Chapter 34
Vivian
No, it doesn’t. The thick rod under my palm feels angry, hard, and eager.
It feels too big, too much, too everything.
It feels full of life. It feels like it wants to fill me up and impale me with such force, I’ll feel it at the back of my throat.
It feels… Immense and overwhelming, and also, strong and devastatingly forceful.
It feels like him. It feels like it’s going to hurt when he tries to fit that monster cock inside of me.
And how I'm going to enjoy every bit of that burn. How I can’t wait to give him my virginity.
I can’t wait any longer to be his completely, and yet—a shiver of apprehension runs through me.
“Make sure you don’t give up everything too easily. Keep a little of yourself from him. Nothing like a little enigma to keep the marriage interesting, know what I mean?“ Imelda’s parting words echo in my mind.
Once I give myself to him, once I submit, will I find myself again? Will I lose my identity and everything I am to him?
I begin to move my hand away, but he lays his palm over mine to hold it in place.
The warmth of his fingers bleeds into my skin, and it’s reassuring.
Which is strange, because the thickness under my palm is anything but.
He leans in and, but for where I’m touching his cock with his hand on mine, we’re not touching at all. His breath sears my cheek.
I lower my gaze to his mouth—that mouth which is more often than not in a straight line meant to convey his displeasure, that finely sculpted upper lip which hints at an austere nature, the illusion of which is shattered by that puffy lower lip. The one I want to sink my teeth into.
My intent must show in the way I’m staring at his mouth for he lowers his voice to a hush and growls, “Do it.”
Constellations of desire pinprick under my skin.
Without allowing myself to think, I close the remaining distance and bite down on his mouth.
He doesn’t flinch. Not even when the coppery taste of blood fills my palate.
I look up and into his eyes. Our fingers intertwine, and he moves my palm down the length of his hardness.
He grows bigger and wider, if that’s possible. Heat sears my skin. My throat dries.
"See what you do to me, Raven?" He rubs his nose against mine. "You make me feel like I’m a teenager who’s going to blow his load in his pants."
"But you’re not."
"I’m not. Because I’m not letting myself or you come. Not until I’ve taken you to the edge many times over." His dick throbs as if to punctuate his words.
I swallow. "Sounds painful."
"Oh, it will be." There’s an evil glint in his eyes.
"Are you trying to scare me off?"
"Am I succeeding?"
I want to say yes, but honestly, I’m dripping. And his veiled threat heightens my need for him and turns my core into a mass of quivering anticipation.
I shake my head.
This time, his lips twist in a smirk that causes those constellations in my body to glow brighter.
Moisture bathes the flesh between my legs.
My breasts hurt; my scalp tingles. I'm a mass of burning need.
The car comes to a stop—thank God! He pulls his hand out from under mine, pushes the door open, and steps out.
He helps me to my feet, then sweeps me up in his arms.
"Whoa!" I wrap my arms about his shoulders and, because I can’t stop myself, I bury my nose in the curve of his neck. I should protest, but there’s something very romantic about being carried bride-style by my husband up the steps of his townhouse— Wait, it’s not a townhouse, it’s a Victorian-built manor that wouldn’t look out of place in Downton Abbey.
I look around the unfamiliar rolling gardens that surround the house.
As far as I can tell, there are no other buildings around us for miles.
Only a tree line in the distance, and beyond that, the gates through which we drove.
He distracted me so well, I didn’t notice we were headed toward an unknown location.
The car that dropped us off begins to turn down the driveway. "The driver’s leaving?"
"He is." My husband reaches the door, where he manages to key in the code while holding me in his arms, then he shoulders it open.
"B-but it looks like we're far from anywhere."
"That's the idea."
"Are we in London?"
"We’re in the countryside, actually."
The door snicks shut behind us and he stalks across the grand foyer and toward a large double staircase that sweeps up to the second floor. I have a fleeting glimpse of stained glass high above us.
"I thought we were heading to your place."
"This is my place."
"Oh!” This is incredible. I take in the soaring ceilings, embellished with intricate plasterwork, a striking chandelier hanging above, and gleaming wooden floors below. Rich, wood wainscoting lines the walls, lending an air of warmth and sophistication.
Plush sofas and wingback chairs are upholstered in jewel-toned fabrics. They encircle an impressive fireplace that's almost as tall as him in height. Large bay windows frame views of the manicured gardens outside. On the walls are paintings—all of which, I have no doubt, are originals.
On one side the living room leads to a conservatory, and through an open set of pocket doors on the other side, I can make out a formal dining room with a long trestle table surrounded by high-backed carved chairs.
Whoa! The overall impression is both intimate and sophisticated. There’s a feeling of elegance and grandeur, but underlying it is a hint of austerity. This place is so Q. I’m so grateful he brought me here. It’s like getting a peek into his psyche without words.
