38. Natalie

38

NATALIE

H is room looks like a hotel room, right down to the fancy turn-down service it’s received. I gaze at it dreamily from where I’m draped across his arms like some swooning heroine from yesteryear—which is not unlike how I feel. He may have put his dick away for the time being, but given I’m naked aside from my holdups and a worse-for-wear thong, I’m glad we didn’t encounter any members of his household staff during our dramatic journey upstairs.

My first impression of the room, perceived through my post-orgasmic haze, is less of the details and more of an overall impression that lighting, textures, and deep, moody colours have been expertly woven to balance sensuality with serenity.

In more basic terms, it’s the perfect space for Adam to fuck me into that very soft-looking mattress and then for me to recover in his arms.

He lays me on the bed. The sconces bracketing the fireplace are on, and the bedside lamps cast a rosy glow through their delicate pleated silk crinolines. The only other lighting comes from the picture lights illuminating several striking paintings that I bet cost a fortune.

But he’s looking down at me as though I’m by far the most priceless thing in this room. Under the heat of his gaze, I stretch like a cat.

He leans forward, planting his hands on the bed and looking me over. ‘Time to lose the thong.’

I scoff. I don’t think so. ‘Get those clothes off, mister, and then we’ll talk. Unless you really do have a hairy ba— eeek! ’ My words turn to a squeal as he makes a grab for my ankles and tugs me down the bed, towards him.

‘You’d better help me, then,’ he says, and I scramble to my knees at a speed that makes him chuckle. But I don’t care, because I’m finally, finally getting to unwrap my delicious present, and I couldn’t give a shit if his back was an actual pelt. (Well, maybe I would. But I’m pretty sure it’s not.)

He licks his lips and brushes his palms oh-so lightly down my upper arms as I undo his buttons. His shirt is so perfectly tailored to his body that I have a fair idea of what awaits, but I can’t wait to get my greedy little eyeballs and lips and hands on all that skin and hair and muscle.

Dear Lord. The sight of dark hairs appearing as I get his shirt open has my mouth watering. I tug his shirt tails impatiently out of his waistband and finish the job before reaching up. My palms go to his chest, to that warm skin and soft hair and hammering heart of his before I smooth the shirt off his shoulders with nothing short of reverence.

‘You’re so beautiful,’ I whisper, because he really is. His beauty is astonishing. Outrageous. That light tan, and those rounded shoulder caps, and the perfect dusting of dark hair that fans outwards from his breast bone to his nipples and then tapers south, cutting the most alluring line of symmetry between the defined slabs of his abdomen.

What hits me hardest, though, is the tattoo on his bicep. That rough, jagged E I spied when I found him asleep on my bed what feels like a million years ago spells ELLEN , and the sight of it makes me want to weep. I run my fingertips over it. Our eyes meet, and I hope mine tell him just how desperately sorry I am for his pain.

His shirt is still hanging from his wrists, and he holds his arms behind his back as he attempts to disentangle himself, Houdini-like, from his sumptuous cotton shackles, because his liberator is helplessly, hopelessly distracted.

A glance upwards reveals an expression on his gorgeous face that’s anguish and desire and disbelief all in one. I run my hands over his pecs, gliding them down his stomach, my fingertip tracing the darker hollow of his navel. I want to use this man’s torso as a pillow—a firm, hairy and decidedly soft-skinned pillow.

I follow my fingertip with a kiss to his navel. Mmm. So soft. But I’m going in. My hands halt on his belt buckle. I’ve already put a condom on him, and I’ve just had him inside me, for crying out loud, so it’s ridiculous, but I’m a little apprehensive. This time, I get to see it up close.

It’s hard again, which shouldn’t be a surprise. I’m sure Mr Adam Wright doesn’t indulge biological trifles such as refractory periods. I yank his belt buckle open and unhook the closure on the top of his trousers before lowering his zip and pushing them down. He’s freed his hands from his shirt, and he slides them both around my neck now, cradling my head as I run predatory palms over the fantastic bulk protruding from his black boxer briefs.

‘Not sure I’ve ever seen you so focused,’ he quips, but his voice is shaky .

I glance up at him. ‘You should show me your dick more often, then.’ A tug on his waistband has his beautiful cock springing free, right in front of my face, and oh sweet baby Jesus, it’s so bloody gorgeous as to be ridiculous.

