Chapter 41

Vivian

He nibbles on my lower lip, and when my lips part, he thrusts his tongue inside my mouth. He deepens the kiss, until I melt into him.

He sucks on my tongue, and draws from me, until I whine and press myself closer. Then he slows the kiss. "Remember our wedding cake?"

"Wh-what?" I flutter my eyelids open.

"The wedding cake, baby." A wicked look comes into his eyes. I know then, he's talking about something filthy. Something naughty. Something kinky involving a wedding cake? Ooh. A thrill of anticipation tightens my muscles. I manage to keep the eagerness off my features—if he realizes I'm looking forward to it, no doubt, the bastard will stop himself from sharing it with me. I know his games enough to not reveal my excitement—so instead, I scowl. "What about it?"

"You're going to be wearing it."

Excuse me! Did he just say—? Nah, not possible.I don't need to pretend the surprise which makes me stutter, "Y-You mean, eating it, don't you?"

The smirk on his features widens to a grin. "I mean, wearing it," he clarifies.

"Wait, what?" I center my scrutiny on his eyes. There's an evil gleam there, combined with a hint of humor. Whatever this idea is, I'm not sure about it. "What are you up to?" I scowl.

"Gonna introduce you to a new kink, baby."

"A new kink?" I swallow. OMG! The thought of discovering a new kink with my new dominant husband lights up my nerve-endings like it's the fourth of July and Christmas and my birthday, all rolled into one. But also, a new kink involving a cake? Umm… I'm not sure about that.

"Ever heard of cake sitting?"

"Eh?" My frown deepens.

"It's exactly what it sounds like."

No… What? He doesn't mean—I gasp as he lowers me onto our wedding cake.

"What the hell?" I writhe and try to push off the gooey, mushy mix, which rubs up against my butt and gets into the holes and crevices where it has no business being. "What are you doing, Quentin?"

"What better way to enjoy my wedding cake than by licking it off my wife's pussy."

The flesh between my legs convulses, and my belly bottoms out. Those filthy words of his kindle fiery stings of delight through my blood. Goosebumps pepper my skin. He's going to eat me out? He's going to smear my wedding cake in between my legs and slurp it up with that wicked tongue of his?

"Raise your arms," he orders.

His bossy voice ignites a million little fires in my blood. As if he senses it, silver flames roar to life in his gaze.

But I'm not prepared for the alacrity with which he pulls off the shirt I'm wearing and flings it aside. I squeak. The air hits my breasts, and my nipples tighten into rigid points. He reaches out and tweaks one, and I whimper.

He glances down at my core. "Part your legs."

I do. The cake squishes and gives. The icing sticks to my skin. It's soft and wet and cool and smushy… and strangely, erotic. A buzzing sensation permeates my skin. It's exacerbated by the fact he's staring down at my pussy.

He flattens a palm to the space between my breasts and applies pressure. I lay back, and when he balances the soles of my feet on the edge of the island, I feel dirty and exposed, and way more aroused than I should be.

It might have to do with the way his features flush, or the way his breath quickens and his nostrils flare. "Fuck, if you could see yourself, Raven. Those pink pussy lips covered with cake, and your swollen clit wearing a crown of cream—not even my most erotic dreams could compare to this."

He sinks to his knees, and when I try to squeeze my thighs together, he wraps his big palms around them, so I have no choice but to hold them apart.

He lifts his gaze to mine and, without breaking the connection, begins to lick the cream up the side of my inner thigh, then the other. I shudder, my bones turning to jelly. Each time he comes close to my pussy, only to move away, I whine. He laughs.

The vibrations travel up to the knot in my belly, which tightens. "Damn you, Q," I huff, then groan when he blows gently on my pussy. It sets off tiny sparks of lust though my body. I writhe and push up my pelvis, chasing his wicked tongue.

"What do you want, baby?"

"You know what I want."

"Say it aloud."

I open my mouth, but before I can speak, he drags his whiskered jaw up my inner thigh. Sweat breaks out on my brow. I slam my palm down onto the platform. "Ohmigod, please, please, Q."

"Please what?"

