Blue Moon #3 (Story of Us Series - Into the Blue) - Sydney Jamesson Page 0,89
to this—imagining you in a little summer dress, no panties and my tongue deep inside you. Now I’m going to make you so wet, you won’t have a choice, you’ll have to wear panties or you’ll be leaving puddles all over the place.” He pushes my dress higher, turns to check that nothing is burning, smiles like the devil and pries my legs apart.
“Now this is what happens to naughty girls who don’t do as they’re told.”
While Rihanna sings “Stay,” I prepare to be chastised in the naughtiest of ways. His strong hands take hold of my ass and position me for ease of access. I grip the countertop with both hands and lean back. He’s eager, his tongue is warm and wet and lapping against my clitoris. He hoists my thighs over his broad shoulders and delves deep with plunging thrusts.
It doesn’t take long for the heat to build; the combination of hot breath, fingers and tongue trigger my ecstatic cries, brings me to the point of orgasm quickly. When I can take no more, I grab his head in one hand and press him into me, so he can feel the throbbing pulse between my legs as I come.
When it’s over, I lick my lips, dying of thirst, and try to catch my breath.
He sits me upright and pulls down my dress. “Now let that be a lesson to you,” he says, wiping moisture from his mouth with the back of his hand. He takes a handful of hair from my nape and pulls my mouth onto his, allowing me to savour the sweetness of my arousal.
“I’ll lay the table. You go freshen up and…” he runs his right hand beneath my dress and positions it between my legs. “You might want to put on some panties because every time I lick my lips tonight I’ll be imagining going down on you, and so will you.”
“Ha! If you insist.” With his help, I jump down.
Before I can get a foot away from him, he takes hold of my hand and places it against his lips. “I love having you home.”
“I love being home.” I glance over at the partially prepared ingredients. “Just don’t touch anything.”
He rolls his eyes and releases my hand. “I wouldn’t dare.”
As I walk over to the lift, I hear Pharrell Williams singing “Happy” on the radio and smile broadly. The lift descends; I turn to watch Ayden bobbing around to it in the kitchen.
That husband of mine can move.
LAST NIGHT BETH AND I had one of the most cordial and enjoyable dinners we have had for a long time with the most unlikely of guests. I have never doubted Lester’s reputation as a high ranking member of Special Services, or had cause to question his loyalty or reliability as a chauffeur, come bodyguard. Last night he surprised me. He revealed himself not only to be a caring and devoted father, an expert in all things tactical—The Art of War being one of his most favoured texts—but he was well read, and quite the wine connoisseur.
After Beth’s delicious meal, we left the ladies to their reminiscing and I showed him my wine cellar in the basement. It made a pleasant change to indulge in a passion of mine and to be able to discuss the finer points of ceramic filtration and téte de cuvee without having to explain their impact on wine production.
Once again, Beth was able to see beyond the exterior to the person underneath—a skill I have yet to perfect.
Beth showed Bernie the nursery and they were in there for almost an hour discussing bath towels and breast feeding. Half an hour in we left them to it and returned to the lounge to sample a vintage port with slices of pear and cheese.
Our dinner guests left just after eleven. Beth was exhausted, but insisted on making her own way to bed while I loaded the dishwasher. When we climbed into bed it was with a deepening sense of purpose. For the first time in our lives, we were surrounding ourselves with good people; people who we could call on in a crisis. Of course there were Sylvia and Patrick, Jake and Charlie, but after tonight, Lester and Bernie had become more than employees—they are trusted friends. Whatever the future holds for us, they will be a part of it, should they want to be.
The only missing part of the Stone family is the French connection.