh and bottom meet.
“Of course I don’t like it,” I whisper.
“Oh, shame.” His voice is so soft as those teasing fingers slide between my legs.
I say his name on a gasp, wriggling as though I want to get away. But I don’t want to get away, just as I don’t want to acknowledge how I’ve eased his access. I screw my eyes tight against the pleasure of finding Fin’s finger inside me.
“Such a shame you don’t like it, Mila. Right? Such a shame you don’t like me fucking you with my fingers.”
I shake my head, liar that I am, my trailing hair swinging this way and that. In my head, I see the image of us so clearly. The reflection of Fin’s expression as he adds another finger, twisting his wrist to stroke me intimately. I pant and I squirm with a mixture of indignity and hedonistic pleasure as heat reddens my skin.
But the moment is over as quickly as it began, and I stifle a moan as he slides his hand away.
“ Fuck. Look at that. You’re so sweet and sticky between my fingers, Mila.”
How can something that sounds so conversational make my insides ache and flame? But then we’re on the move again.
“This is so undignified,” I whisper, sticking to my unimpressed theme as I stare down at his sculpted butt cheeks. I wonder how many squats he does to keep them in shape.
More intelligent thoughts might center on why I’m doing this. How I changed my mind. But as I stood in the bathroom earlier, my heart beating wildly and my senses jangling like keys on a chain, I listened—really listened—to what Fin was saying from the other side of the door. I realized he was trying to make me feel better about the way I woke him. All over him. He was absolving me of blame, trying to get me to laugh, even. But if the shoe had been on the other foot, if I had woken to a mauling, might it have been a different story?
At the very least, I would’ve been as prickly as a hedgehog. At the other side of that scale might’ve been some scary accusations. Potentially, at least.
I want you so much it hurts.
The longing in his words broke something open inside me. I realized it was relief. Fin is unlike any other man I’ve ever known. Under that licentious facade, the playboy image, he’s just so decent. Last night, he not only offered to pay for Baba’s room, but he even let me be ridiculous about it for a while. In fact, his response made me realize how absurd my behavior was.
I’m heading for thirty, and this might be the nearest I ever get to marriage. It could take me years to rebuild my business, and I want to devote as much of my time to Baba as I can. She won’t be here forever, and her mind will leave me sometime before her body finally does.
And if that’s not a wake-up call for grabbing life while you can, I’m not sure what is.
Which is why I decided to make the most of this opportunity, of this honeymoon. I’m so stupidly attracted to Fin, we’re both single, and we’re sharing a bed in paradise. So what if he’s king of the commitment-phobes, because I have no space in my life for a man.
In a few short days, I’ll be back to London, and if I’m really lucky (thanks to my bonus wedding fee), life will be boring, humdrum, and gray. Because boring and gray are better than a white-knuckle existence any day.
I might never find a man I can trust my heart with, but I know I can trust Fin in this experience. If not this marriage in the traditional sense. He’s made our relationship a safe space, and after what I’ve been through lately, that means everything to me.
The light dims as he steps into the suite, the soles of his feet slap-slapping the tile before he dips and sets me down in the bedroom. The sheet I snatched earlier lies in a heap at the bottom of the mattress. Maybe I should’ve straightened it before he—
All thoughts, distracting and otherwise, dissolve as I find my face in his hands. Like I’m something to treasure. He holds me there, his eyes drinking me in with a kind of soft-eyed wonder. Oh, yes. I like this.
“Hey, beautiful.” His words stroke like a caress. Whoever said romance is dead never had a man look at them this way.
“Hello,” I whisper a little breathlessly as champagne bubbles pop in my bloodstream. But this isn’t real romance, I need to remind myself. At least, not in the love sense. This is the romance equivalent of fake fur. From a distance, it looks real. It might even feel similar when you brush it the right way.
Who are you trying to convince? PETA?
Not-Ronny can . . . go away.
His thumb presses my chin, angling my mouth for the brush of his. Or maybe I’m overthinking it, as he doesn’t move in for that kiss.
“You’re frowning,” he says as his thumb gently boops my nose. “I’m not.”
Did he actually just do that? Like I’m a golden retriever and not a woman standing in front of him, naked. Physically and emotionally.
“You’re not what?” I ask as my brows knot.
“Frowning. Ask me why.”
“Okay.” I roll in my lips, moistening them. “Why aren’t you frowning?”
