Dress-Up & Defiance #3
I wrap my arms around his neck, feel the rigid heat of him pressed against my stomach. He's hard—God, he’s hard—and I swear I feel it pulse when our bodies align. That hunger I’ve been running from is not just mine. It’s his too. Relentless and untamed.
He carries me across the kitchen, his mouth dragging hot kisses along my jaw, my neck, my shoulder. And then he lays me down—right on the cold marble of the kitchen island.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
This island has seen every version of our war. Arguments. Standoffs. Silence. And now?
Now it’ll see surrender.
His hands glide down my body like he owns it. And maybe he does.
“Spread your legs for me,” he commands, voice thick with hunger.
I obey without hesitation. There’s no fight left in me. Only need. Raw and blistering.
He steps closer, eyes dropping to where I’ve opened for him, and he lets out a low, filthy groan. His tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip like he’s savoring the thought of me on his tongue.
Like he’s starving.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Look at you.”
The heat in his gaze is unbearable. Adoration. Possession. Craving.
And when he sinks to his knees, hands gliding up my thighs with a reverence that feels like a warning, I know I’m about to be ruined, again.
Just like he did on our wedding night—when he made me forget my own name.
This time, though, it’s different. I’m sober, yes. Fully compliant. But there’s something heavier in the air. A finality. Like this isn’t just about lust anymore. It’s about claiming. About taking back what never should’ve been ripped from him.
He grips my hips, dragging me to the edge of the island, and hooks one of my thighs over his shoulder. His palms skim down the backs of my legs, squeezing, owning, before sliding them apart, baring me completely.
His mouth is so close I can feel his breath against me—warm, teasing, full of intent.
But he doesn’t dive in. Not yet.
Instead, he presses a kiss to the inside of my knee. Soft. Reverent.
Then another, a little higher. And another.
Each kiss is a torment. His stubble brushes the sensitive skin of my inner thigh as he makes his slow ascent, taking his sweet, merciless time. I squirm, my hands gripping the marble, my breath hitching with every inch he climbs.
He nuzzles into me, tongue flicking out to trace the crease where thigh meets core. My hips jerk, and he chuckles low, devilish.
“So impatient,” he murmurs, lips brushing my skin.
Then finally he presses a kiss directly to my center. And my body answers him like it never forgot who my husband was.
Even after only one time.
He starts slow, his tongue parting me gently, lazily licking through my folds. Exploring. Teasing. Drawing circles around my clit but never quite touching it, driving me mad. My hips roll involuntarily, chasing more contact, but he just pins me down harder, groaning into me.
“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he growls. “Like mine.”
Then he goes deeper.
His mouth wraps around my clit, and he sucks—firm and slow—before flicking his tongue in quick, maddening strokes.
My back arches. I cry out. His grip tightens around my thighs, holding me steady as he eats me like he’s starving, like it’s the first time and maybe the last.
I’m nearly seeing into another dimension, body strung so tight I could snap, when it hits me—He’s not just trying to make me come. He’s trying to make me stay.
To anchor me with pleasure so deep, so consuming, that I forget how to walk away. Or walk, if memory serves me correctly.
He slides two fingers inside me, stretching me just right. His tongue keeps working above, relentless and precise—circling, flicking, sucking with devastating rhythm. Curling. Stroking. Filling.
My thighs tremble. My breath shatters. I clutch the edge of the island so strong I feel like I could break it.
And all the while, he devours me like he’s got something to prove.
Because maybe he does.
“Declan! God!” I gasp, already teetering on the edge, every nerve in my body stretched thin.
“Don’t call me your God,” he rasps, his voice ragged with restraint. “Not when I’m the one on my knees for you, wife.”
He presses his mouth harder against me, groaning as his tongue works me over. The sound rumbles through me, a growl that vibrates straight to my center, setting everything inside me ablaze.
“Come for me, Senora,” he commands. “Right here. Right now.”
And with his tongue lapping, his fingers thrusting, his name on my lips—I do.
My hands claw at the edge of the counter, hips bucking as I fuck his mouth. “Declan—oh my God—”
He holds me down, not letting me move. Not letting me get away from it. From him.
The orgasm hits before I can brace for it. It slams through me like a freight train, dragging his name out of me in a cry that would shame a woman with less pride.
But I have no pride left. Not when it comes to him.
He rises, eyes dark and wild, pulling open his belt with one swift jerk. His dick springs free—thick, proud, flushed—and I feel my core clench in pure anticipation.
“On your stomach,” he says.
I hesitate.
“Now, Senora Agassi.”
And I turn, just like that. Like I never stopped being his.