His forefinger teasingly circled her entrance, then trailed to her clit. He stroked slowly around and over the spot, flicked and pressed, and she couldn’t hold back a rough, raw sound of building pleasure.
“There, huh?” He sucked hard at the base of her neck, and the pressure, the sting, arrowed straight between her legs and made her jerk against the wall. “Got it.”
Her brain full of nothing but light and static and need, she released one hand’s trembling grip on his soft tee and groped blindlybetween them. Slid her arm between their soft bellies, until she could reach down to where his fingers were gliding and rubbing, pleasuring her with such sure, gorgeous skill.
She laid her hand over his. Not to urge him to go faster or even press harder. Just to feel his movements inside and out. To trace each tendon and jutting knuckle as he worked her toward the orgasm that rushed closer with every labored breath she sucked into her straining lungs. Her hips were hitching against him now, rhythmic and searching, and she was so wet even his rough fingertips couldn’t gain much purchase. They slipped over her clit in easy, repeated glides, each one a sunburst behind her eyelids, sweet as honey trickling down her throat.
“Come on, baby.” His words were almost too rough to decipher. “I’ve got you.”
No. If she came, this would end, and she couldn’t stand the thought.
“I don’t...” she managed to whisper, before he gently squeezed her clit between two knuckles, and her legs nearly gave way beneath her. Her head would have thudded against concrete, but his palm cushioned the impact. “Oh.Oh.”
A slow rub of his thumb over and around her clit. Another light squeeze between his broad knuckles, as she arched and trembled and gasped. Then his hot breath washed over her shoulder and his teeth pinched the tender muscle there, biting just firmly enough to sing down her spine and detonate her orgasm.
She came so hard, it verged on pain. Eyes scrunched shut, back arched violently under the impact, mouth open wide as her body clenched and released again and again, urged on by the endless glides of his fingers over her slick flesh.
She ground herself against his touch, mindless and panting.
“That’s right. Take what you need.” His lips rested against her temple, and he pressed a hard, fierce kiss there. “Fuck, Molly. So gorgeous when you come.”
Eventually, her muscles began to relax, and she sagged against the wall, against the thigh still helping to hold her upright. Her thoughts had become a vague buzz, and every inch of her body felt limp and well used. Well satisfied.
Her first semi-coherent post-orgasm thought:Well, damn.
Her second semi-coherent post-orgasm thought:Apparently Karl Dean can finger a woman as capably as he pipes out a peony.
Even in her own muzzy head, piping out a peony sounded like a euphemism for deep dicking. But she couldn’t focus on that. Couldn’t focus on much of anything, really.
While she was still floating in a come-drunk haze, those steady, peony-piping hands slid from behind her head and between her legs and efficiently put her clothing back in order, then zipped and fastened her jeans. Even though the soft cotton of her underwear seemed to abrade her oversensitive skin, and the way her jeans separated his skin from hers was a total outrage.
Dimly, she marveled that they were both fully dressed now, despite how naked and raw she felt. Both completely covered, down to the sneakers on her feet and the green resin foam ridiculousness on his.
Which prompted her third semi-coherent post-orgasm thought:Does this mean the sight of Crocs is going to turn me on now? Because that would make future healthcare visits very awkward.
Self-assigned tasks complete, he didn’t hustle her out of his bakery, and he didn’t speak. Not to demand orgasmic reciprocation.Not even to ask whether the experience had been good for her. Which... fair enough. He didn’t need to ask. The answer was beyond obvious.
Instead of talking, he simply gathered her into his arms and held her. She huddled into him, letting him support a good chunk of her weight as her heartbeat gradually slowed and steadied.
For some reason, the embrace seemed more intimate than his fingers between her legs.
His bristly cheek rubbed over the top of her head, and his hard dick prodded her thigh. He was apparently ignoring that inconvenience, though, so she did too as he ran a slow palm up and down her back and urged her face against his neck.
Slowly, her thoughts began to clear.
When was the last time Rob had offered her pleasure without expecting something in return from her? Ten years before their divorce? Fifteen? She genuinely couldn’t remember, it had been so damn long. When it came to orgasms, if she got one, she gave one. Because that was only fair, right? Even though she was multi-orgasmic, and he wasn’t.
In retrospect, their entire marriage had been a series of carefully calibrated equivalencies, attempts to balance what they each got and gave in a practical, equitable way. And to her shame, she hadn’t noticed her husband’s thumb on the scale until far, far too late.
Or at least she hadn’t allowed herself to acknowledge the injustice, because that would mean she’d made a terrible mistake in marrying him, even after so many years together. That would mean she’d wasted her time and energy and not valued herself highly enough.
It would also mean she’d repeated her mother’s mistake of trusting the man she’d wed. Repeated her own teenage mistake too: trusting the man she’d loved most in the entire world.
Still, here she was, leaning on Karl as if she could depend on him. He was sheltering her, soothing her, and she was letting him. Which was probably a terrible mistake too, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from making it.
Untold minutes later, she finally stirred in his arms. “My legs are pudding, and it’s your fault, Dean.”
There. That had sounded convincingly casual. Calm and unruffled.