“Because I’m too fucking happy.”
“Right.” So bloody well do something about it, then!
“Do you want to tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”
“I thought you were going to kiss me.” And I’m crawling out of my skin with need, and you just booped me. “And I suppose just standing here feels a bit of a waste when there’s a bed—”
I twist from the waist in the direction of said bed, when Fin turns me back, pulling me against him to fasten his lips to mine. He kisses me, really kisses me. It’s a kiss that’s neither frantic nor frenzied, but slow, and thorough, like he’s been waiting to kiss me for years.
His broad palms coast down my sides and slide around my back as he moves closer—moves into me, deepening his kiss. He steals my breath and feeds me his, as his fingers curl around the soft flesh of my hips, pinning me in place as he pulls away.
His features sort of hazy and indistinct, his face is so close to mine like this. But I don’t need to see to know he’s still smiling. And so am I. Relief. So much of it.
“Mila?”
“Yes?” I answer, a little dazed.
“Lose the fucking attitude.”
My spine stiffens, but that’s as far as I get as Fin presses his thumb to my kiss-tingling bottom lip. Everything inside me seems to contract as he pushes it into my mouth. My brain switches off, my mind now completely blank as he pulls my lip down.
This shouldn’t feel sexy but, oh .
“You’re all in your head.” His tongue coasts over the exposed skin. “Do you know what that means?”
I shake my head, my movement limited.
“It means I can’t enjoy your body.” His pulls away. I rub my lips together, a little dazed. “Because your body is mine, remember? That’s what we agreed.”
My body likes the sound of that, of being owned. Being coveted. Not that I have time to fully process as he spins me around to face the dark wood dressing table. The top is cluttered with cosmetics; a brush thick with my dark strands, a bottle of my perfume, and me, naked, in the mirror. And not just to the skin.
“See how beautiful you are.” His words are a bare breath across the back of my neck. “Look at yourself, Mila. See what everyone else sees. What I fucking see.”
I see ... me. I’ve been seeing me in the mirror for almost thirty years, and I’m no great shakes.
“Why can’t we just move to the ...” As I turn my head over my shoulder, my words trail away.
“Bed?” His breath is hot and his lips a flirting tease as his hands skim my body, taking in the shapes of my breasts, my hips. “I love how those big brown eyes watch me,” he murmurs as his fingers loop my wrist. “Just taking everything in.”
I straighten as he pulls gently, settling my fingers to the back of his neck.
“You make me so goddamned hot.” His tone all husk and want as his knuckle brushes from my wrist down.
I not only feel but see my reaction as my gaze moves back to the mirror without really noticing. My breasts rise and my nipples tighten as I sink into him. Sink into the solidness of his body.
“Yeah, like that.” His hand snakes around me, heat rising through my skin. Capturing my nipple between scissored fingers, he gives a soft tug.
My reaction is multidimensional. The sensation, the way I arch into his caress, and the sight of myself in the mirror. It’s all so much.
“I want you like this.” His eyes meet mine, as dark and as somber as thunderclouds. “I want you to see what I do to you. What you do to me.” His hand flat to my stomach feels as hot as any brand when he presses me between his palm and his cock. “I want you to take your pleasure, Mila.”
I whimper as his free hand cups my breast.
“See it in the color that rises on your skin.”
“Touch me,” I plead, need surging through me. “Fuck me.”
“Mila.” He makes a warning of my name. “An offer like that, and I might not be a gentleman.”
My head floods with such images. His thumb in my mouth. His cock. His hands in my hair, his gratification as he holds me there.
“Please,” I whisper, sliding his hand lower, pressing it between my legs. Because the woman in the mirror looks like the kind who knows what she wants. Such dark, languid eyes, and a soft sigh of relief as Fin’s fingers part her flesh like a piece of overripe fruit.
His bicep flexes against my side, the veins in his forearm standing proud. All that heavenly musculature, that movement just for the pads of his fingers to circle my clit.
“You’re so pink and so pretty and glistening for me.”
I sigh, elongating my body and widening my stance to deepen the heavenly contact.
“Do you like that, darling Mila?” He smiles as though remembering. Double darling. His fingers slide lower, gathering my wetness to paint over the rise of my clit. “Shall I slide my fingers inside? Fuck you with my fingers?”
