Chapter 29 Silva #5
Remaining quiet was the challenge. Her finger traced over the stitches at the back of his head, her hips canting upward against his mouth, holding him in place when he sucked just the right spot.
His lips puckered, giving her the suction she craved as his tongue continued to move.
Did her husband make her scream as well as he had once?
Not even close. When she came against his tongue, Silva pressed her arm to her mouth, swallowing her cry of pleasure.
Her stomach muscles jumped, her whole body jerking as if she was touching an electric current as he continued to lick her, slower then, his tongue moving precisely, and she jerked again, uncertain if she wanted to pull away or press closer.
When his lips closed over her clit once more, the choice was taken from her.
She was panting, gripping his head tightly, thrusting up against his mouth as best she could without sliding off the counter, rubbing herself against his tongue until her muscles tightened and she came again, squeezing her hand in his hair as she surged upward, crying out as her clit pulsed against his tongue.
Her fingers were covered in blood when she pulled her hand away, realizing she had pulled too tightly against his stitches.
She used the blood on her hand to stroke his cock when he pushed to his feet, after pulling his belt open with her other hand.
“Did your husband lick your cunt like that, Silva?” His voice was a harsh whisper into her hair, his breath coming hard as she tightened her grip around his shaft. When his mouth crashed into hers, a violent collision of scraping teeth, she tasted herself on his lips, biting him.
“No,” she wheezed. “Never once.”
It had been five years but her fingertips hadn’t forgotten the shape of him, rubbing over his already leaking tip, pre-come smearing with the blood on her hand, stroking down his shaft, pushing his foreskin back completely.
Tate groaned against her shoulder. They were taking things slow, she reminded herself as she pumped him, thick steel in her hand, too long since she’d gripped him.
He thrust up into the snug ring of her fingers, and she considered that if her hands remembered the shape of him this easily, there was no reason to assume her heart would have forgotten how to love him. They just needed to take things slow.
That’s what she told herself as she led his cockhead to the mouth of her sex, rubbing him against her slick, coating him before the first press into her, no magically produced condom to be found, pushing in slowly, letting her re-acclimate his girth.
Silva had her arms around him, her face slack against his chest, mouth dropped open as she gasped, feeling him spread her walls open.
Her body hadn’t forgotten the shape of him either, despite all the time that had passed.
They were taking things slow, as he thrust into her carefully several times, letting her feel his full length, ensuring she could do so without pain, before he hooked her knees over his elbows, pulling her to the very edge of the counter, fucking into her with a solid thump.
It had been five years since she had been fucked so well.
The noise that came from her throat was a high-pitched whine, punctuating each thrust within her, and she dropped her head against him again to muffle it.
Silva dragged her nails over his hips, stretching her arms until she could cup the top swell of his ass, digging her nails into him.
It had been five years, and they were taking things slow.
When Tate groaned against her, Silva tightened her thighs, digging her nails a little harder, daring him to pull out.
He didn’t. She felt the hot flood of him, a pressure that made her quiver, all she had ever wanted from him five years earlier. His forehead dropped against hers, their breath labored together.
They were taking things slow.
That was why she pulled him to follow her down the hall, pushed him to join her in her bed, pressing him flat on his back while she straddled his hips.
Reminded herself when the tip of his tongue moved over her erect nipple, catching it between his teeth, biting just hard enough to make her see stars, to make her grind a bit harder against him, her muscles tightening around his cock.
They were taking things slow when he pressed her face down against the mattress, her ass up in the air, the rhythmic slap of his scrotum against her mons crashing through her head like a cymbal.
“Did your husband make you scream, Silva?”
Never. Not once.
Too long without him, as he moved on top of her, her legs wrapped tight around his waist, her arms around his neck, hands in his hair again and her eyes screwed tightly shut, as he hit that spot at the corner of her cervix, that spot only he had ever been able to reach, over and over again until she moaned, her muscles milking him until he was slack atop her.
