Chapter 22 #3
Goose bumps erupt across her soft skin, and she swallows.
“No, of course not.” She runs her fingers through my hair.
A low groan rumbles out of me. “I find it funny that you did it all in a cutesy pink apron about three sizes too small with daisies on the pocket and a ruffly lace trim. It’s like putting a tutu on a grizzly bear. ”
“I’ll show you a grizzly bear,” I grumble, hoisting her onto the counter. I shove her thighs apart and sink to my knees. “Feet up on the counter. I’m gonna eat you alive.”
“Fuck yes,” she pants.
Her fingers thread into my hair as I spread her open.
She sighs at the first swipe of my tongue along her wet center, and the illicit sound goes straight to my dick.
I repeat the motion, pausing over the sensitive bud hidden between puffy, soft lips.
I graze my teeth over it before sucking it into my mouth. Her body gives a violent shudder.
“Oh God,” she murmurs.
I lay a wet slap directly on her pussy. “Say my name.”
“Griffin,” she whines.
“That’s right. Don’t you fucking forget it.”
I fuck her with my tongue, spearing inside of her over and over again. Her hips writhe, and she grips my hair, pulling me closer. The bite of pain sends a jolt of pleasure coursing down my spine. I groan against her core, letting the vibrations flow through me and into her.
Wet sounds fill the silence of the kitchen as she soaks my beard, the flavor of her more intoxicating than even the best Kentucky bourbon. “Fuuuuck, Angel. You taste so goddamn sweet.”
I slide two fingers inside her tight channel, causing a gasp to escape past her parted lips. My cock strains against my zipper, begging to be set free, but this isn’t about me.
I pump into her and flick my tongue against her swollen clit, digging my fingers into the soft flesh of her round ass. God, I love the shape and feel of her, every perfect fucking inch.
A far-off memory resurfaces—Angie’s ass stuffed full of my cock as I bury myself to the hilt. I can still hear her screaming my name in the dimly lit bedroom of her Colorado apartment five years ago. The memories never strayed far from my consciousness, even after all this time.
The temptation is too much to resist. I gather the saliva in my mouth and spit on her asshole, then I glide my thumb past the tight ring of muscle.
“Yes,” she whines. “Yes yes yes.”
I moan as I lose all control, my cock erupting at the mere sight of having both of her holes stuffed.
Her breathing grows shallow, and her grip on my hair loosens as her pussy clenches around my fingers, absolutely drenching the counter with her arousal.
“Griffin. Please. I’m so close. I need it.”
I bite the spot where her ass meets her thigh, and she yelps. “Greedy girl. You come when I say you can come.”
“Fuck fuck. Please, can I come? Please.”
She’s a hair trigger away from detonating, and I’m nothing if not a generous man.
“So, fucking beautiful when you beg,” I murmur. “Come for me, Angel.”
Her body convulses from the sheer force of her orgasm, and I tongue fuck her through it until her feet fall off the countertop and she throws her head back, utterly spent.
She looks down at me on my knees for her, and I suck my fingers into my mouth, licking them clean.
“I wish you could see yourself like this,” I say.
“Mm. Right back at you.”
I stand and pull her in for a filthy kiss, letting her taste the bitter tang of her release on my tongue before I help her down off the counter and adjust her clothes.
“I’ll be right back. I have some sweatpants in the dryer.”
“Wha—” She glances down between us, and a smirk forms on her lips. “Oh.”
I press a soft kiss to her forehead. “The highest compliment, I assure you.”
I wait impatiently as Angie brings the BLT to her mouth and takes the very first bite. An audible, satisfying crunch precedes her exaggerated moan.
I know when a woman is faking it, and my wife is no exception.
“How is it?” I ask, knowing it’s not quite right.
She covers her mouth to speak around the bite. “It’s amazing.”
I take a bite of my sandwich, savoring the rich combination of flavors. It’s good. Delicious, even. But I know Angie’s looking for something specific, and this isn’t it. I can tell by the slight crease in her brow.
Back to the drawing board.
“You don’t have to finish it,” I tell her. “I promise it won’t hurt my feelings.”
“No. It’s really good, I swear.”
“But it’s not Denver.”
She shakes her head. “No. Not Denver.”
She finishes half of the oversized sandwich. I wrap up the leftovers for her lunch tomorrow and stow the extra sourdough in the bread box. Afterward, we curl up together on the sofa as Angie’s comfort movie plays in the background.
My fingers twine in her hair. “At least you didn’t throw up. That would’ve put an abrupt end to my budding sourdough career.”
She laughs. “I don’t think you should base any future plans on my ability to stomach food.
” Her fingertips trace absent patterns through my chest hair, her soft breath dancing across my skin.
“Thank you. I don’t think anyone’s ever put so much effort into something so insignificant just to make me happy. ”
“If it makes you happy, it’s not insignificant.”
There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make her life easier, if only so I can see that smile directed back at me. Her happiness has become essential to my well-being. Anything less is unacceptable.