2. Sloane
Sloane
The drive home is a blur of red lights, two-second glances, and Eden’s left hand on my thigh, fingers drumming a restless rhythm.
She’s not even trying to be subtle. Every time we hit a red, her hand migrates northward until she hits the seam of my jean shorts and remembers she hasn’t got full access yet.
She’s got her seat cranked so far back she could be taking a nap, but instead she’s laser-focused on the patch of bare skin above my knee.
Every third word out of her mouth is “faster” or “just run it.” She punctuates the last one by nipping my earlobe right as I’m merging onto the freeway, nearly causing me to sideswipe a minivan full of what looks like a Bible study group.
“Are you trying to kill us?” I say, half-laughing, half-mortified, but Eden just bites harder and hums low in her throat, as if she’s clocking every single way I tense under her touch.
I am, without exaggeration, about five seconds from ditching the car on the shoulder and climbing over the center console.
If I didn’t have my own set of control issues, I would do it.
But no—discipline. That’s my brand, and Eden loves it almost as much as she loves breaking me out of it.
She’s wearing one of her old band tees and nothing underneath the leather jacket I bought her last Christmas, a fact I am reminded of every time she stretches and the oversized arm hole flashes a perfect little triangle of breast. I can tell she’s smirking, but I keep my eyes on the road.
The moment we pull into the garage, she’s unbuckled and halfway out of the car before the engine dies. I’ve barely removed the keys when she’s yanking my door open, hands snaring the front of my top like I’m a bag of groceries she wants to haul inside.
She’s not even pretending anymore: her eyes are glassy, blown out, her hair coming undone from its ponytail and framing her face like she just fought a wind machine.
There is nothing sexier than a woman who looks at you like you’re her only real food group, and right now I am the entire fucking pyramid.
“Inside,” she says, in a single syllable so hoarse and hungry I nearly forget how my legs work.
She drags me through the mudroom, the smell of cut grass and detergent still lingering, and slams the door behind us with her foot.
She kisses me like she’s waited a year, not forty-five minutes.
Her lips are still cold from the night air, and her tongue is sweet with sour beer and cookies. It’s stupid how much I love her taste.
I push her back into the wall, more to stop myself from combusting than anything, and she makes a satisfied noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a growl. She threads her fingers through my hair, nails scraping the base of my skull in a way that makes me want to black out and ascend.
“You smell like sweat and Girl Scout cookies,” I say, kissing down the side of her neck, just below the line of her jaw.
“You smell like lust and car air freshener,” she fires back, panting a little as I bite her collarbone. She’s right, of course, and I would argue, but I’m too busy trying to get my hands under her shirt without ripping it.
We don’t make it past the foyer. Eden peels her own shirt off.
I take a second to appreciate her: chest pale from winter, freckles scattered like punctuation marks, nipples flushed deep pink and already stiff from either the cold or the situation.
She’s been running more lately, I can tell; the cut of her arms and the slight definition under her pecs evidence her inability to do anything halfway.
She watches me staring and tilts her head, tongue pressed into the inside of her cheek. “What’s your plan here, Bishop?” Her voice is soft but penetrating. “You gonna stand there all night or you gonna put those hands to use?”
I want to say something clever, but it comes out as a croak. “I’m thinking.”
“Don’t think,” Eden murmurs, stepping forward, her thighs bracketing mine.
She pushes me backwards until the backs of my knees hit the bench by the front door—the place where people are supposed to sit and remove their shoes, not get accosted by their wives.
She straddles me, hands on either side of my face, and kisses me again, this time so deep I forget my own name for a second.
She’s doing that thing where she grinds against me in slow, controlled circles, not quite enough to get either of us off but more than enough to make me see God. I dig my fingers into her hips and try to reverse our positions, but she clamps down with her thighs and laughs in my ear.
“Down, girl,” she says, voice low and gravelly. “You’re not driving anymore.”
We kiss until my lips are numb, and then she finally, finally lets me up.
I stand, hoisting her with me, her legs wrapped around my waist, and start for the stairs.
But she wriggles out of my grip and darts ahead, taking the stairs two at a time, leaving a trail of clothes behind her like breadcrumbs.
