Quickie

He relaxes, his eyes opening to look at me, hands still in my hair. “I want you to taste me,” he says. “Lick me clean.”

And even though I’m blushing, I do exactly as he asks. I don’t know if it’s the sensual promise in his eyes, the way my body feels on the brink of breaking into orgasm, or just that I desperately want to taste him for myself, but I do it. The salt of his cum and the taste of his skin mix perfectly, and I lick up every drop. I’m hot and embarrassed and aroused. Not to mention fucking married.

Will pulls me back up his body. “You’ve got a naughty mouth, wife.” The compliment makes me blush and smile, even if being called his wife is confusing and unreal. “Your turn.”

It’s not the first time I’m impressed by his strength. He lifts me up as if I weigh nothing, bringing my hips up and planting my pussy firmly over his mouth. He doesn’t waste any time, and the onslaught of his lips and tongue make me gasp. It feels like I’m on fire, pleasure licking its way up my limbs until I can’t see straight. Will focuses on my clit, swirling his tongue around it and bringing his lips in to suck just there. I have to reach out and grab the headboard to keep myself upright. And just when I think I’m almost there, he moves me again, pulling me higher, and suddenly his mouth and tongue slide down to my ass.

I gasp and try to lift myself away, but he doesn’t let me, his fingers only tighten on my legs. No one’s ever done this to me. I would have never let them. There are nerves waking up I never thought could be pleasured. Will’s tongue licks and probes, exploring, and he moves me, letting his tongue glide in strokes all the way from my ass to my clit. The swirl of sensation is too much, the combination bringing me to the edge. His lips seal over my clit again, and I have to close my eyes. I’m almost there, so close it feels like I can reach out and touch it.

Pleasure is ricocheting through me, that glorious countdown to the explosion. Will lifts me away from him for only a second. “You’re my filthy wife, aren’t you? My slutty little wife.”

His mouth crashes onto me again, and I’m so torn apart by the sensation that I can barely form words. “Yes.”

“Say it.” He freezes. I’m so close to finishing, to going over the edge that I moan. I move my hips to try to get closer to him, but it doesn’t work. He’s staring up at me expectantly, and I know that he won’t let me come until I say it. “I’m your filthy wife,” I say. It comes out breathless.

Will runs his tongue across me in one long, slow, lick, circling my clit until I come apart. Fiery pleasure rips through me, and I collapse down over him. He teases me with his mouth until I’m shaking, delicious bursts of pleasure accompanying every stroke. When the pleasure leaves, I’m panting and gasping. Will turns me over on the bed, stroking down my body with his hands before he kisses me. The taste of me is still on his tongue and it’s so strange and so fucking hot. “Maybe I’ll take you like that every morning,” he muses, lips now at my ear. “Or from behind. Or while you’re squirming underneath me. However it is, I plan on giving you thousands of orgasms in the future.”

I’m still blindsided by the idea that I’m bound to this man, even though the thought of thousands of orgasms doesn’t sound terrible.

“There are two bathrooms in the suite. You can use one and I’ll take the other,” he smirks, standing and showing off that gorgeous body and the fact that he’s fully hard again. “I’d offer to share, but I can’t seem to get enough of you.”

I nod, completely speechless. The view of his ass as he walks away toward the bathroom could win awards; it’s so good. God, what is happening right now? I flop back onto the bed and cover my face with my hands. Did I really get married? Is it legal? I mean, it’s a Vegas wedding. I didn’t think drunk marriages happened like this in real life. Only in romantic comedies and sitcoms. Couldn’t the people at the chapel or wherever the hell we got married tell that we were drunk? Or that I was drunk?

I get up and look around. My dress is tossed over a chair, which is different than what I remember, because the first time we had sex all our clothes ended up on the floor. There are the remnants of room service—champagne and fruit and what looks like part of a hamburger. I see my purse on the couch across the room and grab it. Fumbling around inside it, I pull out my phone. I don’t have the slightest clue what time it is.