“You’re so soft,” I growl into her, before shoving my whole face back in again like a fucking animal. “You’re so soft and you’re about to get even softer, aren’t you? About to make this place all swollen and slick for me?”
“I—” She can’t finish. But she doesn’t need to—a long, lingering suck on her clit sends her over the edge and she starts riding my mouth like she paid for it. I groan into her as she comes, as spots dance before my eyes, as my cock strains against the fabric of my trousers and tries to get closer to the person who really owns it.
“That’s one,” I say, pulling back the slightest bit to breathe in the Charlotte-scented air. Then I start in again, this time slowly teasing her sheath with my finger, playing with her inner folds and pressing gently against the edges of her until she’s trying to drop herself onto my finger, until she’s making mumbling, fussy noises as she chases my touch with her hips. Finally I indulge her whining and press all the way inside, pulling my mouth away so that I can look up at her as she writhes on my hand.
“You wish it was my cock, don’t you?” I say in a low voice. “You wish you were impaled on me, feeling every throb of me. Every inch of me.”
“Too many inches,” she complains, but the hitch of excitement in her voice betrays how little of a complaint it actually is. “You’re abnormal down there.”
“Built for you,” I say. The honesty and longing in my voice must tug at her, because she blinks down at me with those raincloud eyes. “Every part of my body was built for you.”
“You don’t believe that,” she says, but she sounds a little uncertain. “You don’t believe in those kinds of things.”
“I do now,” I whisper, leaning back in to kiss around my finger as it works inside her. “I do after the last four years without you.”
“As if you’ve been pining. Please.” She tries to scoff, but it’s at the same time I add a second finger, and so it comes out as a moan instead.
I’m not wounded by this, but only because there’s nothing left to wound. I close my eyes and rest my forehead against her stomach. “I can’t sleep,” I confess, my lips brushing against her intimate skin as I talk, as if I’m confiding into her body. “I can barely work; I can barely even toleratethinkingabout work because it reminds me of you. I had to stop drinking because I drank too much with you gone. And I hate every person I see that isn’t you.”
“Except for the people you fuck.”
It’s a fair comment—before her, fucking was as necessary to me as eating, as digging—and my particular tastes usually entailed transactional liaisons with a myriad of partners. When one wanted to be worshipped in bed, one had to be careful only to find lovers who wanted to worship. Or more plainly put, I only inflicted myself on the willing. Those people whose tastes matched mine. But then I met Charlotte, and Charlotte became my taste, she become the only taste worth having.
“I haven’t fucked anyone in four years, Charlotte. Since the day I met you, you’ve been it for me. Even in your absence, you’ve been it.”
I say this into her skin, breathing the truth into her secret places as I continue to fuck her with my fingers, but she still hears me. She uses her fingers in my hair to pull my head back so she can search my face.
“What about your date at the gala?”
“A colleague.”
“She kissed you.”
I lift up a shoulder as I stare up at her. “Katie would like there to be more between us, but there’s not. I don’t push her away in public so I can spare her the embarrassment, but I’ve made it very clear that’s all she can expect from me.”
“I don’t believe you,” she says, but I know she does, I know the truth of it is etched into every part of my face.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, looking up at her. “Whether you believe it or not, it’s true. I was, am, and will always be your temple. Body and mind.”
I don’t give her a chance to argue about this; instead, I prove my words true by kissing her and then teasing her with my tongue as I work my fingers inside her. I prove my words by drawing another culmination from her adorable, half-uniform-clad body.
I prove to her that our bodies know things our minds don’t.
She arches her back as she comes, her ponytail swishing against the wall as she thrashes through it, and before she’s even finished contracting on my fingers, I start up again, sucking on her juicy little bud until I can practically feel it throb on my tongue. Throbbing in time to the urgent ache in my cock, which is beyond hard at this point. Tasting her, smelling her, having her slickness all over my fingers...watching that flush crawl up her neck as she comes...
I have to close my eyes as her third orgasm peaks, because otherwise I’ll orgasm too. I might do it anyway, even with my eyes closed—the slightest contact from my trousers against my swollen tip has me rocking my hips—because it’s just too much to be tasting her and fingering her all at once. Too much to hear her low cries and gasps.
“One more,” I say. “Give me one more.”
She’s still clamping down on my fingers from the last one, and she tries to push my head away from her. “No,” she moans. “I can’t. I can’t take it.”
“You will,” I growl. I draw a finger through her pouty seam, and then use the gathered slickness there to press against the pleated rim behind her pussy. “You’ll give me my last orgasm, little one. You’re through running from me.”
The moment my finger breaches her tight rear entrance, she lets out a ragged sob. “Church,” she chokes out. “Church.Fuuuuck.”
She’s filled in both channels now, stretched around my knuckles as I kiss her everywhere, as I use my tongue on her plump button and on the sensitive petals gloving my fingers. “Keep saying my name,” I order her, chancing a look up to see her staring down at me in flushed, rumpled awe. Awe that shoots through my veins like a drug, a pure dose of heady worship going right to my heart and then back out to every square inch of me, sizzling through my bloodstream until my very skin is on fire with it.
“Church,” she breathes. “Church.”