Chapter 1: The Anniversary Surprise Unveiled
The blindfold is nothing but a strip of Aaron's silk tie, knotted tight enough to steal the world, and you let it. You let it because his mouth is between your thighs, his beard scratching the soft skin of your inner thigh, his tongue flat and hot against you. He has been at this for what feels like hours, but you know better. Time bends when he does this. It warps and stretches until all that exists is the wet, deliberate press of his tongue parting you, dipping low, circling up to that aching knot of nerves with a patience that borders on cruelty.
Your back arches against the velvet headboard. The grain of the wood digs into your shoulder blades through the thin silk of your robe, and you don't care. You grip the sheets, twisting them in your fists, your hips rocking in a rhythm that is barely yours anymore. He owns it. He owns every tilt and shudder.
"That's it," he murmurs against you, the words vibrating through your clit and straight up your spine. "Let me taste you."
You gasp, a broken, breathy sound that echoes off the timber walls of the cabin. Outside, the Branson hills are dark and still, but in here, the amber glow of the bedside lamps paints everything gold. Not that you can see it. You can only feel, and what you feel is Aaron's tongue sliding through your slick folds, his fingers spreading you wider, his groan rumbling through your cunt like a second pulse.
"Please," you whimper. You don't know what you're asking for. More. Faster. To come. All of it.
He laughs low against your thigh, then dips his tongue inside you, fucking you with it in a slow, luxurious stroke that makes your eyes roll back beneath the silk. Your hands find his head, tangle in his closely cropped hair, your nails scraping his scalp. He lets you hold on. He lets you tug him closer, grinding your clit against his mouth, and just when the pressure coils tight and bright at the base of your belly, he pulls back.
"No," you whine, the word ugly and desperate. "Aaron, please, I'm so close."
"I know." His voice is rough, pleased. He trails a kiss up your stomach, over the gaping lapels of your robe, and you can feel the heat of him leaning over you. "But I have a surprise for you. It's our anniversary."
You laugh, breathless, half-delirious from want. "The surprise was the cabin. The surprise was you eating me out for an hour."
"That was the appetizer."
The mattress shifts. You hear it before you understand it. A subtle dip, a new weight settling on the far side of the bed. Your brow furrows beneath the blindfold. You turn your head toward the sound, confused, your lips parting to ask what's happening.
And then something presses against your mouth.
Not Aaron's fingers. Not his thumb tracing your jaw. Something heavier, warmer, with a soft, silky weight and a ridge that finds the seam of your lips without instruction. Your brain stutters. It takes a full second, two, for the shape to register. The heat of it. The faint, clean scent of skin and salt.
A cock. There is a cock at your lips.
Your breath catches. Your body goes rigid, every nerve alight, and somewhere above you, Aaron's voice comes soft and dark and utterly in control.
"I told you I had plans for us. Just say the word, Rachel. He's been waiting to meet you."
You part your lips hesitantly. The uncertainty is a physical thing, a tremor that runs from your jaw down your throat, but your mouth opens anyway. It opens because Aaron asked. Because the heat of that weight against your lips is a promise you didn't know you wanted to keep.
The head presses past. Just the head. Just the silken crown, slick with something that might be pre-come, and it tastes like salt and skin and a man who is not your husband. Your tongue flicks out without permission, a shy, curious little stroke along the ridge, and you hear a low, appreciative sound from somewhere above you. Not Aaron's voice. Deeper. Smoother. A voice you half-recognize from cookouts and laughter around a fire pit, but twisted now into something darker.
"There you go," Aaron murmurs. His hand finds your thigh, stroking, grounding. "That's my girl."
Your mind races. Who?