"Seems silly," she murmurs, still kissing him, hands stroking over him. Her legs briefly left him when he pushed down his slacks; they're wrapped around him again. "To shower first, only to get filthy again. Why not just take me to bed now, darling? You can wash me after if you think I'm too dirty."
Kisses him again, smirking a little.
Calden WhitechaseWhich makes him laugh again, lower, darker.
Which makes him kiss her again, nipping at her lower lip this time; growling a little. "Okay," he whispers, his lips brushing hers. "As you say, Mrs. White."
And he lifts her again, shoulders engaging, biceps flexing. Maybe he does it on purpose. Surely he does it on purpose. Surely he's noticed how she watches him when he's working, when he's moving, when he's picking her up, when he's holding her up, when he's fucking her.
It's a short enough walk to the bed. He's in no rush. They make their way there, leisurely and lazy, pausing to kiss against this wall, that. The mattress is huge and fine, sinks gloriously under their weight as he lays her down. He kisses her mouth, her neck. Murmurs in her ear, "Want me to lick it?"
Avery WhitechaseHe likes it when she says things like that. Dirty. Filthy. When she's got her golden hair curled softly at the ends and her lips are still pink and whether she's in her dresses or her fine lingerie or nothing at all. When she's touching him, saying filthy like that's what he is, and that is what she likes.
Avery breathes in when he kisses her, sliding her arms more firmly around his body, pulling him closer. She presses her breasts to his chest, making a low sound of pleasure against his mouth. He bites at her, snarls a little, and she melts inside. He calls her Mrs. White and she wraps her legs tighter around his waist until she can feel him against the gusset of her panties, pressing against her cunt. She shivers.
Calden lifts her. On purpose, he shows off: his strength, his body, the way he can hold her. He's not insensate, he's not oblivious; he's a quite perceptive and attentive man, particularly to this woman, and he has seen her watching him. He has heard her sigh when she runs her hands over his muscles. So, intentional and cheeky, he shows off, and Avery snuggles more closely against him, her eyes meeting his, light and lust flaring in her gaze.
Carries her out of that pretty bathroom and into the pretty bedroom in this fine seaside hotel. Her skin is so warm that she hasn't even noticed that they never turned the heat up. Her hand spreads over his upper back, her ankles crossed behind him when he rests her here or there, pauses to kiss her mouth. Her neck. The tops of her lovely breasts. She doesn't even notice how far they've gotten until he's laying her down, climbing over her. She luxuriates on top of the bedspread, sliding her legs against his, running her hands down his sides.
All thought of Huxley and his sept and the potential Weaver influence has left her mind. Entirely.
Her husband asks her if she wants him to lick it. Avery, hands on his shoulders and face turned to the side to make it easier for him to kiss her throat, gives a little gasp. She shivers, turning to look at him, her eyes opening to find him. "Oh, yes, darling," she murmurs, gratefully and ardently. "That would be wonderful."
Calden WhitechaseFrom the very first, they were so utterly compatible: both of them such enthusiastic, generous, unafraid lovers. Sometimes ley lines of power and status ran between them, but it was always in play. At the end of the day, she never reacted like someone hungry for control, or needful of it. She never acted like someone whose heart had been irrevocably broken
(though certainly hers had been wounded)
and he never acted like someone who had been abused, terrorized, beaten into either defiance or submission. They were whole, hale, and strong. They were drawn to one another's strength.
And there's no hint of subservience now -- though perhaps, ever so gently, the sense that yes: he is going to service her now. Like a good mate. Drive every last shred of thought of that annoying Huxley character out of her mind. There's a hint of smirk to his smile, though the edge is never directed at her. He kisses her as her eyes open. She is, he thinks, ridiculously gorgeous. Her and her whole family. There's something to be said for royal blood. Royal, red, ardent blood. He wouldn't in a million years think of her as blueblooded, cold, austere. Consider the flash in her eyes. Consider the heat in her kiss. Consider those glorious breasts, for god's sake; the very ones he's passing now as he meanders his slow way down.
