7. Maribel
Maribel
I can barely focus on the texture of the rug against my bare back and the fire warming the side of my face. It’s a soft, faux fur, probably obscenely expensive. I should be luxuriating in it, cataloging the sensation like a secret I’ll remember later.
But I can’t. Not now. All I can feel is his mouth on my stomach.
My sweater is shoved up, a bunched-up thickness of wool just beneath my breasts, exposing me from the ribs down. The cool air of the room is a faint shock, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of Wesley’s mouth.
He’s… devouring me.
There’s no other word for it. His head is bowed, his blond hair a mess from my fingers, his full attention locked on the skin of my belly.
He’s not kissing me, not in any gentle, romantic way.
He’s licking a path from my hip bone towards my navel, the flat of his tongue teasing lower and lower with each lap.
A soft, open- mouthed kiss follows, and then the sharp, perfect sting of his teeth grazing the same spot.
A gasp tears from my throat, my back arching off the rug without my permission. My hands fly to his hair, not to push him away, but to reel myself back in, my fingers twisting in the light strands.
He lets out a low, approving sound against my skin, a vibration that travels straight to my pussy.
His hands squeeze my hips, his thumbs coming together to graze the button keeping my jeans on.
There are only so many layers keeping my most intimate spot from him, and I want this man to peel away one at a time.
He pauses, his face buried in the soft skin of my stomach. He breathes in, a deep, shuddering inhale, as if trying to capture my very scent inside him. The groan that rumbles out of him is pure, unvarnished hunger.
“God, you smell delicious,” he rasps, the words a hot confession against my damp skin.
My mind stutters. Delicious. I spent the last few hours trying to impress him with my skills, and now he’s acting like I’m the best thing I could have possibly offered. The thought is dizzying.
Another tremble works its way through me as his fingers find the button of my jeans.
He pops it open with a deft flick, humming with satisfaction.
Dragging down the zipper, the rasp makes my toes curl at how close he is to touching me where I’m throbbing.
Then his hands are on the waistband, and he’s peeling the denim down my thighs, baring me to the firelight and his heavy-lidded gaze.
The vulnerability is absolute. The cool air hits the damp fabric, and a rush of self-consciousness crashes over me. The words tumble out before I can stop them, a fragile confession. “It’s… It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything. A really long time.”
I expect hesitation. A flicker of doubt. Instead, a slow, devastatingly possessive smile curves his lips. The sight of it sends a fresh, liquid heat pulsing through me. He looks… thrilled.
This man is lethal when he smiles. Like he can ask for anything, and that curve will make it happen.
His hands slide back up my bare thighs, his touch firm, anchoring. He leans over me, caging me in, and his eyes hold a finality that steals the air from my lungs.
“Good,” he says, his fingers hooking into my panties next. “Then you won’t have to worry about looking anymore. You have me.”
He says it so confidently, yet I’m struggling to believe it. But then he is moving, drawing the last scrap of fabric down my legs and tossing it aside, and all capacity for thought vanishes.
He doesn’t immediately lower himself. He just… looks. His gaze is a physical weight, traveling from my flushed face, down the column of my throat, over my bared breasts, to the flushed pink between my thighs, exposed and trembling on the soft rug.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs, the words rough with reverence. “Even now, I’m struggling to believe you’re real.”
Lowering himself, he settles between my thighs, his shoulders pressing them wider, and the first contact of his warm hands on the sensitive skin of my inner knees makes me jolt. He stills, his eyes finding mine, holding them captive.
“Look at me, Maribel,” he commands softly. “I want to see you.”
Then he bows his head.
The first touch of his mouth is not where I desperately need it. It’s a soft, closed-mouth kiss high on my inner thigh. Then another, an inch closer. He is mapping me with his lips, a slow, torturous pilgrimage towards my clit.
My breathing is ragged, my fingers clutching at the faux fur of the rug, my hips making a tiny, involuntary arch.
He ignores it, continuing his leisurely path, switching to the other thigh, planting kisses that feel like promises. The fire crackles, the only other sound besides my shaky breaths.
“Wesley,” I gasp, a plea pulled from my lips.
His eyes flick up to mine before a final, soft kiss lands just at the junction of my thigh, and then, finally, his breath ghosts over my damp, aching flesh.
The first touch of his tongue is a flat, slow, experimental stroke from bottom to top.
A sound rips from me, half-sob, half-sigh. My eyes flutter shut as I bask in the pleasure.
“Eyes on me,” he repeats, his voice a low thrum against my most sensitive skin. He doesn’t continue, not until I follow along.
I force them open, my vision blurry. He watches me as he does it again, that same agonizing pace of his. The intensity of his gaze, combined with the intimate caress, only amplifies the sensation.
