Chloe #3
As if to reward me for the honesty, he scrapes his teeth lightly over the little nub, and I hiss out a breath, arching up hard against him.
“Fuck,” he groans, moving to the other side and giving it the same attention. His hands slide down my body as he does, fingers trailing over my stomach and hips and the tops of my thighs, touching everywhere.
Well, everywhere except where I really fucking need him to.
By the time he starts kissing his way back down my body, I’m breathing hard and squirming on the couch.
He presses his lips to my stomach, my hip, the inside of my thigh, moving with a patience that’s starting to feel like a very deliberate form of torture.
I can feel the warmth of his breath against my pussy before his mouth even makes contact, and my hips are already shifting toward him.
When he finally puts his mouth on my clit, every muscle in my body goes tight at once.
It’s different from earlier in the conference room. More intense, less restrained, like he’s decided he has more time now and can do exactly what he wants. His tongue moves in long, purposeful strokes, and I grip his hair with both hands and hold on.
“Oh my god, fuck,” I gasp.
He chuckles. “You can just call me Tristan. Or ‘husband,’ if you prefer. But if you want to call me your god, I guess I’d better give you something to pray about.”
He slides two fingers inside me and curls them forward, and my back comes off the cushions as my mouth drops open.
He keeps his tongue on my clit, circling and lapping, and the combination of sensations is enough to make my vision blur at the edges.
I give up on trying to muffle the breathless, desperate sounds I’m making.
There’s no point, since we’re at home—and besides, I’m not sure I could stop even if I tried.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against me, his breath warm. “Just like that. You feel so good.”
He works my pussy like he fucking owns it, his fingers curling on every stroke, and I can feel the pleasure building fast, something winding tighter and tighter in my core.
My thighs are shaking on either side of his head, my fingers twisting in his hair.
I’m grinding against his mouth, chasing the feeling, and he doesn’t let up, keeping his rhythm exactly where I need it.
“I’m… oh fuck, I’m—”
Before I can find the words for it, my orgasm hits, my whole body clenching and then releasing in waves that roll through me one after another.
My thighs clamp around his head as I cry out into the quiet living room, the sound of it mixing with the old Hollywood score still playing from the TV.
He keeps going, drawing out each surge of pleasure until I’m shaking and gasping, completely wrung out as I slump against the cushions.
He finally pulls back and looks up at me from between my legs, his face flushed, his hair mussed from my hands. There’s a gleam of satisfaction in his blue eyes, and I’m a little embarrassed to note that his chin is completely wet.
“Still feeling your ankle?” he asks. “Tell me the truth.”
I take stock as my pulse slowly returns to normal. The ankle is there, a dull throb at the edge of my awareness. “A little,” I admit.
“Got it.” He smirks and drops his head again.
My clit is sensitive from the first climax, and I gasp at the contact. He backs off a little, slowing down and building back up until I start to chase his touch again. Then he holds my hips and starts to eat me out in earnest again, as if he didn’t just do this already.
“Tristan,” I breathe, my fingers finding his hair again.
He hums against me in response and keeps going.
The second orgasm takes longer to build, which somehow makes it more intense when it finally arrives, cresting over me in a long, rolling wave that leaves me limp and boneless against the cushions.
I lie there staring at the ceiling, my chest heaving, my legs trembling, while he presses soft kisses to the inside of my thigh and gives me a minute to recover.
Then he starts again.
By the third time, I’ve stopped being embarrassed about the sounds I’m making.
By the fourth, I’ve stopped being capable of much coherent thought at all.
My body feels exhausted in the best possible way, every muscle worked past the point of tension into something loose and warm and heavy.
I’m dimly aware of the movie still playing, but I have no idea what scene it is.
“One more,” he murmurs against my pussy, and I make a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a groan.
“I… oh fuck, I can’t,” I tell the ceiling.
“You can.”
He drags his tongue slowly through my folds, and my hips rise to meet him without any input from me at all. He slides his fingers back inside me, curling them as he flicks my clit with his tongue. I can feel his breath when he speaks, his voice vibrating through me.
“Come on your husband’s face.”
It sounds like a command, but there’s an edge of something like a plea in the words. Heat spikes through me so fast it knocks the breath from my lungs, and I give him exactly what he wants.