Logic is dead. Strategy is gone. There is only her.
I reach out and pull her back into me, but the frantic, desperate energy of a moment ago shifts. I kiss her again, but this time, the heat is tempered with a heavy, deliberate reverence. I kiss her like the bride she deserves to feel like, even if this is temporary. Even if our foundation is built on neon lights and a reality TV contract. Even if we still don’t know each other’s middle names or what we’re going to do when the sun comes up.
In this kitchen, under these dim lights, she isn't just a secret or a complication. She’s my wife, and I’m going to spend the rest of the night making sure she feels like one.
I lean my forehead against hers, breathless. “We have to tell him.”
She takes her hand and begins unbuttoning my jeans. Stroking my dick and I remember how much she enjoys the sensation. “You mean at this very moment, husband?”
“Shit!” I curse. “Maybe not this second. You know, while you’re…fuck! Aspen.”
Within seconds, my length springs free, and she says it again, her voice a breathless tremble. “Wow.”
I smile, a slow, predatory thing. “I’m going to give you all of me. But I need to take my time.”
She frowns slightly, her head tilting in confusion. “What?”
“I need to take my time with you,” I repeat, my hands finding the hem of her leggings. As I peel the fabric away, I lean in close until my breath is hot against her ear. “You should know something about your husband, Aspen. I’m a card-carrying member of The Supper Club.”
Her eyes go wide and her pupils blow out until they are nearly all black. Everyone in certain circles knows about The Supper Club. It is a high end, underground establishment where the menu serves far more than food. It is a place dedicated to the art of indulgence where sensuality is always the primary course.
“The…the one with the rooms and the sex?” she stammers. I can see the gears turning in her head. For a woman whose family celebrates the Last Supper with solemnity and prayer, the idea of a club where pleasure is a religion, is clearly a culture shock. “My mother would literally have a heart attack.”
“Don’t worry. What Mummy doesn’t know won’t hurt her,” I murmur, my voice dropping an octave as I lean into her space. “But it’s absolutely going to wreck her daughter.”
I leave her sitting there, breathless and shivering against the cold marble, and head for the refrigerator.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice pitching higher with nerves as she watches me raid her kitchen. “I’m sitting here completely naked and you’re about to...what…make an omelet?”
I remain quiet, scanning her shelves until I find what I need. “I knew you’d have the good stuff,” I say, pulling the items out one by one.
When I return to her, I’m armed with a can of whipped cream, a bottle of sea-salt caramel syrup, and a jar of maraschino cherries. I have a very specific fetish, one honed by years of refined tastes. I like to feast. And tonight, my wife is what’s for supper. And dessert.
I start at her breasts, the cold spray of the whipped cream making her gasp as I strategically cover her nipples in white peaks. I move down, marking her belly button with a dollop, and then another just above her lace panty line. I pause there, noticing again that she’s perfectly shaved, and I can’t help myself. I lean in and lick her through the lace. Just once. A searing, wet promise of what’s to come.
She shivers, a shaky laugh escaping her lips as she looks down at the jars in my hands. “What’s with the art project? Is this your…thing? Your kink, as the kids say?”
I love how curious she is. That wide-eyed, breathless wonder lets me know this is uncharted territory for her. The realization that I’m giving her something she’s never experienced before. That I’m the one teaching her this particular brand of devotion. Fuck, it drives me absolutely wild.
The truth is, I’m not normally this spontaneous, and I’m certainly not this romantic. The Supper Club is usually where I go to release tension and inhibitions in equal measure. A place of abstract, high-end hedonism. But something about this womanplants strange, beautiful ideas in my head with flowers, candy, a fuckingfuture.
I want to give her everything, even the parts of me I didn’t know existed until I met her. The parts no one has been able to access until her. Until I was in her space, dying to know exactly what I have to do to make her scream. To make her beg. To make her undeniably mine.
“It’s not a kink,” I rasp, popping the cap off the whipped cream with a hollowclick.“It’s a tribute. And you’re the altar.”
I start at her breasts, the cold spray making her gasp as I strategically cover her nipples in white peaks. I move down, marking her belly button with a dollop, and then another just above her panty line. I begin to decorate her skin with the caramel sauce, golden and thick, watching as she quietly observes me creating a masterpiece on her body.
I take a dollop of caramel on my fingers and bring it to her lips. My dick jumps as she sucks the sauce clean off my skin, her eyes never leaving mine.
“Do you like this? Are you enjoying this, Ms. Mysterious?”
“Probably a little too much,” she confesses. “I’ve never…used food before, I guess?”
“That’s a shame. You taste too good not to be sampled with my favorite sweets.”
I finish the work by placing a bright red cherry atop each cream-covered breast.
“Perfection,” I breathe, stepping back to admire the view.