I nod, feeling as though I might burst from my skin, and I give a taut gasp as he does just that.
“So fucking beautiful,” he purrs as we both bear witness to my pleasure in the mirror. “Watch. See how you glisten.”
And I do. Oh, God, I do. I watch as he makes a V of his fingers, exposing the velvet skin to the mirror. He begins to circle, pet, and strum that tight bundle of nerves as the sounds of my pleasure rise through the room. My cries become louder, bouncing from the walls as my fingers tighten, my nails piercing on the nape of his neck.
“Oh, God, please ... please let me, Fin!” I tip onto my toes, chasing his touch.
“Are you putting on a show, darling? Do you think the journalists will see?”
Something spikes through me, my heart misfiring as my gaze slides to the wall-size window. A sensation swims through me. It’s panic. It’s power. It’s something I can’t make sense of, even as I remember Fin’s earlier words.
Privacy glass. We can see out, but no one can see in.
“Maybe you only hope they will.” His harsh whisper curls around my ear before the realization of what this is echoes in my head. I told him—this is one from the vault of my secret reveries. A fantasy too sordid, too dirty for actual words. Yet I must’ve whispered it to him.
“They’ll be so jealous. This lush body, this perfect pussy. This hair and this ass—only I get to touch them. Because you’re all mine.”
I make a velvety groan of his name as pleasure begins to violently pulse through me.
“Maybe they’ll take photos and show their friends. Print them and keep them for their special alone times,” he says, using my own words.
An incomplete fragment of memory pulls at me. He had been inside me on our wedding night when I whispered my fantasy. That I sometimes imagined being watched; fucked and coveted at the same time. His rhythm faltered; then he whispered a harsh curse as my fantasies drove him deeper.
“You’ll be so shiny and slick when I get my mouth on you. You’re a feast, my love. And I’m going to devour you whole.”
My body spasms around his fingers, a reaction to this invasion, to his words. My climax detonates like a bomb, my body twisting as I grip the back of his neck and come undone.
His arms come around me in an honest-to-goodness bear hug. Solid. Fortifying. Safe.
“Thank you,” he whispers, pressing his lips to my hairline.
“You’re welcome,” I answer ridiculously, my wits still loose and rolling about my empty head.
Twice. I came twice in pretty quick succession. A first for me.
The first I remember, anyway.
“Three for three?” he asks with a wicked grin, either intuiting my thoughts or maybe reading them on my face.
“Three?”
His hand curls around my shoulder, encouraging me forward. My palms flatten to the dresser top, cosmetics rattling and rolling as he pulls on my hips, and my bum thrusts out. Like my body was made for this. Made for him.
He’s so large behind me, all hard angles and slopes, every muscle clearly defined in his reflection. But it’s his expression that takes my breath. So focused. So serious.
I roll my lips inward as his hands slide over my cheeks. As they caress, as they squeeze. As he drops to his knees with an awe-filled “You’re so, so pretty, just ... everywhere.”
His appraisal brings with it a disgraceful wash of pleasure. Every inch of my skin seems to inexplicably tingle.
“What are you ...” Why are you? And how can I like this?
“You’re not the only one with fantasies to fulfill,” he purrs.
“I don’t know what that means.”
“So many questions,” he taunts as his thumbs slide to part me to his gaze.
I close my eyes, the sensations too large to process; mewling—yes, mewling!—as his thumb slides over my flesh. My insides throb as his hot breath hits me, my body bucking wildly to the press of his tongue. He slicks through my wetness with a groan of appreciation, licks as though I am the tastiest dish.
I’ve never done anything like this—never had anyone go down on me while standing. From behind. It feels so dirty. So wrong. And yet so utterly wonderful.
“Wider, love. Spread yourself for me.”
How, at the age of almost thirty, am I discovering this is even a thing?
“Don’t make me ask twice.”
“Oh!” And, apparently, I enjoy being spanked. And having my bum squeezed by big, possessive hands.
“That’s my girl.”
That shouldn’t press my pleasure buttons, but it does. I screw my eyes tight against the sight of my pleasured expression, my nails scraping the wooden top as Fin buries his tongue so deep, I swear I can feel it behind my belly button.
It seems like no time at all before that familiar sensation begins to build. A sweet and urgent kind of agony.
Already? Really?
Yes, really, as I begin to pant like a wild thing.
