Page 63 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
She reaches for the hem of my black t-shirt.Only the best wedding attire for my American girl.And I break the kiss just long enough to lift my arms and let her peel it over my head.
Her breath catches. “Wow.”
I tilt my head, smirking. “What?”
“Tattoos,” she murmurs, like she’s just stumbled across a treasure map.
“You’ve never seen a man with so many tattoos?”
She shakes her head, her fingers moving, drawn to the ink on my chest like it’s telling a story only she’s meant to read. Her hands trace the designs sprawled across my chest, the words in Italian wrapped around ribs and muscle, inked memories of places,people, promises. Some of them broken. Some of them keeping me standing.
She doesn’t ask what they mean. Not yet. She just touches, explores, and I let her. Because in this moment, she isn’t just learning my body. She’s reading parts of me most people never bother to ask about.
I hold my breath, silently begging her not to stop.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she rises slowly, her lips brushing across my stomach. My fingers slide into her hair on instinct, anchoring me to the moment as her tongue trails a line down my torso.
She's undoing my jeans with practiced fingers, and suddenly I’m thrown—off balance, out of control. Like a kid fumbling his first time, desperate to make sure this isn’t too much. That she’s still with me.
The zipper eases down and I catch her wrist, stilling her. I tilt her chin so her eyes meet mine.
“Is this okay?” My voice is rough. “Do you want this?”
She smiles and it melts every goddamn nerve in my body. “I love how attentive you are. Making sure I’m okay,” she murmurs, brushing her lips over my hip as she tugs at my pants.
I’m left in nothing but boxer briefs, my erection straining against the fabric. My beautiful bride eyes me like she’s about to wreck me.
Then—Jesus—she runs her teeth over my dick through the cotton. Playful.Dangerous.
“For someone who wouldn’t normally do things like this, you are excellent at teasing me. Toying with me.”
She does it again, this time using her hand to squeeze where her teeth just were.
My hand fists tighter in her hair. “Fuck, Americana…Would you believe I imagined you…like this…the second I heard your voice?”
She looks up, eyes heavy, lips parted. “You hadn’t even seen me.”
“Some things,” I say, brushing her cheek with my thumb, “you just feel.”
She drags my briefs down and when I spring free, she gasps.
“Wow.”
I grin. “You say that a lot.”
She leans in, and my beautiful wife licks the moisture at the tip and my entire body shudders. I groan, jaw tight, and catch her before she can take more of me.
It kills me to stop her.
Every instinct is screaming to let go, to give in, to hand her everything—deep and raw, until there’s not a breath, not a thought, not a single inch of space between the tip of my dick and the back of her throat.
But not yet.
I want more than her mouth.
I wanteverything.
