38. Layne

Chapter thirty-eight

Layne

W es tosses me onto the bed once we are up in the loft, then he starts shuffling around in his duffle bag. He digs around until he pulls out a black rope. Wes is still naked from the waist down and his hard cock is making my mouth water. He moves to the head of the bed, slipping the rope between the metal rods of the headboard.

“Scoot up, Layne,” he commands and I listen, scooting myself toward the headboard. I’m too turned on to act bratty right now. I need his hands on my body.

The rope feels silky against my wrists as he secures me. I pull and can’t slip out. His eyes darken, and the sound of his knife flicking open has me gasping. “Wes,” I narrow my gaze as he drags the blade down my shirt. He lifts the shirt and pierces a hole into the fabric, dropping the knife beside me, rips it up to my neck. My breasts are on display, my nipples already hard from arousal and the cold air. I’ve learned to just stop wearing bras around the house. Wes constantly cuts them off, and bras are extremely expensive, so I was constantly having to buy new ones .

“Do not cut these pants!” I growl, as his hand rested on the waistband of my jeans.

Wes chuckles, holding his hands up. “I wasn’t gonna, don’t worry.”

He slides my pants and underwear down, tossing them to the floor. Wes groans and moves to the foot of the bed, stroking his cock as he looks over my body. Without a word, he moves to the ladder and climbs down. “Excuse me, you gonna just leave me here?” I shout down at him.

“Maybe,” he shouts back. Sassy asshole. God, I love him.

I can make out the soft pull of the fridge door opening, then closing, and the sound of bags rustling. Wes emerges, climbing back up with a bag in hand. With the bag positioned on the floor, he takes a seat at the foot of the bed, ensuring that what he has inside remains concealed. After pulling his shirt over his head, he walks back to me and gently drapes it over my head. “No peeking,” he teases.

To satisfy the desire burning within, I adjust my position and tightly squeeze my thighs together, seeking some much-needed stimulation for my pulsing clit. When my husband teases, he does so relentlessly and without mercy.

“Baby, I need you to stay perfectly still,” he whispers urgently. Wouldn’t want you to ruin my dessert.”

“Okay,” I say, my words faltering as I try to keep my composure.

Heavily relying on my sense of hearing to guess what Wes is doing. I listen and the sound of a container being opened fills the air, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a sharp object cutting through something. There is no discernible scent. My mind is going a million miles per second with anticipation. A chill hits my skin as Wes places things on my chest and stomach. The small space reverberates with the sound of a cork popping. I know it’s not wine, both of us hate wine. It wasn’t a loud enough pop for it to be champagne.

“Open,” Wes purrs, his voice deep and husky .

I open my mouth for him. The feeling of him hovering over me has me panting, and when his lips touch mine then open, the smooth whisky seeps into my mouth. The smoky alcohol burns as it goes down, but tastes so much like Wes. Many nights I’d come home and kiss him. The flavor of whisky lingering on his lips. I groan into his mouth, my tongue reaching for his.

More, I need more of him.

“Do you want to watch me, baby? Or do you want me to keep your eyes covered?” He whispers, his lips on my ear.

“Both,” I pant, unsure of what I really want. I love the sensory deprivation of not being able to see.

Wes hovers over my chest, his warm breath fanning over my nipple before he draws it into his mouth. His tongue swirls round and round then gently sucks and nibbles, leaving me a moaning messing. My other nipple receives the same attention as he switches back and forth. My back arches off the bed to meet his mouth. Wes eases me back down. He releases my other nipple with a loud pop, then runs his tongue in between my breasts to eat whatever he placed down my sternum. The feeling of his warm, wet tongue on my cold skin has me dripping wet for him.

I feel liquid fill my navel and my body stills, so it doesn’t spill. Wes reaches up and removes his shirt from my eyes, blinking a few times to focus my eyes. I watch eagerly as he crawls over and sucks the whisky out of my navel. His tongue glides down. A slice of strawberry is at the top of my mound. With his eyes on mine, he uses his tongue to scoop it up. I swallow hard and stare into his eyes.

Fuck how did I get so lucky with him?

Wes climbs off the bed, reaching into the bag and pulls out a spoon and a pint of ice cream. Strawberry ice cream. His favorite. The lid comes off, and he dips the spoon in. Cold, melty ice cream drips from the spoon onto my mound. It runs down and the chill hits my clit, making me shiver. The cold cream has me gasping, “Oh, fuck.”

Wes works fast, crawling between my legs and licking up the melted cream. “Spread your legs for me, Ma Petite Mort. “ I let my thighs fall to the side and he buries his face in my pussy. Once he has cleaned that up, he smirks as his tongue swirls around my clit. A deep, satisfied groan escapes from his lips. He sucks my clit into his mouth, devouring me. The sensation of the cold ice cream and his warm mouth has me feral. I tug at the ropes, wanting to run my hands through his hair. To hold his face to my pussy and ride his tongue.

“Oh, fuck, Wes. Untie me. I need to touch you.” I whine, getting frustrated with his slow strokes.

Wes chuckles at my attempt to coax him to free me. “It’s no use, baby. You’re not going anywhere.” His tongue dips inside of me, licking up what has reached my entrance. He sits up on his knees and reaches over to the side. A whole strawberry in between his fingers comes into view. Wes dips the strawberry into the container of ice cream, swirling it around then instead of eating it, he drags it down my entrance, easing it inside of me. Wes removes it after fucking me with it a few times.

“Mmm,” he groans as he sucks my arousal off and pops the strawberry in his mouth. “Strawberries and your pussy are the best things I’ve ever tasted. I’d consider myself blessed if I could have you and strawberries every day, for the rest of my life” Wes leans back in and eats. Using his tongue to fuck me, gathering the remaining ice cream and my arousal up to my clit and inching me closer to orgasm.

My hips buck forward, and I grind against his tongue, needing release. “Come for me, Ma Petite Mort .“ The pulsing waves of my orgasm shatter me. My thighs quake around his head as I moan his name. His tongue keeps going with his soft, languid strokes until my panting subsides. I’m left in a quivering puddle. I look down at him, his face a sticky mess .

“Satisfied?” I say, breathless.

Wes bends down to lick up whatever is left on my skin. “For now.” He moves to my arms and begins untying me. With a furrowed brow, he checks my wrists to ensure the ropes haven’t left any bruises or redness. Only finding light red marks, with a gentle touch, he places a delicate kiss on each one. “Come on, baby, let’s get cleaned up.”

Once we are in the shower downstairs, cleaning each other up, he asks. “So, was it better than your book?” His eyes glinting with curiosity.

“Babe, nothing compares to you.” I lean in, wrapping my arms around his neck, and kiss him. The hot water is soothing on my back and shoulders, easing the tension from being tied up. We take turns washing each other up. After we’ve finish, we dry by the fire that Wes built in the woodstove. I sit on the floor in between his legs while he braids my hair, one of the little things that Wes does I adore. We switch places and I massage his shoulder so he can unwind. His playlist in the background plays “Carol of the Bells” from Bad Wolves.

This is already becoming my favorite holiday. Wes knows how to make everything perfect and so special. When we finally decide to go to bed for the night, I curl into his arms and fall asleep to the beating of his heart.