Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Eden
Martin’s breath stutters, his heart beating fast against mine when our lips finally meet. His beard tickles my chin ever so slightly as he tilts his head, and his pale lashes flutter when I lightly lick his bottom lip, encouraging him to open up to me.
“Eden…” Martin moans in that unbelievably sexy voice of his, his deep bass dropping lower until I feel it vibrate through both our chests. “What did I do to deserve an angel like you in my arms?”
“What did I do to deserve a knight, like you, in mine?” I ask with a whisper, tipping my head back, tangling my fingers in his thick hair.
“Marry me,” he blurts, but he doesn’t panic this time, like I thought he would.
His eyes flash with hunger and longing as he trails his left hand up my arm to the capped sleeve of my sheer nightgown, easing it off my shoulder.
“Marry me,” he says again on a wisp of air, kissing the bare skin above my clavicle. “Marry me.”
I lower my hands to his maroon T-shirt and slip them beneath the hem, lifting the material.
I’m pleasantly surprised to find tight abs on a narrow waist, his chest broad and strong with a smattering of masculine, curly chest hair.
“It’s too soon,” I say, placing my right palm over his heart, feeling it beat even faster for me.
“I know,” he says, desolate. “But I’ll ask you every day until you say yes.”
His lips are back on mine as soon as I draw the T-shirt over his head, ginger curls falling softly to his muscular shoulders.
Martin eases my right sleeve down, leaving my nightgown held only in place by my breasts that ache for his touch.
Lowering himself to one knee, his hands drift down my body reverently, then up beneath my gown, shakily caressing my thighs until his fingertips come to a rest on the waistband of my panties.
“Marry me,” he says, dipping forward to kiss my lower belly, over the fabric. His breath is hot and heavy when he eventually drags my panties down after I make no move to stop him, or slow him down.
I might not be ready for marriage, but I am ready for his touch.
If anything, this has been the slowest I’ve ever been courted, and that says a lot about the low standards I had when I was younger and inexperienced.
What I had with Tyler, and my previous boyfriends, pales in comparison to how gentlemanly, kind, and respectful Martin has been.
The men of my past weren’t really men. They were boys who thought it was romantic to pinch my butt in school hallways.
Boys who whined about me giving them “blue balls” if I didn’t want to go any further than a kiss in the backseats of their parents’ borrowed cars, until I gave in.
I naively took that as them wanting me, Eden, so badly, because they loved me.
As I’ve since learned, in reality, they just wanted to get between any girl’s legs.
But Martin is all man, and the best one at that. Shayla would never have been friends with him, or encouraged me to get to know Martin, if she thought for one moment that he was merely presenting a false front.
Still, I have to be careful. If not for myself, then for Ivy, just as my mom has been careful for me when it comes to the men she dates.
“Martin.” I cup his cheeks as his hands slip to my backside, his eyes hooded with desire. “If I tell you I’ve changed my mind, will you stop?”
“Of course, my lady.” Martin’s hands immediately fall away from my skin, and he leans back onto one heel, resting a forearm on his bent knee. “We’ll take this as slow as you wish.”
He moves to stand, and I place my hands on his shoulders, bending low until our lips are merely a breath apart. “I don’t want to stop.”
His jaw drops with surprise. “Really?”
I nod and kiss him. Slowly lifting the front of my gown higher up my thighs, I sway my hips. “Touch me. Please.”
Martin breathes out harshly, his fingers trembling when he gently grips my naked waist. I no longer have to imagine what he could have done in the parking lot, had Mom not interrupted us, because he leans forward and kisses me so intimately between my thighs.
When he gently parts my lower lips with the tip of his tongue, exploring me until he finds my clit, I drop my head back with a moan, the ends of my hair brushing my lower back.
I’m knocked off balance, mentally and physically, by the sheer force of pleasure as he works his tongue in circles, his hands now cupping the backs of my thighs as I clutch his shoulders.
With each release of my high-pitched moans, Martin grows hungrier, thirstier.
The tips of his fingers stroke my inner thighs from behind, urging me to lift my left leg over his shoulder while using his strong hands to keep me steady.
Arching his neck, Martin flicks his tongue until I’m begging him to slip it inside me.
“Yes, my lady,” he answers with a rumble of his chest, pushing his tongue into me, carefully at first, bringing his right hand to my front to press his thumb against my clit.
Never have I felt anything so exquisite as his hot tongue thrusting in and out of me as he works my clit at just the right rhythm.
He doesn’t rush my pleasure; no huffs of impatience to finally get his turn.
His tongue is languid, as if he is finding his pleasure in bringing me to a slow, deeply transcendent, climax.
“Oh, my lord,” I moan over and over again until the hot waves of ecstasy overwhelming my senses recede like the tide, my core pulsing and my legs trembling. “That was…”
“The most magical moment of my life,” Martin says with awe, easing back to sit on his heels while stroking my thighs with earnest affection. “Thank you for letting me touch you, my lady.”
I take his hand, coaxing him to stand. I look deep into his eyes as I bring my right palm to the zipper of his jeans, intending to show him my thanks, but he stays my hand, circling my wrist.
“Nay, my lady.”
I lift my brows with surprise. “What about you? You don’t want—”
Martin clears his throat and looks away. His cheeks turn bright red in the flickering candlelight. “I’m embarrassed to say that I—” He clears his throat again.