By the time I reach the bedroom, she’s already naked and sprawled on her back, arms behind her head, watching me with a look that could start wars.
I take my time undressing, mostly to regain a shred of composure, but also because I know it drives her crazy.
I catch her squirming, just a little, and it drives me insane to know what my body does to her still.
By the time I’m down to my underwear, she’s propped up on her elbows, feet planted on the mattress, knees spread just enough to let me know exactly how much she wants this.
“Come here,” she says, and I do. I always do.
I crawl up the bed, kissing her thighs, her hips, the delicate point of her hipbone.
She shivers every time my lips touch her skin, a tremor that starts at her ribs and ripples out.
I trail my mouth up, slow and teasing, mapping every freckle and scar, until I’m hovering over her, noses almost touching.
She cups my face, fingers gentle, and looks at me with a softness that almost undoes me. “You’re beautiful,” she says. “You know that?”
I can only shake my head. “You’re a charmer, Sawyer.”
She grins. “Maybe. But you’re still beautiful.”
And then we stop talking.
I kiss her again, this time softer, slower. I want to taste her, savor her, make up for every night we’ve both fallen asleep too exhausted to do more than murmur I love you into the dark.
My hands skim her ribs, counting them, then drift down to her hips, her thighs.
She arches up into me, restless and greedy.
I know every cue by heart—how she lifts her left leg first when she wants me between them, how she bites her lower lip when I get it just right, how her breath hitches when I graze the inside of her knee with my tongue.
I take my time, because it’s the only way to punish her for torturing me all the way home.
I start at her neck, working down in lazy, meandering lines, circling the spot where her shoulder meets her collarbone with my tongue until she moans.
Her hands find my hair again, tugging but not too hard, guiding me lower.
When I finally reach her breasts, I kiss one, then the other, swirling my tongue around her nipple until she’s cursing under her breath.
“Jesus, Sloane. You’re such a tease,” she gasps, but her hips are canting up, seeking friction.
“That’s what you get for torturing me for the past forty-five minutes,” I murmur, and bite her lightly, just hard enough to leave a mark.
She whimpers, then grabs my face and hauls me up for another kiss.
Her hands roam my back, nails leaving trails of heat, and then she hooks her fingers into my underwear and shoves them down.
I shiver when her fingers brush the outside of me, soft and quick.
She’s always known how to get to me, how to short-circuit my brain with just a touch.
But I want to make her wait. I slide down her body, kissing every inch, until I’m between her legs.
Her thighs tense on either side of my face, and I take a moment to inhale her scent—clean sweat, sharp and earthy.
I run my hands along her thighs, thumbs circling, feeling the way her muscles twitch under my touch.
I kiss her inner thigh, then higher, and when I finally taste her, she gasps and arches off the bed.
I work her slowly at first, using just the tip of my tongue, then faster, licking in the pattern I know makes her lose control.
Her hands dig into my hair, anchoring me in place, and her moans go high and desperate, punctuated by breathless laughter whenever I slow down to keep her on edge.
“Sloane, please,” she pants. “Don’t make me beg.”
“That’s literally all I want,” I say, mouth still pressed to her, and she shoves my face harder against her cunt, hips bucking.
I keep at it, relentless, until she’s swearing in three languages and shaking all over. When she comes, it’s loud and ragged, her hands fists in the comforter, head thrown back so far I worry she’ll pull something. She rides it out, hips rolling, breath coming in wild sobs.
I give her a minute, then crawl up and kiss her, slow and thorough. She tastes herself on my tongue and grins, lazy and cocky.
“Thought you’d be tired,” she says, voice rough.
“Adrenaline,” I reply, rolling her onto her side and spooning her from behind. She laughs, wriggling out of my embrace until she’s facing me.
“If you think we’re going to sleep right now, you’re out of your beautiful fucking mind, love.”
I bite my lip in anticipation. “Show me what you’ve got then, Sawyer.”
She snorts out a laugh before rolling away and off the bed. My eyes track her every step of the way until she reaches our chest of drawers. There’s only one reason she’d go there, and that’s for our strap. I can’t even remember the last time we used it. My birthday, possibly.