‘I got it out just as soon as I was confident you wouldn’t take a bite out of it,’ he quips. ‘Though even last night, I couldn’t be one hundred percent sure.’

I grin up at him as I wrap my hand around it. ‘I’m way too self-serving to injure this thing. It’s my new favourite dildo.’ It’s a joke. I’ve never used a dildo. But I’m not telling him that.

‘Jesus,’ he groans. ‘When you say things like that, I—and fuck me, you really can barely get those little fingers around it.’

We both look down at where I’m holding him. I flex my fingers around his girth. I love this dynamic as much as he does: his size and mine. The fact that physically he overpowers me. It makes succumbing to him so much sweeter. I want him to cover my naked body with his and nail me to this bed with his dick.

‘Luckily, I have a mouth, too,’ I tell him, and I stoop so I can taste him.

I take that huge, smooth crown between my lips and slide my tongue along his slit, spreading the bead of precum that’s already appeared. This first touch has him groaning and sliding his hands through my hair again.

‘Your mouth feels so good on my dick,’ he hisses.

Good. I shift on my knees, crouching further so I can explore his underside. Cup the soft sac of his balls. Trace a line with my tongue up the big vein that runs along his length and then take all of that big, blunt head into my mouth. I suck decadently, loving the male taste of him, loving the feel of his velvety crown against my flickering tongue.

‘Good God, woman,’ he grits out. ‘Too fucking good.’ And then he’s pulling out of me and pushing down my thong with hooked thumbs and flipping me onto my back and crawling over me, kicking his trousers inelegantly off as he goes and reaching back to tug off his socks.

We’re here.

We made it.

I’m flat on my back on his enormous white bed, naked aside from my hold-ups, a gloriously, perfectly naked Adam ranging over me on hands and knees, his body huge and golden, the expression on his face almost worshipful as he gazes down at me, and that dick of his pointing straight at me like a loaded gun.

I can’t help it. I break out into a grin. ‘Come here.’

He smiles back at me as he lowers himself down on top of me, and God, the weight of him, and the sheer size of him, and the softness of his skin against mine—it’s all exquisite.

‘Am I too heavy?’ he murmurs, pushing up onto one elbow so he can brush some hair off my face.

‘No.’ I hook my fingers around his neck and tug him down. ‘I want all of you.’ I’ve wanted it like this for longer than I care to admit.

‘Okay then. Tell me if I’m crushing you.’

‘There are worse ways to die,’ I mumble as he flattens himself over me and presses his face into the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply into my hair. I raise my knees and wrap one leg around him as best I can, exploring the gorgeously bunched muscles of his arse with the sole of my foot. I want so much of this man. I want to get to know every single inch of him with my hands and lips and tongue—I may even indulge in a nibble here and there.

We lie there for a moment. My breaths are shallow—my lungs are far too squished under this enormous pile of man for proper inhales—but I may just be perfectly happy. Adam’s dick is pulsing, trapped between our stomachs.

He reaches one hand down to the leg I have propped up and gently traces the outline of my insulin pump, secured beneath my hold-up, with his fingertip. He may be obsessed with my blood glucose levels, for reasons I now understand far too clearly, but he gets my illness. There’s no awkwardness, no need for me to apologise for or explain away the funny little contraptions stuck to various sites on my body. As long as he’s confident I can withstand whatever delicious form of cardio he throws at me, he’ll embrace this aspect of me without question.

He raises himself back up onto his forearms and I gaze up at him, dizzy with desire and knocked sideways at the emotion this intimacy with him is prompting.

‘You tired?’

‘Nope. Absolutely not. Not even a little.’

‘Okay, then.’ He laughs and shifts his weight off me, and I pout.

‘I just want to see you better,’ he says, running his knuckles up over my pelvic bone and stomach to between my breasts with a touch so light it makes me shiver.

‘Ogle away. Believe me, I’m doing the same.’

He hesitates. ‘Will you let me tie you up? Just your hands—above your head. I want to do a lot of very bad things to you, and it’ll make it even more enjoyable for both of us if I have you restrained.’ He pauses, uncertainty written on his face. ‘Only if you trust me, that is.’