Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91783 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
As I reach the edge of her lace panties, I don’t move them immediately. Instead, I press my face against the fabric, inhaling the scent of her arousal. She lets out a whimpering moan, her fingers tightening in my hair, pulling me closer. I let her think she’s in control for a moment, then I shift. I reach up, my hand sliding from her hip to the back of her head, my fingers weaving firmly into the thick locks of her hair.
With a sudden, deliberate motion, I grip her hair and pull back gently but firmly. Her head tilts back, exposing the long line of her throat, and a soft, broken cry escapes her lips. The shift in power is instantaneous. The desperation in her eyes changes from a request to submission. She knows this grip; she knows that, when I hold her like this, her only job is to feel and obey.
“Stay still,” I murmur against her skin, my voice a low growl that vibrates through her.
I slide the lace aside, exposing her glistening pussy to the cool air. She shudders, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. I don’t dive in. I start by teasing the outer lips with the tip of my tongue, flicking lightly, barely touching her, just enough to make her writhe beneath me. She tries to arch her back, to push herself against my mouth, but I tighten my grip on her hair, anchoring her in place.
“I told you to stay still,” I whisper, though my tone is thick with desire.
I watch her face—the way her eyelids flutter, the way her lips part. She is completely undone, trembling under the weight of my control. Finally, I let my tongue slide upward, swirling firmly around her clit. She lets out a loud, uncontrolled moan, her fingers clawing at the sheets. I begin to suck, a slow, rhythmic draw that pulls the sensation deep into her core.
I can feel her pulsing against my tongue, the heat of her radiating upward. I alternate between long, sweeping licks and sharp, insistent suctions, savoring the taste of her and the sound of her breaking. Every time she tries to move, to chase the pleasure, I give her hair a small, corrective tug, reminding her who is directing this dance.
She is a mess of shivering nerves and wet heat, her breath hitching in a rhythmic cadence that matches my tongue. I move lower, teasing the entrance of her pussy with the tip of my tongue, dipping inside just far enough to make her gasp before retreating. I want her on the very edge, hovering in that space where the pleasure becomes almost unbearable.
I can feel the tension building in her thighs, the way she’s beginning to shake uncontrollably. I increase the pressure, my tongue working with a focused, dominant intensity, driving her closer and closer to the brink while maintaining that firm, controlling hold on her hair.
When I stand, she’s already pulling at my belt. Her hands are shaking. Mine aren’t steady either. I push inside her and her whole body tightens around me, her heels locked behind my back, her nails cutting into my shoulders. I hold still for a second. Just one. Just to feel her. She bites my lower lip and pulls, and that’s the end of holding still.
The table scrapes against the floor. Her hand knocks a fork off the edge. I grip her hip with one hand and brace the table with the other, and she meets every thrust with her own rhythm, the one we’ve built over decades. She pulls me closer by the back of the neck, breathes hard against my ear, and tells me not to stop. She doesn’t realize I never want to stop.
She finishes first. I feel it run through her whole body. The clench, the shudder, her breath catching high in her throat. She holds my face and watches me with half-closed eyes while I follow her, and when I do, she pulls me down against her and wraps both arms around my head and holds me there while my breathing comes apart.
We stay like that. Her heartbeat against my cheek. My weight half on her, half on the table. The grandfather clock in the living room ticking, reminding us that time is never on our side anymore.
She’s leaning back on her palms, still on the table, her blouse open, her hair falling out of the clip. I’m standing between her knees with my forehead against hers, both of us breathing hard. Her cheeks are flushed. Her lips are swollen. She looks wrecked in the best possible way.
“Welcome home,” she says.
I laugh against her mouth. Kiss her once more, soft this time. Brush her hair back behind her ear.
“I’ll clean up the glass.”
“You’d better. I’m not moving.”
I pick the broken stem off the floor and wipe the wine from the tile while she watches me from the table, still half-dressed, legs swinging off the edge. She looks twenty years younger in this light, exactly how I see her.