"Please eat me out, please put your tongue inside my?—"

I cry out as he licks up my pussy lips, then curls his tongue around my clit.

Also, did those filthy demands come out of my mouth?He's changing me already. Turning me into a woman who revels in her need for the more explicit when it comes to sex with him. He attacks my flesh with gusto, and when I think I can't bear it anymore, he stuffs his tongue inside the puckered hole between my ass cheeks.

"Quentin!" He's done this before, and it still shocks me that it feels so good. I don't think the innocent me from a month ago could have fathomed how erotic it is when he licks up the cleavage between my ass cheeks. And I like it. I like it so much. More than I want to admit. I want to hate how much I like it, especially since it's a part of my body that should not be a source of such pleasure. But how can I, when it feels so good?

I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on the sensations. My pussy clenches down, and my toes curl. The vibrations race up my legs, coalescing in my center. "Oh God, I'm going to?—"

He removes his tongue. I sense him reaching over to grab the bottle of olive oil. He uncaps it and pours a thin stream between my arse cheeks. What the—? So that's what he needed it for? He's nothing, if not well-organized. I know what he's going to do next, but I can't stop the shudder when he returns. The next moment, something big and blunt nudges at my back hole. I crack open my eyelids to find him hovering over me. Sweat beads his shoulders, and his eyes are the pale blue of a chilled mountain stream.

He kicks his hips forward and slips past the ring of muscle. I open my mouth to cry out, but no sound emerges. He's filling me up in a way nothing has done before. The burning sensation is half-pain, half-pleasure. It ebbs away to be replaced by something thick and dark, an edgy heaviness that tugs at my nerve-endings and stings my flesh. Yet, below that is a tightness which winds my body, squeezes down on my pussy, and turns my chest into a maelstrom of sensations I can't quite comprehend. He pulls out of me, stays balanced on the rim for a second, then pushes in with enough force, the entire island seems to shudder. He bottoms out, touching that sensitive spot deep within me. It sets off reverberations that sweep up my body.

"Hold on," he growls.

I barely have the chance to register his words when he begins to fuck me in earnest. The sucking sound my body makes when he pulls out, followed by the slap of his balls against my butt as he pistons in, is a filthy, yet erotic, soundtrack. He holds my gaze, an order in his eyes to keep mine open. And I oblige.

I'm being consumed by him, surrounded by him, fucked by him. I feel like I'm losing myself and I"m unable to stop it.

"I want you to come as much as you can, show me how much you like it, like the good girl you are," his words drive me over the edge. And when he brings his hand between us and pinches my clit, I instantly orgasm.

I hear someone screaming and realize it's me. As my climax wracks my limbs, he pulls out. He squeezes his cock from base to tip, and with a groan, spills his cum across my breasts, stomach and pussy.

The sight of his fierce gaze, combined with his hoarse cry, is my last recollection before I give in to the darkness.

I'm dimly aware of him gathering me in his arms, of him moving. Then the spray of warm water on my body. I half open my eyes and realize he's holding me up in the shower. I cuddle into him, let him dry me, then lift me up and put me to bed.

He slides in next to me and pulls the covers over the both of us. He turns me on my side, then curves his body around mine.

Then he kisses the top of my head. "Was it good for you? Did you like it, baby?" His voice rumbles up his chest, sending pleasant reverberations across my skin.

My eyelids flutter down, but I manage to nod. "I loved it," I mumble truthfully.

He tucks my head under his chin, wraps his heavy arm about my middle, and by God, I think I could come all over again from this feeling of security engulfing me. Then the needy part of me, the part that wants to make him happy, rises to the fore and I ask, "Was I a good girl for you?"

He chuckles, the sound so delicious, it settles in my bones, and in my cells, and in those secret crevices on my body only Q knows. "You've been such a good girl, and you took me so well. You deserve to be held and snuggled as you sleep."

A smile curves my lips. I'm about to drift off. Perhaps, it's being in this half-asleep, half-awake state that loosens my tongue enough to remark, "I think you'll look even more devastating if you grow out your crew-cut."

I sense his surprise, then he rumbles, "Would it make you happy if I did, little Raven?"