He can't help it; he makes a detour. He licks her breasts. He sucks her nipples and plays with her, massages and squeezes, kisses. His hands are still there, warm and strong, while he's kissing her above and below the navel. Her panties are still on, and he takes the waistband in his teeth. Pulls it down little by little, loses his grip on it and it snaps back, so he just goes on anyway. Rubs his nose against her clit. Tongues her cunt through that barrier, hot and humid, biting gently at her flesh in a way he never, ever would if she weren't wearing panties.
At some point, and with great reluctance, his hands relinquish her breasts. He sweeps his palms down, palms her ass, lifts her, eats at her. Slips his fingertips under the waistband again, finally, and this time he pulls them down. He pulls them off. Takes a break from licking her pussy to pull her panties off. Sits back, gives her this ridiculous, roguish smile, tosses the panties up in the air like miniature fireworks or a magic trick: poof!
Dives back in. Pushes her legs apart with those big cowboy hands, buries his face in her cunt. Licks it for her, just like he said he would.
Avery WhitechaseShe loves this. She loves how enthusiastically and eagerly and regularly he goes down on her. To be fair, he eats her pussy far more often than she sucks his dick. It's not for lack of trying or even lack of interest; it's just that sometimes Calden sees her and pulls her to him and... wants to lick it. And Avery is not about to tell him no. She luxuriates in being pleasured this way, whether sprawling on their bed or standing in a hallway while he goes to his knees. He's quite good at this. He's masterful, she's said to him before, breathing heavily, panting the words as she comes down from another orgasm. And he's such a darling to give this to her, over and over. She's said that, too. Such a darling.
So Avery lays back. And Calden lowers himself down her body, pausing only for a little while to worship her breasts, sucking and nuzzling and caressing her like there is nowhere in the world he'd rather be (which could be the case). She strokes his hair, murmuring encouragements to him, lifting her breasts to rub them back against his face, press them into his hands. Yes, she whispers, hands running down his bare arms, which she also loves.
She moans when he keeps touching her as he slides down lower on the bed. She wonders how hard his cock is. She thinks about it, pressed against his underwear, rubbing against the bedspread as he tries (and in a way, fails) to take off her panties with his teeth. She bites her lip as he teases her through the panties, gasps as he nibbles on her. Her hips lift as he puts his palms under her, holding her ass up, hooking his fingers under her panties to finally get them off of her. Avery sighs in relief, and actually does not see his grin, his panty-toss, because her eyes are closed, her head tipped back, her hands touching her own body: her stomach, her thighs, her breasts. She's pink, here and there, flushed with wanting.
"Calden," she murmurs, because he's been gone for more than half a moment, and then he's there. He's with her again, his face between her legs, and she's moaning his name instead, louder than before, squirming her pussy against his mouth: "Calden!"
Calden WhitechaseIt's nice that they never have to worry about waking the neighbors, upsetting the family. They live in such nice places. His sprawling ranchhouse; her even larger mansion. Their respective apartments, perched high in their respective buildings with few or no shared walls. All those hotel suites during their honeymoon. This suite, up high, facing a cold Atlantic. They never have to worry about being quiet, and truth is they wouldn't be terribly good at it. They're vocal people. They like hearing one another moan. They like making each other moan.
They like making love to each other, period. They're generous, warm people like that, and he's generous and warm with her now, kissing and licking, eating her out. Oral for hours, or what feels like an undefinable length of time, anyway: because he is, in fact, quite good at this. He wants to be quite good for her.
He wants to make it good for her. And he does, using his mouth and his hands, tip of his nose, lips, tongue. Fucks her slowly and reverently and -- yes -- masterfully, giving it to her with his mouth until she arches, until she shudders, until she dissolves into that luscious golden breathless sprawl.
Calden crawls up onto the bed, then. Well; he stands up first, and loses his shorts. Then he crawls up over her with his cock in hand, stroking it slow and easy, not the frantic tug of some callow boy but something surer, more deliberate, patient and playful. He kisses her as he comes down over her, enjoys that kiss, takes his time. They smile at each other. They trade smiles a lot, wordless and meaningful.