Eden opens the drawer, removes the harness and toy and immediately sets about fitting it to her lithe, gorgeous body. Goddamn, my wife is hot.
She looks at me over her shoulder with a wolfish grin as she cinches the last band of black webbing around her hips.
It’s the old harness, scuffed leather and silver D-rings that catch the bedside lamp’s glow—well-worn as a favorite pair of boots, and every bit as necessary for what’s about to happen.
She stands there for a second, hands planted on her hips, letting me appreciate her in all her topless, tattooed glory.
She’s flexing, putting on a show, and it’s working.
I can’t stop staring at the sharp cut of her hipbones or the glossy black shaft rising from between her thighs, cocky and comically oversized. She’s never been one for subtlety.
“Take a picture,” she says with a grin. “It’ll last longer.”
“I don’t need to,” I say, voice hoarse. “I’ll dream about this for weeks.” And I will.
She grins so hard I can see the flash of her canines.
Then, without warning, she’s on me again, hands bracketing my knees, opening me up with zero preamble.
I yelp and try to close my legs out of sheer surprise, but she pushes back, strong as ever, and slides her palms along the inside of my thighs.
“Jesus, Eden.”
“Don’t be shy,” she says with her signature grin. She runs a hand from my knee to my pussy and back again, slow and deliberate. “You’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.”
It should be embarrassing, being spread out like this, already slick and swollen and more than a little messy, but with Eden it’s never shameful.
She makes me feel wanted in a way that never tips over into neediness or pity.
She wants me because she cannot help herself, and that’s the only kind of love I ever trusted.
I hook my ankles around her hips and pull her closer. The silicone cock drags along my clit on its way down, a tease so perfect I grip the sheets to keep from crying out. She’s gentle at first, just rocking against me, kissing my belly, my sternum, the underside of my jaw.
But I’m greedy tonight, starved for her, so I dig my nails into her back and growl, “Stop screwing around and just fuck me, please.”
She lines up the head of the toy with one hand, the other braced on my hip, and pushes in without warning.
I gasp at the stretch—God, I’d forgotten how much I love that sweet, full burn.
She’s careful, but she doesn’t stop, not until she’s buried all the way inside.
I think my vision whites out for a second.
She holds still, just breathing with me, matching my exhale, kissing my throat where my pulse hammers out of control.
“Good?” she asks, even though she knows the answer through my body language.
For a second all I can do is nod.
“Good,” she repeats, and starts to move.
It’s not the way we did it at nineteen, all clumsy limbs and desperation. This is measured, practiced, like she’s mapped every nerve I own and knows how to play me like an instrument.
She rolls her hips in small, perfect circles, making sure every inch of the cock drags over the spot that gets me right on the edge. When she bends to suck my nipple, I lose my mind and arch up into her, mouth open on a whiny, ridiculous sound I couldn’t suppress if I wanted to.
Eden’s sweat is salty, her hair wild, her jaw set in concentration as she pounds me just a little harder. I wrap myself around her, clutching her back, digging my heels into her ass.
“Harder,” I manage, and she obliges, never breaking eye contact. I see myself reflected there: needy, greedy, beautiful.
When I shatter, it’s sudden and violent and makes the muscles in my legs seize and shake. Eden keeps fucking me through it, holding me tight, never letting me go until the quake passes and all I can do is whimper into her shoulder.
She waits a few seconds, then—because she’s Eden, and Eden always wants more of me—she kisses me slow and deep, rocking into me until my body reacts on autopilot.
It’s almost unbearable, too much, but her hands are gentle on my face and she whispers, “You’re so fucking perfect. I want to see you come again.”
I do.
After, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, not sure if I’m dead or if that bright white light is just the lamp.
Eden extracts herself, flops down beside me, and tugs the sheets over our tangled, sticky legs.
Neither of us says anything for a while. It’s just the hum of our breath, the cooling-off hiss of bodies returning to baseline. She finds my hand, holds it tight, thumb rubbing circles on my knuckles.
“You hungry?” she asks, after a while.
“Starved,” I reply. “But I can’t move.”
She kisses the sweat from my forehead. “Don’t worry, Bishop. I’ve got you.”
And she does.