I cuddle into his chest as he takes the steps two at a time. Whoa! He’s carrying me, and I’m not particularly thin.
I tend toward the curvy side, but the way this man carries me, I might as well weigh nothing.
His biceps tauten under my touch, and his heart beats steadily.
He reaches the landing and walks down a corridor.
We pass a few rooms, and when he reaches the double doors at the end of the corridor, he shoulders them open.
He steps inside and into a large, carpeted room.
He walks toward the center of the room and sets me down.
I take in the soaring fireplace, which takes up a big part of one wall. There’s a rug in front of it and a sofa on one side. On the opposite wall are French windows, beyond which is the view of the sweeping countryside.
"The view’s amazing."
"It is."
I glance sideways to find him staring at me.
"I meant the view from the window." I blush.
He watches me with interest, and that turns my cheeks fiery.
"Stop looking at me like that." I brush past him and head toward the windows. I can’t help but sneak a peek at the massive bed which dominates the room. The sheets are white, as are the pillows and the duvet cover. There are iron rings set into the posts… and into the wall above the headboard. Also, are those ropes wrapped around the posts? Huh? I realize I’ve stopped and am staring. He walks over to stand next to me.
"The number of times I’ve dreamed of having you here in my bed, tied to those rings, so you're spreadeagled, with your pussy bared for my ministrations, you have no idea.”
The pussy in question squeezes in on itself. Tingling sensations run up my spine. "I wish you weren’t so unfiltered in your words."
"When you’ve seen what I have, you learn to speak your mind."
I turn to him and find he has a pensive expression on his features.
"Was being at war difficult?" I hear my words and wince.
What a stupid thing to ask. Like he's going to tell me, no, it was fun. Not to mention, it's not quite the conversation I envisioned on my wedding night—and with a plug up my butt—but the bleakness in his eyes hints at a vulnerable side of him. One I haven’t seen before, and I don’t want to miss this opportunity to find out more about my husband.
I’m sure he’s going to brush me off, but to my surprise, he answers me.
"Seeing friends blown to bits and being unable to do anything about it was."
I wait for him to say more, but he opts to walk past me and to the windows looking out.
Of course, this must be a difficult topic for him.
I don't want to push him; he can tell me when he's ready. His spine is stiff, his shoulder muscles bunched. There’s a sadness etched into every sharp angle of his body I didn’t notice before. He’s hidden it well… Until now.
I reach him and, sliding my arms about his waist, press my cheek into the firm wall of his back. Closing my eyes, I breathe in that pine and woodsmoke scent of his. He places his palm over mine.
For a few seconds, we stand there. I soak in the strength of his presence, the resilience of his muscles, the way I feel so delicate in comparison, the sheer security of being with him. Something coiled deep inside of me loosens.
When he turns and pinches my chin, I’m already rising on my tiptoes. He lowers his face and closes his lips over mine. His mouth is hard, but the kiss is tender.
I melt into him, and when he licks into the notch between my lips, I part them. He slips his tongue inside my mouth, and heat suffuses my lower body. My toes curl; my fingertips tremble. I dig them into his shoulders as he ravages my mouth.
The kiss seems to go on and on. Then suddenly, he wrenches his mouth from mine, sinks to his knees and, pushing up the skirt of my dress, he presses his nose into my pussy. He draws a deep breath, and I gasp.
Something warns me that if I follow his lead, it’s going to be a long time before I come to my senses again.
This entire experience with Q has been intense.
It’s making me feel emotions I haven’t felt before.
I need time to process it. I need... just a moment to regroup.
“The science of kissing is called philematology.” I burst out.
My stream of consciousness has the intended effect, for he freezes.
“Kissing can burn up to twenty-six calories per minute, depending on the intensity and duration,” I add.
He looks up at me from between my legs, and there’s something very erotic about seeing this powerful man on his knees with his fingers gripping the tops of my thighs.
I snapshot the moment and store it away, sure it’s going to inspire a painting.
I continue to scan his features, committing the expression in his eyes to memory.
“What is it?” His tone is tinged with impatience. “Do you want me to stop?"
I shake my head. “No, but I’m aware you’re deflecting.”
“Deflecting?” His features are devoid of emotion, but his eyes flash. “What do you mean?”
“You started telling me about your past, then stopped yourself. And now, you’re running away from your demons by focusing on giving me orgasms.”
“Damn right, I’m going to lose myself in your tight, hot cunt as a way to escape my memories.” Without taking his gaze from mine he licks up my pussy lips.
“Oh…” I breathe through the anticipation that bubbles up my throat.
His lips curl. ”You mean, 'Oh Q,' don’t you?” With that, he urges my legs further apart, then thrusts his tongue inside my weeping slit.
My heart seems to drop to the space between my legs, until it feels like my entire body, my life, every part of me and all I am, is concentrated in that throbbing triangle of flesh.
Then, he closes his mouth around my clit and sucks, and I cry out.