When those long legs of hers slide around him he knows just what to do. And he braces himself over her, that heavy muscular body, that earthy hearty strength. He slides into her by feel, familiar with her body and its contours, familiar with the way she arches to take him in. He drops his face to her skin for a moment, kisses her upper chest, overcome. One of her hands finds one of his. They link fingers; she wraps her other arm around his neck, grips at his back. He fucks her in these slow, deep rolls, and they're quieter about it now, a more private sort of loving.
Avery WhitechaseThough the first time Calden kissed her she slapped him, Avery was longing for it. She was longing for him to put those big, rough hands on her breasts. She longed for him to reach into her pants, cup his palms over her ass. She was thinking about fucking him long before they ended up downstairs playing billiards. And inside, her heart was fluttering every time he looked at her. Inside, she didn't dare hope he'd kiss her. And when he did, she was so overwhelmed she smacked him instead of pulling him closer.
Calden knows this by now. She confessed it on their wedding night, shyly admitting that she wanted him so terribly as they ate together, and she just didn't quite know what to do with herself. They laughed about it together, albeit gently. He would never laugh at her expense. He's so tender with her; he's one of the only people on earth who sees the parts of her that are soft and fragile and in need of protection. These parts of her, he protects, as fiercely and as whole-heartedly as she protects him in other ways.
But that first night, when he ended up fucking her only hours after meeting her, she was... loud. He had to try and shush her; he couldn't shush himself. They didn't do that again. Truth be told, she's a little more shy in their big ranch house or their suite in her father's mansion; a little more likely to bite her lip or whimper instead of moan. There's no restraint of that sort in their city residences. Or hotels like this one. She cries out plaintively and eagerly as he fucks her, her nails digging into his mid-back, her hips lifting to intensify the contact between his cock, her cunt.
Certainly it's more private, more primitive, but it's not necessarily... quiet. At least not on Avery's end. She's making these little whining noises the whole time he's licking her pussy, squirming against his face until he pins her down, holds her in place for him to get her off. She grabs his hair for a while during that, gasping as she comes. But later, those moans and whimpers turn into full-throated groans, cries of pleasure that rebound off the ceiling of their suite. She is fervent where he is patient; she is rising in the Nation but still something of a girl with him, and easily overcome when he pleasures her.
As he does now. As he does, kissing her breasts, holding her hand, fucking her slowly on that big, soft bed.
Calden WhitechaseGoes on for a while, that. Doesn't end until they're both writhing, flexing, sweating, gasping; grasping at sheets, grasping at skin. Maybe she rolls on top for a while, but likely not. He has a sense she wants to be taken care of tonight. She wants to be cared for, protected -- she who is so strong, such a paragon herself. He wants to take care of her: precisely because she is such a paragon, so strong. It is his great honor that she allows him to.
Maybe she bites him at the moment of orgasm. Maybe that sets him right off,
the way it always seems to.
--
Afterward he folds her in his arms, keeps her close for a long time. He strokes her hair and kisses her temple, kisses her mouth in this slow and sweet way. It is a long time before they finally stir themselves from bed. Don't think he's not tempted to simply sleep like that, filthy, but: it's been such a long time, such a long journey, such a long and strange and trying evening.
They shower together. He helps her wash her hair, her back. She scrubs his back for him while he smiles at her over his shoulder, amused by her wet hair, her brilliant eyes, her diligence at this small task.
Later, at the sink, he rinses his mouth again, towels his thick hair. She blowdries or finger-combs or whatever it is she does. He makes her chamomile tea after all, and while she sips at it he lies in bed reading, waiting for her. When she climbs in, he turns out the lights. Welcomes her against his side, his arm secure around her, his hand warm on her knee where she slides a leg over his.
Sleep comes quickly, and deeply. He hopes her troubles do not awake her in the night.
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