Chapter 25 #3
My arousal stalled, my closed eyes springing open. “Has there been others?”
My nostrils flared, the sadness burning me. Unshed tears blurred him as we stared at each other.
“Never. I've never touched another woman. Ever.”
But Hell might have. The soundless thought played on my face like a silent movie. . . and he watched it from start to finish.
“He hasn't, either.”
“How could you know that?”
“We have a new method of communicating. Now, quit fucking talking until I tell you to.”
I felt my nipples tingle over the command. I liked the dominance. And I liked knowing they’d waited for me. Both of them—my Heaven and Hell. I reached for my breast without thinking, slipping a hand inside my scoop neck dress to gently tweak one and then the other.
My arousal was back, pulsing through me, beginning in my nipples and storming down my belly until it reached Woodrow's finger inside my pussy.
He thrust harder. And his hot mouth moved back to my clit, the suction he put on me had me unable to think straight.
His thrusts became violent. His grip, now back on my thigh, was tighter than ever. I didn't need to ask if he'd switched. I knew, just like always. . . and I knew what would bring him back, just like in the men's restroom back in Vegas. The scent of daisies.
I plucked a single flower from the glass vase near my head. I hesitated, wondering if there was a reason for this switch, or if it was just Hell feeling jealous of the kitchen surface activity. I blinked away the thoughts, pushing the daisy down my body.
“Woodrow,” I whispered, and Hell looked up.
A toxic snarl sat on his face. He was ready to spit his venom at me for saying the wrong name. For calling back the man I wanted. And because that man wasn't him.
But the daisy brushed his nose, and his nostrils flared, taking in its delicate scent.
“Come back to me.”
I repeated his name, again, and he responded by blinking, desperate to clear the brain fog.
He looked over our situation, and the daisy in my hand, and he didn't say another word. He took the flower from my fingers and pushed my hand back up to my breast. He kept the flower close to his nose, inhaling the floral scent and the aroma of my wet pussy all at once.
He slid his finger out of me and drove it back in with another.
I tensed on the tabletop, arching my sweaty back from the marble and moaning again.
I felt his tongue flick over my clit and his fingers move up inside me. I rustled some more sounds. A little encouragement.
“Shut your mouth, Moonlight. The only thing I want to hear is my name when you come. Do you understand?”
I nodded, already accepting his order.
“Good girl.” I tightened around his fingers, reminding him how much I liked that comment.
His fingers glided out of me, and he moved his mouth to smear the liquid that coated them all over my pussy.
His arms wrapped around my thighs, and he lifted my ass from the table like he was about to feast. He pressed my pussy to his mouth, his wide tongue lapping up all my juices.
My hips disobeyed his first request, bucking for more, demanding like my mouth wanted to.
He didn’t complain; secretly, he loved it. The laugh that slipped from him told me so much.
His tongue smeared the length of my pussy before coasting into my slit.
I fought the urge to scream, because it wasn't his name on my tongue it was the words, ‘holy fuck’, and he wouldn’t want to hear that. But I had never ever felt anything like this.
His hands gently caressed my thighs, encouraging me to breathe when it appeared I'd forgotten how to do so.
I took a breath, and rocked against his mouth, feeling his nose bump against my clitoris.
My eyes rolled, and I started panting, as the feeling of his tongue making out with my pussy had a pleasure building in my stomach that I couldn't control. My hand moved from my breast, pushing his head harder against my body, his tongue deeper inside me.
But I couldn't take anymore.
I couldn't hold on.
His tongue was all the way inside my hole, licking the walls that enclosed it as I got closer and closer to orgasm.
He licked up and down along my puffy pussy lips—tingling and blissfully swollen. He licked up to my engorged clit, and he took it between his teeth, flicking at it with his masterful tongue.
My fingers dug into his short dark hair. My hips raised higher. I wanted him back inside me when I climaxed. He understood, placing a delicate kiss on my clit before he shoved his perfect tongue back inside me.
I came on the first thrust, squeezing around him and dragging him deeper. I came so hard, it rained from me.
My fluttering eyes caught sight of his perfect face, staring up at me from between my legs, when I screamed his name.
I arched my back again and clutched harder at his hair, wrapping it in my fist as another wave of pleasure crashed down on me.
