Page 65 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
“Shhh.” I press a kiss to her inner thigh, then return to her center, slower now, drawing it out. “Just take your time, Americana. We’ve got all night.”
And fuck, even that doesn’t feel long enough.
“Again, with the nickname! Can you call me something else?” she says, breath catching, fingers tightening in my hair.
She’s stalling.
I don’t have time for stalling.
I don’t have time for conversation.
I need to make her come.
I need to fuck my wife.
“Continue,” I command, my grip tightening on her thighs as I drag her back to my mouth—where she belongs.
She swallows hard, her voice trembling as she tries to speak through the storm I’m building inside her. “My twenty-first birthday,” she says. “It was rushed and painful and nothing spec—” Her voice shatters as I thrust my tongue deep inside her, fucking her with it, slow and unforgiving.
I explore every inch, tasting her, claiming her, pulling every truth from her body one gasp at a time.
“Declan,” she breathes, my name breaking apart on her tongue like it’s too much.
I glance up at her, locking eyes, holding her there with my hands, with my mouth, with everything I have.
She chokes out the rest. “It… it was nothing special.”
I pause just long enough to meet her eyes. “Good. Then let me show you whatspecialfeels like.”
She’s unraveling in my mouth, slick and trembling, her body arching into me like it belongs here—exactly here. And it does. I kiss her thighs, her hips, her belly as I rise to my feet, her legs still shaking.
She looks up at me, eyes glazed and lips parted, her chest heaving. I reach out and brush the wet strands of hair from her face, thenkiss her slow. Deep. She moans into my mouth, her taste still lingering on my tongue as I press her back against the tile.
“Are you ready for arealfirst time, Americana?”
She doesn’t answer—just nods, eyes wide, lips swollen. That’s all the permission I need.
“First,” I say, as I lift her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around my waist. “You’ll experience your first time being fucked in the shower,” I whisper, as I slide into her in one smooth, aching thrust.
Her head falls back, a sharp cry echoing off the walls as I start to move—measured, deep strokes that pull a different kind of confession from her now. Pleasure. Raw and pure.
“Hold on tight, my beautifulAmericana,” I growl, gripping her hips from beneath to anchor us both. “It’s been a while, and this first?” I growl as I thrust into her. Hard. “It’s for me. It’s mine too.”
The water pours down over us, steam curling around our bodies as we move in rhythm. Her hands clutch at my back, nails digging in. I drive into her against the wall, savoring every second, every pulse of her body around me.
“You feel that?” I breathe into her neck, my lips brushing her damp skin as I drive deeper, her body trembling beneath mine.
“Feel my body chasing your pleasure while being filled up at the same time? Feel me delivering my entire soul to you through each thrust?”
She whimpers, clinging to me like she never wants to let go.
“That’s what special feels like,” I growl, voice rough, rhythm never faltering. “This… this is how a husband fucks his wife.”
And then I give her everything—every inch, every ounce, every broken piece of me stitched back together in the heat of her body, the sound of her moans, the way she says my name like it’s hers.
She comes with a cry, her body tightening around me, and I follow with a low groan, burying myself as deep as I can go.
But we’re not done.
