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“No? You just said you were hungry.”
Why I blushed I really didn’t know. I mean, we were lying here naked, he’d had his mouth on me, his cock inside me, but I could feel my face heating. Perhaps because I was shocked I was acting like a brazen hussy and not particularly caring?
“I am hungry,” I said, reaching to take his cock in my hand, slowly moving it up his length. “I’m hungry for this.”
“You do remember what I said earlier?”
Call me a fool but, looking at his erection, replaying in my mind his words about every inch being buried, made me swallow hard and yet nod as I licked my lips.
With his hips rising to meet my seduction, he directed, “Put your mouth around me.”
I followed his command and took his hardness deep within. Swirling my tongue in small circles, I tried to control my gag reflex when his cock nudged the back of my throat. His hand moved to the back of my head, his fingers sliding to twist around the strands.
“Open your throat,” he ordered. “You’ll take every fucking inch.”
His command, the sting of my hair being tugged, the thrust of his hips to force his cock deeper only drove my need to please even higher. My gags, my struggles, my moans were ignored as he worked me down onto his cock until my lips kissed his groin.
“Good girl. Now suck,” he instructed as he slowly pulled my head up.
I worked my lips from base to tip, my tongue licking, tasting, swirling around the crown for a moment before he drove me back down in a rhythmic motion. I was determined to please him, to exceed his demands. Pleasuring him was all I desired. Tightening my lips and licking lightly, my cheeks hollowing with my suckling, I worked his cock. Slowly up then plunging back down, I worked until his control snapped. His breath hitched and his moan reverberated through his entire body as he held me in place, keeping me locked onto his cock as it jerked, spewing his cum down my throat.
The moment ebbed, satisfaction blanketing us both as he pulled me up to once again claim my mouth. I wrapped my arms around him and clung until my heart stopped pounding, both our breathing slowing. We did enjoy our picnic, feeding each other bites of cold fried chicken, spoons of potato salad, sharing a slice of cake and a thermos of water. It was growing dark by the time he lifted me onto Kiernan and, with his arm securely wrapped around my waist, he turned us toward the cabin… no, not the cabin. He was taking us home.
19
Goldie
Kit and I sat in the parlor with balls of yarn at our sides. I concentrated on the crochet hook in my hand, attempting to hook it through the blue yarn tangled in my fingers. Turning the hook, twisting, and attempting to pull it through a small hole was harder than I’d thought.
“I see why crocheting is a dying art. You have to have an unbelievable level of patience for this,” I whined.
“I like it. I can’t wait to see the afghan when it’s done. It’s nice to think about someone tucking it in around them. It will keep them warm while they read a good book or just sit and talk.” Kit’s blanket was almost finished, the waves of different colored ripples growing daily. She obviously didn’t find the task as challenging as I did.
I tossed my mess of knotted yarn to the side. “I give up. I’ll leave blanket making to you.”
Kit giggled but continued on. A soft smile was on her face as she gracefully moved the yarn through her hands, twisting her hook to loop, chain, double crochet, decrease, or whatever stitch was required. They were all Greek to me, but Kit was a natural.
Without looking up from her work, Kit said, “I don’t think of it as a blanket. I think of it as a hug. When someone needs soothing or reassuring, they can wrap up in it and know they are loved.”
“That’s a beautiful thought,” I said, looking at the work on her lap. “Now I feel sort of heartless.”
“Don’t be silly. You made those pillows. They provide a soft place to lay your head after a hard day. Your pillows and my afghan are both comforting.”
I looked at the pillow tucked against the side of the settee where I was sitting. Grinning, I wondered what she’d say if I told her the real reason I’d been anxious to make several throw pillows. Not to use for a quick nap or to decorate the room, though I had to admit they did just that, but to provide a much softer surface if I ever needed to sit after a trip to the woodshed. There hadn’t been a recurrence of that night, and I was at a bit of a loss wondering why that knowledge made me feel a little bereft.
Not wishing to truly ponder that topic, I just shrugged. “Pillows are two pieces of fabric sewn together and stuffed. Easy as pie compared to all that knit and purl stuff.”
Her giggle turned into laughter, blonde-white curls bouncing as she shook her head. “You knit and purl when you knit, not crochet.”
“Whatever,” I said, rolling my eyes and then laughing as well. “Heck, I never thought I’d say this, but I’d rather churn butter than knit or crochet.”
Kit’s hands stilled as she looked at me, her smile lighting her face. “Especially after one of the guys ‘helps’ you with the milking, I suppose? You’d think by now you’d have caught on.”
I shrugged again, trying to come up with an excuse when she laughed.
“You should see your face,” she said. “I’m only teasing. I like knowing you pretend you need help when you don’t.”
“You do?” I asked, actually surprised she’d not been fooled by my little act.