He settles into a rhythm, his tongue exploring every fold, every hidden secret, with a focused, unhurried curiosity.
He circles my clit but doesn’t linger, teasing the swollen flesh around it until I’m whimpering, my back arched off the floor.
My hands leave the rug and find his hair again, not guiding, just holding on.
“Please,” I beg, the word stripped of all pride.
No more teasing. I don’t know how much more I can take.
As if he were only waiting for the surrender in my voice, his focus shifts. He closes his mouth over my clit, and his tongue finds a perfect, relentless rhythm. It’s not frantic; it’s assured, a steady, circling pressure that coils the tension inside me tighter and tighter.
One of his hands slides from my thigh, his thumb joining as well, stroking and pressing in a way that makes my body sing.
I am hurtling towards the edge, the corners of my vision starting to grow brighter. My thighs tremble against his shoulders, and I try to close them, overwhelmed, but he holds me open, his grip firm, unyielding.
“Let go, Maribel,” he murmurs against me, the vibration tipping me further. “I have you. Let go for me.”
It’s the permission I didn’t know I needed. The coil snaps. A wave of pure, white-hot ecstasy crashes over me, so roughly it’s almost painful. I cry out, my body bowing off the rug, my vision whiting out.
He doesn’t stop, his tongue gentling, lapping at me, drawing out the shudders until I am a boneless, trembling wreck, gasping for air.
Slowly, he lifts his head. His lips are slick, his chin glistening. The look in his eyes is one of complete satisfaction. He moves up my body, his weight helping me float back to earth. He kisses my stomach, my sternum, the hollow of my throat, everywhere he possibly can
“Mine,” he whispers into my skin, and in the aftermath, I can only believe it. I am his.
His hand moves, sliding down his own body, and he palms himself through the rough denim of his jeans, a rough, grinding pressure.
The look on his face—he’s lost in the taste of me, and I know that he isn’t going to worry about his own state. He’s satisfied with bringing me to the edge with his mouth and letting his own pleasure be an afterthought.
I can’t let that happen.
The thought gives me a surge of strength. I push up onto my elbows, my body trembling. Reaching for him, my fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and I pull him down to me.
I don’t go for his lips first. I kiss the sharp line of his jaw, rough with stubble. Then I find his ear, my breath a hot, desperate whisper against the sensitive shell. “I want you inside me,” I breathe, the words feeling both brazen and utterly true. “There’s nothing I want more.”
A guttural sound rips from his throat. A growl, like this mountain is already changing him and turning him into some kind of animal.
If his tongue hadn’t already done a great job at preparing me, then that one noise would’ve done the job.
I don’t have to tell him twice. Wanting to please, he claws to free himself.
My breath catches instantly.
He wraps his fingers around himself, and the sight is so hot, it’s a miracle I don’t catch fire.
He’s thick and hard, the skin stretched taut.
A web of prominent, pulsing veins runs the length of his shaft, a visible, throbbing map of his arousal.
My eyes are drawn helplessly to the tip, flushed a deep, angry red and gleaming with a single bead of moisture that threatens to spill over.
He gives himself a single stroke, spreading the slickness, and a low groan rumbles in his chest.
Nudging himself between my thighs once more, he makes just enough room before he’s nudging my clit with the tip. So sensitive, I lift automatically, just as he expects me to.
He drives into me in one single, deep, filling thrust that steals the air from my lungs. After the first follows another, and another.
Each thrust is a perfect, maddening friction, stoking a fire deep in my belly that’s already roaring out of control.
I am hurtling towards the edge, the world dissolving into a blur of heat and pleasure. Just as I feel the first violent tremors of my release begin, his hands slide under me, his grip firm and certain. He locks his arms, lifting my hips clean off the rug, tilting me to a devastating new angle.
He plunges into me, deeper than I thought possible, planting himself so deep it feels like he’s touching my soul.
The sensation is too much, too perfect. A white-hot shockwave erupts from my core, and I shatter.
My vision whites out again, and a throat-aching wail rips out as the climax seizes me, wracking my body with endless, pulsing waves.
He watches me fall apart, his mouth curved into a smirk.
With a final moan, he drives into me one last time, his own body seizing as he spills himself deep inside, his heat flooding me in a way that feels profoundly, irrevocably possessive.
He holds himself there, buried to the hilt, sealing us together until the last of my tremors subside.
Slowly, carefully, he lowers my hips back to the rug, his body collapsing over mine, our sweat-slicked skin sliding together. He is a heavy, welcome weight, his face buried in my neck, his breath hot and ragged against my skin.
For a long time, there is only the sound of our struggling breaths and the crackle of the dying fire. He shifts just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to my shoulder.
“Mine,” he whispers again, his voice thick with emotion and satisfaction.
And in the deep, seeded aftermath, I can only believe it. I am his.