Chapter 12: The Engagement

POV: Paul

His study room had become their first church. Paul sat on the chair behind his desk, his trousers pooled around his ankles, his cock standing rigid against his stomach while Olivia knelt on the carpet between his knees. Her mouth was hot, efficient, mechanical-a wet friction designed to extract rather than worship. She worked him with the focus of someone scrubbing a floor, her eyes on his face not out of desire but to gauge progress.

He came in her mouth with a grunt that sounded more like relief than joy. She swallowed, wiped her lips with the back of her hand, and stood. “Dinner’s at six,” she said, smoothing her skirt. “Kids are upstairs.”

That was week one.

Within several months, this was shifted completely. She still knelt, but her tongue lingered. Her fingers traced the veins along his inner thighs before wrapping around his shaft. She looked up at him through her lashes, and the efficiency had become something else, curiosity, hunger, a dawning recognition that his body could be read like braille.

Tonight, when he came home late she met him in the hall at door. The house was quiet, dinner eaten, dishes stacked, children behind closed doors. She wore a dress the color of wine, thin straps over her shoulders, and nothing beneath it. He could see that now, the way the fabric clung to her nipples, the absence of lines where underwear should be.

“Bedroom,” she said. Not a question.

He followed. His heart knocked against his ribs with each step. The master suite smelled of her perfume and the lavender she burned on the dresser. She closed the door and turned the lock, the click loud in the silence.

She crossed to him slowly. Her fingers found his buttons, slipping each one free with deliberate patience. When his shirt fell open, she pressed her palms flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat, the heat of his skin, the sparse hair between his pecs. She pushed the fabric from his shoulders. It hit the floor.

“Your turn,” he said, his voice rough.

She reached behind her neck. The dress sighed as it fell, pooling at her feet. She stood in only the lamplight-hips flared from the narrow pinch of her waist, breasts high and firm with nipples the color of flushed roses, hard and pointed. The soft curve of her stomach led down to the blonde triangle between her thighs, already glistening.

Paul’s breath caught. He reached for her, his hands spanning her waist, thumbs brushing the underside of her ribs. She stepped closer, her nipples dragging against his chest hair, and kissed him. Not the polite pecks she’d offered before. This was open-mouthed, her tongue sliding against his, tasting of mint and want.

He walked her backward to the bed. The mattress dipped as she sat, then lay back, her hair spreading across the white pillows like spilled honey. He stripped, shoes, socks, trousers, boxers, until he stood naked at the foot of the bed, his cock thick and dark, veins pulsing along its rigid length, the head swollen purple and slick with arousal.

“Come here,” she whispered.

He climbed between her legs. She was already wet, he could see it, the pink folds glistening, her inner labia swollen and parted, her entrance a tight, puckered hole that pulsed with her heartbeat. He positioned himself, the swollen head of his cock notched against her slick opening, and pushed.