Chapter 6 Millie
SIX
Millie
The first thing he did was press his mouth to my core.
I didn’t even have to ask—not like I had with every other boyfriend, fling, every other man who’d ever seen me like this.
He just…wanted to taste me, even through my panties, maybe even more through that pink lace.
His fingers pressed hard into my ass cheeks as he yanked me forward, big hands holding my hips, his tongue darting out to lick a long line from my entrance to my clit.
My hips bucked.
“Oh god—” I gasped.
“Fuck, been thinking about how this sweet pussy tastes since I met you in that waiting room,” he growled. He started licking me over and over sucking on my clit through the mesh. I was soaked, dying for him.
"Gage—"
"Stay still," he said, against me.
I could not stay still. My hands found his hair—dark and thick and slightly damp, smelling like shampoo—and I gripped it and he made a sound low in his throat that I felt everywhere.
He hooked his fingers in the waistband of my panties and pulled them down and off, looking up at me from the floor. His eyes were completely dark and his mouth was wet.
I had never in my life been looked at like that.
Like I was the thing he'd been waiting for.
"Perfect," he said, low.
Then he put his mouth on me properly and I stopped being capable of thought.
He was thorough.
God, he was thorough. Like he had nowhere else to be and nothing else to want. His tongue moved over me slow, then faster when I pulled his hair, then slow again right when I was getting close. I made a sound that was embarrassingly desperate and he did it again on purpose, the bastard.
He had been thinking about this since the waiting room—he'd said so—and I believed him because he ate me out like he'd been planning it, like he knew exactly where to put his mouth and for how long and when to back off and when not to.
I was a stranger he'd met three weeks ago in a surgical mask and he was on his knees on the floor of a cottage getting me wetter than I'd been in years.
"Please," I said. Again. Still. I'd lost count of how many times.
He slid two fingers inside me without warning and curled them and I grabbed the back of his head with both hands and held on.
"There she is," he said, low and satisfied, like he'd found something he'd been looking for.
He worked me with his fingers and his mouth at the same time and I was embarrassingly loud about it—sounds I hadn't made in years, sounds I'd forgotten I was capable of, filthy desperate sounds that bounced off the limestone walls of this tiny cottage—and he responded to every single one of them like he was taking notes.
"Gage—Gage I'm going to—"
"I know," he said. "Let me feel it."
I came with his fingers deep inside me and his mouth on my clit. We were still standing in the kitchen—I hadn’t gotten a chance to get him to the bedroom, even after all that time staring at the bed, wondering…
And I guess he had the same thought, because as I finished, as the waves of orgasm washed over me, he scooped me off my feet.
He carried me like I weighed nothing—like I wasn’t pushing 250, like I hadn’t hated myself for years, like I was just a dainty thing that deserved to be carried and cared for. I felt the warm light of the lamp in the bedroom, then my back was on the quilt, the warmth of his body gone.
He put one knee on the bed and leaned down and pressed his mouth to my left nipple through the lace.
I made a sound.
He did it to the right one.
I made another sound.
He took his time with it—his mouth hot through the thin fabric, his tongue tracing the edge of the lace, his teeth grazing lightly in a way that made my back arch completely off the quilt. My hands were in his hair again. His hands were on my waist, my hips, the curve of my stomach.
He reached back and unclipped my bra.
Pulled it off me.
Looked.
"Jesus," he said, low and rough. His hands came up and cupped my breasts and I felt his thumbs drag over my nipples and my back arched off the quilt involuntarily, chasing the pressure.
"Sensitive," he noted.
"Yes," I managed.
"Good." He bent down and took one nipple in his mouth—no lace this time, just his mouth, hot and wet—and sucked hard and I cried out and grabbed his hair with both hands.
"Gage—"
"I know." He moved to the other one. Did it again. "I know."
My hips were rolling against nothing. I was so wet I was embarrassed about it, wet enough that I could feel it on my thighs, and he hadn't even—
He pulled back and looked at me. My chest heaving. My nipples slick and swollen. My hair everywhere. He was still fully dressed and I was just…I was a mess.
"You're beautiful," he said, and I could feel that he meant it.
He unbuttoned his shirt first, revealing that thick, dark chest hair dusted with silver…a chest with a few scars, broad shoulders, rugged and tan. He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders and all I could do was look, wait, imagine how it would feel to touch.
Then he reached for his belt.
I watched his hands.