My gaze instantly drops to his jeans, the unbelievably long, hard bulge I witnessed at the wedding now nowhere present. “Did you cum in your pants?”
“Yes,” he squeaks, squeezing his eyes shut.
So, I was right. “You were so into giving me pleasure that you found your own.” It’s not a question.
“Yes,” he says, dropping his chin.
I lift it with two fingers. “Thank you, Lord Martin.” I press a kiss to his lips with a little thrill, tasting myself on him.
His eyes fly open. “For what?”
I bite my lip shyly. “You’ll see.” Lowering myself to kneel before him, I unfasten and drag his jeans and wet boxer briefs down his strong thighs.
“Oh, mercy,” he groans loudly when I lick the tip of his soft cock, taking it into my mouth to clean him.
It’s not easy, since he’s still impressively large, even while flaccid.
It’s even more difficult when he starts to swell in my mouth, his fingers combing through my hair, gently fisting it at the roots.
I suck his crown, hollowing my cheeks, and moan around his girth.
I don’t rush his pleasure, either, taking my time.
I grip the base of his thick shaft and work my right hand up and down his length, while giving most of my attention to his flared tip.
“Angel,” Martin moans when I flick my eyes up, holding his unwavering stare. My jaw aches fiercely, but I don’t stop working him over, wanting to taste more of him.
Martin sucks in a deep breath, his abs flexing beneath my left hand as I rub it up and down his defined muscles. I tighten my grip on his shaft, feeling his veins thicken and pulse along my tongue.
“My beautiful angel. Marry me,” he groans just as the first spurt of his release fills my mouth and slides down my throat.
Rolling up on the toes of his Converse, he proposes again and again with each rope of cum that I eagerly swallow.
As soon as he’s spent, he pulls out of my mouth and drops heavily to his knees with a thud.
He gathers me close and slides his tongue between my lips, worshiping my mouth until he has to jerk his head back to breathe. “Marry—”
The baby monitor that I keep plugged in on the side table nearby flashes green, Ivy beginning to stir in her crib with her first little cry.
Instead of getting upset or annoyed by the interruption, Martin smiles and skates a palm down my hair, giving me one more loving, but brief, kiss on the lips.
He helps me rise to my feet and draws my sleeves back onto my shoulders, while Ivy’s cries become more insistent.
Insecurity begins to curdle in the pit of my stomach when Martin pulls up his jeans, leaving the zipper open, and finds his T-shirt to shrug it on. Now that he’s had his pleasure, will his interest in me begin to wane? Surely the answer is no, but I’ve been wrong before.
“Will I see you again tomorrow?” I ask.
Martin’s brows dip, his head tilted adorably with confusion.
“Not a day will go by with us parted, my lady,” he says tenderly, then takes my hand, steps around me, and pulls me along into the hallway bathroom.
He opens the interior linen closet, fetches two terry cloth hand towels, and wets them with soap and warm water before handing one to me.
He’s not at all self-conscious as he cleans himself, and surprisingly, neither am I.
We discard our towels in the hamper, and I bury his underwear at the bottom of the bathroom trash bin in the hopes my mom won’t find it.
He takes my hand once more, kisses the back of it, then turns left toward the living room.
“I’ll blow out the candles and tidy up while you tend to Ivy. ”
Outside my bedroom door, I grip the knob and ask, “You’re not leaving?”
“Not unless you want me to.” Vulnerability layers atop his voice when he asks, “Do you? Want me to leave, that is? Your mom…”
“I don’t want you to leave,” I tell him truthfully. Never.
“Then I won’t.”
Twenty minutes later, I sigh, since Ivy hasn’t settled back to sleep after I’ve changed and fed her.
I pad into the living room in one of my regular, full-coverage nightgowns, half expecting Martin to have fallen asleep on the couch.
But no, he pulled one of my mom’s thrillers from the bookshelf and now sits at the kitchen peninsula, reading by the light affixed to the underside of the upper cabinet.
He looks up as soon as he glimpses me from the corner of his eye.
“She’s wide awake,” I say by way of apology, our one on one time together having come to an end.
Martin stands and cups the back of Ivy’s head, cooing to her, “I get it. I wouldn’t want to sleep and miss a moment with your mom either.” He gently kisses her crown, then ushers me into the living room. Taking a seat on the couch, he grabs the TV remote and grins. “Want to watch another episode?”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Ok,” I say, warmth blooming in my chest.
I blush when Martin arranges one of Mom’s crocheted afghans across our laps and rests his left arm over my shoulders.
With my feet tucked beneath me, I settle into Martin’s side, dropping my head on his shoulder.
Sitting with him and Ivy, doing something as normal as watching TV while we wait for Ivy to fall back asleep, is as magical as when Martin was on his knees for me.
It feels like home. Not this house, but him. Us. Martin, Ivy, and me.
“Yes,” I say when the episode is over, bleary-eyed with exhaustion but happy all the same, after Martin thoughtfully cooked a midnight meal for me when my stomach rumbled not ten minutes after we sat down.
“Yes?” he asks, his brows pinched.
“Yes, I’ll marry you.”
Tears spring to Martin’s eyes, and he pulls me impossibly close with an incandescent smile and a reverential gaze. One that I return in kind.