His lips closing over one nipple while he rolls the other between his fingers draws a whimper from me and then a gasp.
It’s so intense, this pleasure, I find myself straining away from it. Not because it doesn’t feel divine, but because the human body cannot have been made to withstand this kind of sensual torture.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he blows the words over one damp, tight nipple when I squirm. “Stay put.”
“August.” My back arches when his lips wander between my breasts and track a line down the center of my stomach. He pauses at my belly, still flat, no sign of life from the outside view.
“Our baby’s here, Iris,” August says, his voice thickening with emotion. He glances up, his lips pressed to the sensitive skin covering my pubic bone. “How did that even happen?”
“How did it happen?” I spread my legs, rubbing my thigh against the smooth naked musculature of his back. “Should I refresh your memory on how we made a baby, Mr. West?”
His smile is strung together by lust and mischief.
“I think you should, Mrs. West.” He kisses my hip and lingers over my abdomen. “You know I forget shit.”
“Well, first there was a little of this.” I lean up until our lips are a breath apart, slide my fingers into the decadence of his thick curls, and tug until our mouths meet. We moan into the kiss, and he adjusts to rest on his elbows and takes my face between his hands, devouring me. His tongue is on an adventure, seeking out all my wild, untamed places. I answer with growls and bites and feral sounds as our tongues wrestle, wrangle. I lose the thread of time; lose myself in the kiss until the insistent throb between my legs reminds me of what I need.
“Now,” I say, breath labored like I’ve been running. “It takes more than a kiss to make a baby.”
“I’ve heard that,” August says, panting into the skin of my neck. “Tell me more.”
“Well there may have been a little of this, too.” I slide my naked body down the bed, his body a bridge of muscle and bone and taut, honeyed skin suspended over me. All along the way, I feather kisses over his nipples and the ridges of his abs, relishing his harshly-drawn breaths and the way his body clenches at my touch. When I reach his hips, I have no time for flirting and banter. I grip his ass, one cheek in each hand, and take his dick in my mouth. At this angle, with him over me, it’s like stuffing him down my throat. He’s in a position of power, and as soon as my lips close around him, he asserts that power. He leverages himself on one arm, on his elbow, but reaches with the other to tangle his fingers in my hair, angling my head so my mouth opens wider, takes more of him before I even ask for it. He pumps aggressively, like my mouth is my pussy. Like we’re having sex. All that power, all that dick, in and out with force down my throat. At first I’m not sure I can take it for more than a few seconds, but something unlocks inside me after the initial aggressive thrusts, and I want more.
I drop my jaw and open my throat until his balls are at my chin. I toggle them in my hands, my grip firm and sure. I want to undo him, the same way he undoes me every time we make love.
“Fuck, Iris,” he breathes heavily above me. “I can’t . . . shit.”
I slide my finger between the firm curves of his ass, insinuating my finger there. He goes still for a second, and I take advantage of his uncertainty, rubbing the puckered hole of his ass while swallowing every inch of my husband’s dick. I let him go with a pop and take his balls, one at a time, into my mouth, lavishing each one with my tongue and lips.
“Oh, my God,” he says over and over. “Iris, I’m gonna . . .”
I know he’s close, and I need him too badly to be completely selfless and let him come anywhere except inside me. There’s a fire traveling along my legs. I long to feel him stretching me. I release him from my mouth and turn onto my stomach. With the same stealth I slid down his body, I slide back up, until my back is pressed into his chest and my hips are aligned with him.
“I, uh, take it you want it from the back,” he laughs, chest heaving.
“Hard, please.”
He does not disappoint.
The first thrust pushes me up the bed, and I bury my face in a nearby pillow, angling my ass up for deeper penetration and also muffling the screams I know are forthcoming. We’re sweating and grunting and it’s so barbaric and beautiful, tears sting my eyes. My husband. My child growing inside of me. Our daughter in the room beside us. It’s too much. I’ve come too far. I’m too grateful, and even as his last thrust comes so hard I might happily split right open, the dam holding back my tears, breaks. I come and convulse and weep, all of it a culmination of the night and our entire journey.
“God, August,” I cry into the pillow. “I love you. Baby, I love you so much.”
One strong arm circles around my midriff to pull my back tighter to his chest. Once we’re both empty, done, he stands us on our knees. He’s still inside me, and I wish he never had to leave. He scatters kisses over my neck and shoulders.
“Thank you,” he mumbles. “For our baby, for Sarai, for loving me.”
His voice breaks, and I realize the dampness I feel is not our sweat, but his tears. He buries his head in my hair, dropping kisses in the thick tresses at my neck.
“You’re my world, Iris.” I hear him swallow deeply, gulping down the emotion to get the words out. “Do you really know it? That you’re the center of my whole world?”
He spreads his fingers over my belly, sniffs and kisses my ear. I link the fingers of one hand with his at my stomach and slide the other hand back and up into his hair and go limp against his chest.
“And you, August West,” I whisper, not bothering to wipe away my own tears. “Are the center of mine.”
Introduction
You must read BLOCK SHOT to appreciate this Christmas-themed bonus material. The events take place after the book.