Big hands. Calloused. Hands that knew how to work, knew how to hold things. The belt came free and he set it aside and unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down and I was staring and I did not care even a little bit.
The boxers went next.
Oh.
Oh…shit.
Thick and hard and flushed and big—genuinely, legitimately, oh god big—and a drop of precome already at the tip and my mouth went wet even as the rest of me went dry because my body had apparently made several decisions without consulting me.
He wrapped one hand around himself. Slow stroke. Watching me watch him.
"This is what you do to me," he said.
Another stroke.
“Ask me for it, Millie.”
I blinked and looked up at him, eyelashes fluttering. “Ask…ask you?”
“I need to know you want it,” he said. Another stroke. My god. “Then I’m gonna breed you all night.”
I swallowed hard.
He was still stroking himself. Slow and deliberate, watching me with those dark eyes, completely unhurried, and I was lying on this quilt with nothing on and three and a half years of deprivation and the specific sight of this man touching himself was going to actually kill me.
"I want it," I said.
"Tell me what you want."
"I want—" I stopped. My face was hot. My whole body was hot. “I want you inside me.”
Something happened in his face—something that cracked the control open just slightly, just enough to see what was underneath it, which was hunger, deep and focused and pointed directly at me.
"Say it again," he said.
I held his gaze.
"Breed me," I said. "Please. I want you to fill me up and I want it to take and I want—" I took a breath. "I want to have your baby, Gage. That's what I'm here for. That's what I want. So please—"
He was on me before I finished the sentence.
Mouth on mine, deep and rough, his body covering mine. I grabbed his shoulders and kissed him back just as hard, and his hand slid down my stomach and between my thighs.
He groaned against my mouth at what he found. "You’re fuckin’ soaked, Millie," he said–one arm braced around my shoulders, the other working inside me…his fingers inside, oh god—
“Mmhm,” I breathed.
"All for me."
"All…all for you."
He made a sound low in his chest and then his hands were at my hips, turning me. I went easy, no resistance, rolling onto my stomach. Gage’s big hands found my hips again and pulled me up onto my knees, my back arched, his cock gliding between my folds.
His hand ran down my spine. Slow. All the way down. I shivered.
"Look at you," he said, low. His hands curved over my ass, squeezing, and I pressed back against him. "Look at this body."
I couldn’t speak. Didn’t want to. Didn’t want to ruin this insane moment, how good it all felt.
“This body was made to take my cock, Millie,” he went on.
He drew his hand back and slapped my cheek hard enough for the sound to whip through the space, and I squeaked and pushed back toward him.
He let the head of his cock slip inside me, then out again.
“This body was made to have my baby. You hear me?”
“Yes…yes—”
He spanked me again. I jolted, my nipples scraping almost painfully against the quilt.
"Yes," I said again, louder. "Yes, I hear you."
"Good girl."
He pushed inside.
All the way. One long slow stroke that didn't stop until his hips were flush against my ass and I could feel every inch of him and I made a sound that I will never admit to making in polite company.
He held there.
"Feel that?" he said.
"Yes," I gasped.
"Feel how deep I am?"
"Yes."
"That's where I'm going to put my baby." His hands tightened on my hips. "Right there. Deep as I can get." He pulled back slow, slow, slow, until I felt the loss of him, and then drove back in hard and I cried out into the quilt. "You're going to take every drop I give you."
"I will—"
"Every night." Another stroke. Deep and deliberate. "You're going to be in this bed every night and I'm going to fill you up and you're going to keep it."
"Please—"
"Please what."
"More," I said. "Harder. Please, Gage, please—"
He gave me more.
The rhythm he built was relentless—deep, driving strokes that rocked me forward into the quilt and his hands on my hips pulling me back to meet him every time, and I was loud about it, embarrassingly loud, the headboard against the wall and his hips against my ass and the wet filthy sounds of it all mixing together in this tiny limestone cottage in the Hill Country and I did not care, I could not care, I had left caring somewhere around the parking lot.
His hand came around to my front and found my clit and I jerked.
"Stay still," he said.
"I can't—"
"You can." His fingers worked slow circles even as his hips kept their pace. I was going to come apart completely and he knew it. "You're going to come on my cock like my perfect girl.”
"Yes," I breathed. "Yes, I'm your—I'm your good girl, I'm—"
"I know you are." His fingers didn't stop. His hips didn't stop. "Come for me."
I came.