When I make it to our bedroom, I’m still considering her heavy workload, the time she devotes to our kids, and most of all—most selfishly of all—how little time I’ve had with her since Martin was born.
Those thoughts fly away on a horny breeze when I see Bristol naked in Lotus pose in the middle of our bed. Her breasts are bigger. Ass is fuller. She’s always been slim, and still is, but there’s a ripeness to her body after Martin that is sexy as fuck. She keeps trying to Pilate it away and yoga it off, but I love it.
“Did Martin wake up?” she asks.
Our bedside lamps casts light over the supple lines of her body, showing me the wide, sensual curve of her mouth. The thick, rosy lips exposed between her legs. The delicately muscled plane of her stomach. The small scar from the C-section she had with our first child.
“He’s asleep, yeah.” I stand at the side of the bed and brush my thumb under her eyes, evidence of just how hard she’s been working and how little rest she’s getting. “Which is what you need to do.”
I should let her sleep. Guilt reaches every part of me . . . except my dick, which obstinately remains erect, undaunted and unsoftened by guilt.
“What I need to do,” she says, eyes locked with mine while her hand latches on to the pole poking through my briefs, “is take care of my husband.”
I haul air through my nostrils and expel it harshly through my mouth at her touch. I train my eyes above tit level because, if I look any lower, I’ll be all over her, all up in her, ramming from behind, from the side, from any angle I can get it.
Don’t look down. Don’t look down.
I mentally repeat the mantra like I’m walking a tightrope.
“I’m all right, babe.” I lie through gritted teeth. “Really. Get some sleep.”
Disappointment flashes across her pretty features, quickly followed by determination. She leans back on one elbow and spreads her legs, slipping a hand between them.
“You go on to sleep, Grip,” she says, dropping her head back and moaning. “I’m just gonna come at least once before I turn in.”
Motherfucker.
Literally.
Without acknowledging her dirty trick, I grab behind her knees and drag her to the edge of the bed. Her husky laugh floats around us in the dimly lit room.
“Changed your mind?” Her eyelids fall to half-mast over smoky gray eyes.
“You changed it for me,” I reply, tipping one side of my mouth. “Touching my pussy.”
“Your pussy?” A lift of her brows challenges my possessiveness.
I shrug and drop to my knees, putting my face on level with the pussy in question.
“You be the judge,” I say before lowering my head, widening her thighs with a press of my hands, then spreading her lips with my fingers and burying my tongue in her wetness.
We both groan.
There is nothing like this pussy. I run my nose along the slick slit before swiping my tongue through her juices.
“Oh, good Lord,” Bristol breathes, rolling her hips into my greedy mouth. “Fuck, yes, Grip. Don’t stop.”
To quote GRiZMATiK . . . as we proceed.
Two fingers plunge inside, and I suck on her clit. She bucks against my face and loops her long legs over my shoulders, digging her heels into my back. I tug until her ass hangs just off the bed and she’s supported by the grip I have on her thighs. I devour her, table manners discarded. Grunting, slurping. She comes once, and I want seconds.
“Grip, stop!” She gasps. “I can’t take . . . please.”
“Whose pussy is it, Bris?” I ask, biting one plump lip and then the other.
Silence. Stubborn woman makes this so much damn fun.
I apply my mouth with more enthusiasm, and then run my thumb through the wetness before plunging it into her ass to the knuckle.
“Ahhhhhh! Shit!”
Her scream pierces the quiet. With my thumb working her ass like a job, I reach up to cover her mouth.
“Whose pussy, Bris?” I demand, my tongue darting into one hole and my thumb fucking the other.
“Y-yours,” she mumbles under my hand, the word breath-starved and choppy. “It’s your pussy.”
I plunge my thumb in deeper until my palm touches her ass, and she bucks wildly, her hand gripping the back of my neck and holding me in place while she thrusts against my lips. Once the tremors racking her body die to twitches and her moans settle into tiny whimpers, I carefully lift her, taking her place on the edge of the bed and turning her to spread her thighs over mine. She snuggles into my neck, the scent of her skin and shampoo mingling with the sweet muskiness covering my face and coating her thighs.
“Holy shit,” she says, her deep-throated chuckle rumbling into the curve of my neck and shoulder. “I can’t think straight. Did you suck my brain out when you were down there?”
“Focus. I think you mentioned something about taking care of your husband.” It’s my turn to lean back on one elbow. I gesture to the briefs I’m still wearing and the obviously eager erection straining to get out and in.
“It’s all coming back to me.” She shoots me a mischievous glance from under long, curly lashes.
“If it ‘comes’ any louder, you’ll wake the neighbors and the kids,” I warn her, my grin smug. “And the way I feel right now, Martin will just have to cry until Daddy’s done.”
“Ah, speaking of Martin,” she says, her smile and the look in her eyes devolving into something baser.
My dick gets even harder. She grins. She knows. She leans up and cups her breasts, her thumbs stroking the fat nipples.
“You can taste. It’s just us, Grip.”
She caresses her breasts in hypnotic circles, and I’m mesmerized by how the nipples peak and harden. I grip her back, my fingers meeting on her spine, and I pull her breasts to my face. They’re slightly damp when I pull one into my mouth and suck so hard that she draws a sharp breath above me, but I don’t stop. I find a rhythm, my mouth and tongue and teeth cooperating to get what I want. When a few drops of her milk hit my tongue, it drives us both into a frenzy.
“That is so fucking hot,” she gasps, scrambling to get my briefs down and off before she scoots as close as possible on my lap, the smooth skin of her thighs dragging over the rougher skin of mine.
She holds my cock in her hand, fisting it tight, pushing up and down, her thumb caressing the head.
“Don’t play with it, babe,” I say abruptly. “Take it.”
I need to feel her tight and wet and hot around me. Beyond the horniness—which let the record show, is at an all-time high—I need that connection. The one we’ve forged through years, through pain, through unimagined highs and heart-crushing lows. So much in our lives is changing, but this never does. This scorching slide of her flesh on mine, of her taking me in so tightly, is a sweet chokehold on my cock that makes me hiss. I would know this pussy in the dark. I could be blind and half-dead, and you couldn’t fool me with another woman. Just this one. This fit. This perfect friction. The grooves of our souls fit as tightly as our bodies do.
Her forehead drops to mine, panting breaths misting my lips while she rides me, her arms hooked behind my neck. The pace grows more frantic as I thrust up aggressively, meeting her pussy halfway. I grab her ass cheeks, spreading them and taking over the rhythm so I can slam her body down onto mine over and over, deliberately. We’re grunting, rutting animals mindlessly taking our pleasure by force. Our guttural sounds bounce off the walls. Bristol’s head tips back and then down, tears sliding over her cheeks and onto her bouncing breasts. I lean forward, lapping at the mixture of her milk and her tears before sucking her nipple hard. Biting her breast hard.
“Grip!” Bristol comes like a rocket, flattening her hand against my chest for support.