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As I lay here on the hardwood table, staring at the snow falling almost too fast to discern one flake from the next, I consider my mistake.
Two years ago, I fell in love with a man who was once my crush, then turned stepbrother. He tore through my walls and snatched the heart from my chest. At the time, I was riddled with fear, with dozens of doubts clouding the majority of my decisions. But he assured me we would face them together. That he would prove what he felt for me was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of love, and soon, those concerns would be a thing of the past.
And it was true.
We lasted a week before I packed up and moved into the house he built with me in the back of his mind. We made love and fucked in every room, kissed more than was necessary, and peeled back the layers of what made us who we were little by little.
I watched him work on cars. He watched me fall back into my infatuation with art. I got him into games on the Switch, and he taught me how to play chess. We hiked, camped, and discovered we liked sex in sleeping bags but not against trees.
We fell in love deeply, madly, obsessively, and just like he told me, fear and worry disintegrated. There hasn’t been a day that’s gone by where our souls haven’t fused together a little more.
It took six months before we got married. After an only partially awkward conversation with our parents, their full support was the witness to the intimate celebration. And in the past year since, things between us have been pure bliss.
But nothing is always perfect. Nothing is without flaw. And Elliot Rivera’s flaw, if you will, is that he takes everything I say and uses it against me.
Sexually.And in only the best ways.
Hence why I’m currently lying on our dining room table, naked, surrounded by candles, and mums. My cinnamon and cranberry potpourri on the stove filling the house and setting the tone for Thanksgiving dinner.
Only, instead of ham, or green bean casserole, I’m the main course, courtesy of my comment last week about wanting to be stuffed like a turkey. At first, when I caught his sly little smirk, I figured he would wake me up to his delicious cock in my mouth, or maybe fill my cunt with his cum before doing the same to my ass. But no, my beloved had much more wicked ideas in mind.
The sound of his boots hitting the tile sends a shiver over my skin, and despite the heat swirling in the air and in my core, goosebumps prickle along my flesh.
“I dare say, sweetheart, you look good enough to eat.” Elliot chuckles as he nears, one hand holding a small black bag while the other threads through his tousled sandy hair. “Pun intended.”
I roll my eyes playfully. “What’s in the bag?”
His smile morphs into pure mischief. “Patience. I’ve been working all day, and I think I deserve to eat the nice, hot meal you prepared for me.”
The meal he requested, and I happily and dutifully obliged. “Can I have a hint?”
“You wanted to be stuffed like a turkey, so…” Elliot’s gaze heats a trail down my body, a look that never fails to leave me needy.
He drops the bag under the table before positioning himself at the head of it, sitting in his favorite spot. His hands rub up and down my calves, as he murmurs about how he’s waited for me all day and thought of nothing else but sinking inside me.
By the time he grips my ankles and yanks me toward the table’s edge, I’m a wanton mess.
“This first, then your surprise.” He places a hand on either knee and spreads me open, baring me to him entirely.
“Elliot. So help me if there is a buttplug in that bag with turkey feathers.” My voice is barely above a whisper, my mind already being hazy with preemptive euphoria.
“What if I had it custom-made?”
“Elliot.”
He laughs. Then he feasts.
Somewhere after I come, and then do, in fact, get stuffed in all the ways I can, I fall in love just a little more.