"Very much." I yawn. He sounded so... tender there. Like he'd do anything I ask of him. Damn, these orgasms not only make my pussy very happy but they also confusing my brain. "Goodnight, Q," I whisper.

I am aware of him wishing me goodnight in that deep, dark voice of his as I drift off to sleep.

For the next three days and nights, Q makes love to me. Yes, he also fucks me with a relentless attention to detail, where he ensures every hole in my body is his. But in between, there are occasions where he takes me slowly, tenderly, while looking deeply into my eyes. There are occasions where he ties me up again, other occasions where he bends me over the settee in the living room and fucks my ass. Then, there's the time he screws me against the glass walls of his conservatory with the rain pattering against it on the other side. And there's the other time in the kitchen, in his garden among the jasmine flowers, on our bed, in the bathtub again, the time he simply throws me down on the carpet in front of the massive, lit fireplace and makes me orgasm as soon as he enters me.

My body is an instrument he's tuned to respond to his slightest command. I lose count of the number of times he makes me come.

I get used to this floaty, bubbly feeling that fills my blood. I get used to the ache between my legs that signals I'm well fucked. I forget to wear clothes—why should I? When he's going to tear them off me. Good thing we're so well stocked up and he's a good cook because I'm in a sexual haze and about all I can manage is to eat the food he puts in front of me before he fucks me again.

If there are times when I spot him watching me with a strange look in his eyes, I put it down to him getting used to the idea of us being married. After all, it's difficult to think of anything else when he follows it up with trying out another sexual position. The days meld into nights. When I wake up on the morning of the fourth day, the sun is bright outside.

I realize I'm alone in bed—which hasn't happened since that first morning here. My heart somersaults into my throat. A ripple of apprehension zings up my spine. For some reason I panic even more than I did the last time... then turn to find he's watching me. There's a tray of food on the bed stand next to me. His brow is furrowed, his jaw hard.

But in his eyes, there's worry.

Also, he's shaved—which he hasn't for the past few days. And he's wearing jeans and a chambray shirt. He's only worn a pair of grey sweatpants and kept his torso bare all the time we've been here.

"What's wrong?" I sit up in bed. "What time is it?"

"It's three p.m."

"Three p.m.?" I gape. "You mean I slept away the morning?"

I expect him to smirk and say something to the tune of he no doubt wore me out with his ministrations. Instead, he straightens and places the breakfast tray on my lap. "You need to eat."

"But I want to know why you're dressed?" I cry.

"And I'll tell you, but eat first." The command in his voice insists I obey him. Besides, the scent of the food tickles my nostrils and makes me realize how hungry I am.

I dig into the pasta, and the tangy flavors of tomatoes, combined with the acidity of sautéed garlic and the creaminess of mozzarella cheese, coat my palate. "This is so good," I groan. I polish off a few more mouthfuls, then look up to find him watching me with heat in his eyes.

"What?" I snatch up the napkin from the tray and wipe at the edges of my mouth.

He shakes his head. "I like seeing you eating the food I cook." There's a hint of possessiveness and satisfaction in his voice.

"You're a caveman."

"I like taking care of you."

"I like you taking care of me." I dip my head, not sure why I feel so shy. "In fact, one of my favorite images is of you wearing an apron and cooking for me. It's so sexy."

His smile widens at that. Once again, I expect him to say something that'll build on the sexual tension simmering between us, but when he doesn't, I realize whatever is on his mind is worrying him more than he's letting on.

I concentrate on the food, and when I'm done, drain the glass of water. He removes the tray to the bedside table and stands. When he holds out his hand, I take it, and he urges me to my feet.

He runs his gaze down my body and his jaw tightens. "I wish I could stay but I need to get back to town."

"You do?" My stomach sinks.

"Karma West Sovrano?—"

"The designer?" I frown.

He nods. "She's my friend Michael's wife."

"Summer told me." I nod. "She's recovering from the birth of her second child."

He doesn't seem surprised that I know that. He runs his fingers through his hair, and a worried look enters his eyes. "I got a call from Summer that Karma's taken a turn for the worse. It's serious enough that I'd feel better if I go to see her."