I screamed, so fucking loudly. I couldn't hold back as he continued making out with my pussy as I orgasmed for the second fucking time.
My legs were shaking when he took the final swallow of my cum. Still shaking as he pressed a gentle kiss against my hole.
I dropped my head back, not focusing on the image of him, the daisy still in hand, because, fuck, the image of him and his lips sheened with my cum, would have made me come again, and I wouldn't handle another orgasm like that so quickly.
Instead, I focused on the small ginger creature sitting in the doorway, meowing a whining moan, as he wondered why my ass was allowed on the tabletop if his wasn't.
Evening had painted a pretty glow against the clouds.
Pretty pinks, bright orange, and even a hypnotic lavender rolled outside the window across the sky.
The kitchen was lit beautifully, too. A warm hue from one hundred motion-sensor fairy lights highlighted the peace and tranquility of the evening.
I was relaxed in my seat at the island, my nose to the spoon of ajiaco. The veggies all fought for the priority scent, but they melded together in one tasty harmony.
“Do you like it?” I asked Woodrow, who sat opposite me. The vase of flowers between us was full again, the pretty daisy I'd stolen had been returned to its family. That thought twisted something painful inside me.
Woodrow noticed, but he didn't question me. He focused on something else that would take my mind from what was bothering me. The food. It was important to me that he'd enjoy my cooking.
“It's really good. Like comfort food.” His spoon dove back into the bowl.
He'd eaten more at this table than I'd seen him eat all week.
I pushed a plate of homemade bread across the surface. It's smell wafted through the air and taunted my tastebuds, daring me to steal another slice.
“I can't eat that.”
“Can you not try? Small pieces?”
His eyes dropped to the bread, and he chewed at his lip, hungry for a taste of something new. He swallowed once, imagining how the dough would feel on his tongue.
“You only live once.”
My words caused him pain, but I didn’t understand why. “Not if you believe in reincarnation.” He winked, his pretty eyes flirting with me.
“I didn’t know where you stood on reincarnation, given your religious childhood.”
He didn’t answer, but to my surprise, he took a slice, and then he pushed the plate back to me, joining in with the bread’s encouragement for me to eat the last piece.
“I'm gonna be fat.”
“You're gonna be perfect. . . like before.” He broke off the smallest piece of bread, dipping it into his dinner, for both moisture and taste, before propping it onto his tongue.
He looked genuinely terrified with it sat in his mouth, and it took him a moment to attempt to chew. He swallowed after his teeth crunched it down to nothing, taking a sip of water at the same time.
A jug from the table was slowly going down as he refilled his glass and mine.
“Thank you.” I smiled, speaking so quietly, I didn’t think he'd hear me.
But he did. “You're welcome.”
He broke off another piece of bread, this one slightly bigger, and he warned me, “This could get ugly.”
I laughed, snorting in disbelief. “I doubt it. Nothing about you will ever be ugly.”
He smiled at me from across the table, the beauty of his face proving my statement true.
“I love you. More than anything. More than anyone. More than ever.”
“I love you, too.”
I smiled back, but he didn't see it. He was already up from his chair, on his way to dispose of the remaining ajiaco and the bread he'd broken apart but never ate.
“You're done? You didn’t finish. I mean, you ate more than usual, but I thought you’d be hungrier.”
“You're forgetting, I ate earlier.” He noticed I didn't see the amusement in his joke, so he changed the tone of the conversation. “I'm full. But it was beautiful. Thank you.”
And then he disappeared from the room. I listened to his feet taking him further away. I counted the steps to the second floor as he climbed them, and when he reached the top, I went back to feeling nothing but confusion.
He liked the food, but he didn't finish it.
He never finished a meal, not since he’d found me again.
And I never knew why.
I had cleared away the dishes I'd used for cooking, following what I'd watched Woodrow do. The dishwasher had stopped for the night, and so had I. I’d finished cleaning away any light spills quickly because a kitchen this pretty had no reason to be unclean.
Its shiny white would show up every damn smudge.
Cleaning helped my thoughts and all their sinister undertones, giving me something to focus on—the goal of a groomed house.
But I was finished now, and with nothing to do, the cloud of confusion Woodrow left behind was back.