“You’re so fucking delicious.” His words, their low vibration, rock me to my core. I grind back against him—against his face—moaning like I’ve been paid to do so.
There can’t be this much pleasure in the world.
And yet there is, as Fin doesn’t so much savor as devour, twisting my orgasm into something otherworldly, his tongue and fingers plucking me apart. Just as he’d promised.
With a frenzied cry, I drop to my elbows, my arms giving out as something swift and sleek rushes through me, from me. I collapse in a heap on the now-messy dresser.
Seconds, maybe hours later, Fin’s hand grazes my waist, my skin reacting like fire to the brush of it. He presses a kiss to my head as he opens a drawer, pulling out a square of silver foil.
I watch as he lifts it to his mouth, his lips shining in the bright sunshine, smeared lewdly with my pleasure.
Three orgasms and nothing yet for him, the whisper of not-Ronny supplies.
Every moment so far has been about me. About my pleasure, not his. Conjuring my fantasies with his dirty whispers, the command in his tone, the way he’s touched and held me. And it’s all brought us here. To the point where I want—no, need —to reciprocate, as I turn and push him backward in the direction of the bed.
I see in his expression when he realizes what I’m about. See that he likes it. He lowers to the bed, pressing his hand to the mattress behind him. As proud as a pasha, I think, as I take the condom from between his fingers and drop it onto the mattress. I fold to my knees, and I wonder if he can feel it, this connection throbbing between us.
As I bow my head, he gathers the dark strands over my shoulder.
“Thanks,” I whisper ridiculously.
“You’re welcome.” Eyes dark and smile lurking, he watches as I moisten my lips and wrap my fingers around him.
“Thundercock,” I whisper, the thought escaping without thought.
He runs a tender finger across my cheek. “You prefer that to daddy , huh?”
Daddy is an energy. He’s firm but gentle. He’s bossy in the bedroom. He takes charge but makes you feel safe. A daddy cares.
Daddy suits him. Not that he’ll ever hear those words come out of my mouth.
He gives a moan that’s ragged around the edges as I press my lips to him, then slide down.
“Mila. Oh, fuck. ” He falls back on his palm once again, his mouth slack as I hollow my cheeks and slide back to suck and lick his silken crown.
“Jesus! Keep doing that. I’ll be putty in your hands.”
My mouth comes off him with a sucking pop. “You know there are pills you can get for that,” I say, my voice soft.
Laughter bursts from his mouth like honey from a squeeze bottle.
Oh, my. I love that. But it doesn’t last as I lower my mouth with a soft sucking kiss. He hisses, his thigh tautening under my fingers, our eyes locking as I slide my tongue along the underside of his wide cock.
“I love how you watch me, Mila. Like you’re staring into my soul ...” He swallows thickly, not quite as unaffected as he might try to seem. “I love how you watch ... watch what you’re doing to me.”
The sweet agony in his words. I did that.
“Fuck!” His head drops back, the muscles of his shoulders so taut.
I did that too.
“Yeah, like that,” he whispers, staring down at me once more. “That’s right, love, get it nice and wet.”
I make a noise. The aural this man gives ...
“You look so, so pretty sucking me.”
I almost swallow him.
“You like that, don’t you? You like a little instruction. A little praise.”
I moan around him, not quite an agreement, but I can’t help the effect his low, rumbling commentary has on me. As Ronny would say, “I high-key love” what it does to me as my insides throb like a poked bruise.
“That’s it, take me all the way in. Fuck! You look so hot, your mouth stretched wide around my cock.”
I moan again. Fin DeWitt doesn’t play fair, and my movements become messy as I take what I can, working the rest with my hand. I work him from root to tip, loving the tight breaths of his seductive commentary.
“Mila, darlin’. You’re gonna make me come.”
His assertion makes me lose all composure. I begin to work him wetly, with gusto and zeal, wanting to get there, wanting to feel—
His hand slides under my chin, pulling my mouth away.
“Isn’t that the point?” I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth and notice his chest moves as though he’s been running.
“Maybe next time.” He grabs the condom from the mattress, pressing it to my hand. “I need to be inside you the first time I come.”
“Oh.” My. Days. I wonder if he knows how powerful his words are.
Fin watches intently as I tear the corner of the foil, then leans back on both palms as I begin to sheathe him. Then, with an inciting look, he whispers, “Climb on.”