Chapter 10: I Need More of That
The glow from the kitchen felt a thousand miles away. In the living room, only one lamp was on, casting a warm, honeyed pool over the couch and leaving the corners in soft shadow. The air still held the faint, pleasant musk of their earlier play—the scent of skin and clean sweat from their wrestling match. Holly’s star-embroidered throw blanket lay crumpled on the armchair, a familiar artifact of ordinary nights that now felt anything but.
Tommy stood by the couch, the silence ringing in his ears. He could still see the blue glare of his phone screen on the dark kitchen tiles. Chloe. The name was a splash of cold water on the simmering, secret world he and Holly were building.
“Hey.” Her voice was soft, coming from the hallway. She leaned against the doorframe, having swapped her robe for a sheer black chemise that stopped high on her thighs. The lamplight traced the generous curve of her hips, the shadow between her legs. She studied his face. “You’re still in your head.”
“I’m trying not to be.”
“Then stop trying.” She pushed off the doorframe and walked toward him, the movement a slow, hypnotic sway. Her bare feet were silent on the rug. She stopped in front of him, so close he could feel her body heat. She reached up and brushed a thumb over his furrowed brow. “She’s a nice girl. She’s not for you. Not like this.”
“How do you know?” The question was out before he could stop it, a weak protest from a crumbling shore.
Holly’s smile was patient, infinitely knowing. She took his hand and placed it on her waist, on the slick fabric over the swell of her hip. “Because you’re here. Your hand is on me. And when you look at her, you don’t feel your heartbeat in your teeth, do you?”
He didn’t answer. He just looked at her—at the dark confidence in her eyes, at the way the lace edges of her chemise strained against the full weight of her breasts. The guilt and the fear were still there, but they were drowned out by a louder, more primal frequency. The one that hummed to life whenever she was this close.
“I want to taste you somewhere else,” he heard himself say, the words rough.
Her eyebrows lifted. A spark of pure, wicked interest lit her gaze. “Oh? Where, baby?”
His hand slid from her hip, around to the magnificent, round curve of her ass. He squeezed, feeling the firm, perfect give of her flesh through the flimsy silk. “Here.”
A slow, deliberate breath left her. She turned in his grasp, presenting the lush, incredible view of her backside, the chemise riding up. She glanced over her shoulder, her dark hair falling across her face. “You want to worship your mommy’s ass?”
“Yes.” It was a vow.
“Then get on your knees and do it.”
He dropped to his knees behind her, the plush rug cushioning them. His hands ran up the backs of her thick thighs, pushing the hem of the chemise higher until it was bundled at her waist. She was completely bare, exposed to him. In the low light, her skin was a landscape of golden shadows and deep, inviting curves. He leaned in, nuzzling the crease where thigh met cheek, breathing her in—laundry soap, lavender lotion, and the faint, clean, salty scent of her skin.
“God, you’re perfect,” he mumbled into her flesh, planting open-mouthed kisses.
She braced her hands on the back of the couch, pushing her hips back toward his face. “Just perfect? I think I’m a masterpiece. And you’re my favorite art critic.”
He laughed, the tension of moments ago dissolving. This was their language. Playful, filthy, reverent. He spread her cheeks, his thumbs sinking into the incredible softness. He saw the tight, dark pucker of her hole, and a jolt of pure, electric desire shot through him. He leaned forward and pressed a soft, slow kiss right against it.
She shuddered. A sharp, sweet gasp filled the quiet room. “Tommy.”
He didn’t tease. He was past that. He licked a broad, wet stripe over the nerve-rich skin, and her whole body jumped. He did it again, and again, firm and deliberate, until she was trembling, her knuckles white where she gripped the couch.
“That’s it,” she chanted, her voice already losing its steadiness. “Right there. Use your tongue. Get it nice and wet for me.”
He obeyed, spearing his tongue inside her, tasting the intimate, musky tang of her. It was deeply erotic, profoundly submissive, and it made him ache with a need that was both physical and spiritual. He was lost in the sensation, in the sounds she made—little choked whimpers and sighs that were better than any music.
One of her hands left the couch and snaked between her own legs. He could hear the soft, slick sound of her fingers stroking her cock, which he knew was hardening in her grasp. The image—of her pleasuring herself while he devoted himself to her this way—unlocked something feral in him. He redoubled his efforts, licking and sucking at her rim, his own hips grinding uselessly against the empty air.
“You like eating my ass while I jerk my girlcock, don’t you?” she panted, her rhythm stuttering. “My pervert son. My beautiful, filthy pervert.”
“Yes,” he groaned against her skin, the vibration wringing a cry from her. “God, yes, Holly.”
“Tell me who you belong to.”
“You.” The answer was instant, torn from him.
“Louder.”
“I belong to you!” His voice was muffled, desperate.
“Good boy.” Her praise washed over him, warmer than any touch. “Now be a good boy and suck my balls. I want to feel that hot mouth.”
He pulled back, his lips and chin wet. He guided her to turn, to lean back against the couch, one foot on the floor, the other knee bent on the cushion. She was a vision of decadent openness. Her heavy cock lay against her stomach, fully hard now, glistening from her own attention. Beneath it, her ballsack was full and taut.
He dove forward, taking the soft, weighted orb of her left testicle into his mouth, suckling gently.
“Oh, fuck,” she hissed, her head falling back. Her hand resumed stroking her shaft, her thumb smearing pre-cum over the head. “Just like that. So gentle. You treat them so good.”
He switched to the other, lavishing it with the same tender, worshipful attention. He cupped her sac in his hand, feeling the delicate, moving weight, completely enthralled by his own act of service. He looked up her body, meeting her half-lidded gaze. She was watching him, her lips parted, her free hand now stroking his hair with a devastating tenderness that contradicted the crude, hot words falling from her lips.
“You’re my everything, you know that?” she murmured, her hips pushing her cock through her loose fist. “My sweet boy. The only one who sees me. The only one who gets to have me.”
He released her with a soft pop, resting his cheek on her inner thigh. “I want to be enough.”
“You are.” Her voice was absolute. “You’re more than enough. You’re all I want.”
Her stroking became faster, more urgent. Her breaths came in short, sharp pants. “I’m gonna come. Watch me. Watch your mommy come because of what you did.”
He held her gaze, anchored by it. He saw the exact moment her climax seized her—a fluttering tension in her thighs, a beautiful contortion of her features, a silent “O” on her lips before a broken cry escaped. Thick stripes of white shot over her stomach, onto the dark silk of her chemise. He watched every pulse, mesmerized, feeling a possessive pride so fierce it left him breathless.
She sagged against the couch, spent, a thin sheen of sweat on her chest. After a moment, she reached for him, pulling him up by his shoulders until he was sprawled on the couch beside her, her head on his chest. They lay together in the lamplight, sticky and disheveled and intertwined. Her fingers traced idle patterns on his sternum.
“See?” she whispered. “This is real. That phone… that’s just noise.”
He kissed her hair, wrapping his arms around her. For a long while, there was only the sound of their breathing syncing, the low hum of the refrigerator in the distant kitchen.
Then, from the hallway, came the distinct, cheerful ding of his phone receiving a text message. Not a call this time. A text. Which meant Chloe had something to say, something to ask, a thread of the normal world waiting to be pulled.
Holly stiffened slightly in his arms. Neither of them moved. The sound hung in the cozy, sex-scented air, a tiny, persistent seed of doubt, planted and waiting.