They were taking things slow, she reminded herself, waking up hours later with her nose bumping his, her head finding its way to his pillow as it had always done before, soaking it with her tears until his arms had tightened around her, relocating her to lie against his chest.
It had been five years, and she didn’t know how to get that time back.
She was someone brand-new, and they needed to figure out how to move forward before they splintered and broke again, but Silva didn’t know how much time she was willing to sacrifice taking it slow when they had already lost so much.
* * *
He picked Aelin up from school on those three days a week, stayed with her until Silva got home from work, and stayed for dinner in the middle of that cycle.
Whatever complete amnesia he’d had over how to find his way to Cambric Creek had been resolved. He still never once said the name correctly, having landed on Clamshot Crookery as his favorite iteration, but as long as he made it there, Silva didn’t care.
He stayed for dinner midweek, sharing the bedtime responsibilities with her, reading Aelin a story, tucking her in, and saying good night with a kiss on her forehead.
They would close the door and tiptoe out, and Silva insisted they wait a respectable forty minutes to ensure their little darling was sound asleep before getting her back blown out, making up for lost time by fucking him as many times as he could manage without wheezing in pain.
He was back for dinner on Friday nights, and that was her favorite night of the week. He spent the night, the two of them wrapped around each other in her bed, her head finding its way to his pillow, waking with her nose bumping his every Saturday morning. Just as it was meant to be.
Those early morning weekends at the Plundered Pixie had once been something sacred. And now, here in her bed in Cambric Creek, they were again.
Staying quiet was still her biggest hurdle. Her mouth would be open, her eyes screwed shut, panting soundlessly as he rocked into her, her legs over his shoulders, thumb rubbing her clit as he pumped his cock into her, not stopping until her muscles had contracted around him at least twice.
“Silva, we need to leave for playgroup in an hour,” he choked out, leaning forward, stretching her legs back until her knees were up at her ears, making her keen. “Are you planning on dragging this out until lunchtime? Or are you going to squeeze me?”
“This is not romantic pillow talk,” she whined, her eyes rolling back when his hips began to hammer into her, losing the ability to speak altogether.
He groaned when she came at last, her legs twitching in the air, her back leaving the mattress as her whole body contracted.
This was the part she loved best. Just a few more rolls of his hips, having held out till she’d finished, emptying in her with a hiss, pumping slowly through his orgasm, filling her to the brim.
If he had been willing to come inside her more often before, they probably could have avoided the entire five years of heartbreak. They would’ve been too busy, never leaving their bed, and the fae never would’ve found him.
He would carry her to the bathroom when they were finished, sharing a shower as they always had. She squealed as he dropped her onto the mattress after, wrapped in a towel, her hair still dripping. “Take care of yourself, ya lazy lumpling.”
She would crawl back beneath the covers, curling around a pillow and breathing in the smell of him clinging to the bedclothes as he made Aelin breakfast and took her to playgroup.
When they returned, Silva would be up and dressed, and they would leave for the day on a little adventure somewhere in town.
Taking Tate to the farm to show him the animals at the petting zoo, to the botanical gardens, to the children’s museum.
They went grocery shopping as a trio, visited the garden center to pick out plants for Aelin’s butterflies, and bought several birdfeeders for the backyard.
They were taking things slow, but it felt very domestic to her. Are you family? Of course we are. That’s where they were that morning, breathless beneath the sheets, sweat cooling at the edge of her hair, her body sated and languorous.
“I went to see Ainsley.” His voice was a whisper against her skin, hot in the valley between her breasts, his cheek pillowed against a lavender globe.
Silva tightened the hand she had in his hair, scratching against his skull, moving her fingertip down the jagged scar where his stitches had been. “Yeah? How did that go?”
She could tell from the way he said it that the answer was “not well,” but the fact that he was even sharing with her felt significant.
“That’s not surprising to me,” Zola had told her the previous week, when she’d confessed to feeling closer to him now than she had previously.
“I think, rightly or wrongly, the way you view each other now has changed, now that you share a child. Silva, you admitted that you sometimes feel jealous, but you crave normalcy. And Tate—”