Chapter 4: Steamy Throatpie
Whitney could still taste him, the lingering salt and musk from their night a phantom on her tongue. “My turn for a wash,” she’d whispered against his chest, her voice more confident than she felt, guiding him by the hand into the shower’s hissing steam. The hot water sluiced the dried sweat and stickiness from their skin as she pushed him gently onto the cool marble bench. Kneeling before him, the tile hard under her knees, she watched his cock thicken under her gaze. “Eyes on me, Calder,” she echoed his earlier command, her own newfound boldness a sweet shock as she leaned forward.
She took him into her mouth slowly, the weeping head nudging the back of her throat, and he gasped her name. His hands went to her wet hair, not forcing but holding, a fistful of dark strands anchoring him. She worked him deeper, her tongue exploring the thick vein underneath, swallowing around him when he pressed forward. “That’s it, baby, take it all,” he groaned, his hips giving a shallow, involuntary thrust as her lips stretched around his girth.
She reveled in the sound of him, the primal roughness of his praise as she used one hand to pump his base, her other finding its way between her own slick thighs. Her fingers circled her clit, mimicking the rhythm of her mouth, and a fresh rush of arousal warmed her core. “Fuck, you’re gonna make me come,” he warned, his voice tight, his grip tightening in her hair just enough to sting.
She quickened her pace, her own pleasure coiling tight, the water drumming on her back, mixing with his pre-come and her saliva. He gave a final, deep thrust, holding himself there as he came, his release hot and bitter on her tongue. She swallowed, never breaking the seal of her lips, her own climax cresting silently against her circling fingers, wave after wave of satisfaction.
She rested her forehead against his trembling thigh for a moment before looking up. He looked shattered, beautiful. He pulled her up, cradling her face, kissing her deeply, tasting himself. “You,” he breathed, his heart hammering against hers, “are fucking incredible.”
They stumbled from the shower, still dripping, the ornate hotel rug darkening beneath their feet. Her confidence, so new and bright, hummed through her veins like a second pulse, louder than her heartbeat. She saw his silk tie, the charcoal one he’d worn for the ceremony, abandoned on the dresser amidst champagne flutes. "We missed a spot," Calder murmured, his lips brushing her ear. The cool silk slid across her eyes, plunging her into a profound, thrilling darkness. "Calder?" Her voice was a whisper, her other senses sharpening to a knife's edge; she smelled his clean skin, felt the humid air on her naked body. His hands, firm on her shoulders, turned and gently guided her forward until the hard, cool edge of the vanity dug into her hipbones. She arched, bracing her palms flat on the marble, the smooth cold a shock to her flushed skin. His palm, broad and calloused from years gripping a goalie stick, smoothed a possessive path down the curve of her spine, over the swell of her ass, a silent, appreciative growl rumbling in his chest. "Christ, you're perfect," he breathed, and she felt the blunt, insistent head of his cock, already slick, nudging at her entrance, circling, retreating, a slow, exquisite torture that made her whimper and push back.
"That's it, beg for it," he said, his voice low and dark, finally pushing the tip in with a controlled, shallow thrust that stole her breath. He held there, buried just inside, the stretch an ache she craved to be filled, her gasps turning into a ragged, broken, "Please." He answered with a single, brutal slam, driving into her so deep and hard the vanity shook, her cry shattering the quiet room. One hand moved to her hip, his grip like iron, the other came around to palm her heavy breast, fingers finding and pinching her nipple, rough and perfect, as he set a devastating, punishing pace. Her flesh bounced with every impact, a lewd, wet slapping sound punctuating her moans, his filthy praise a hot torrent against the nape of her neck. "Take every fucking inch, you gorgeous slut, my gorgeous fucking wife," he growled, each word driving into her as hard as his cock, and she felt a new climax, raw and immense, crack through her, her whole body seizing around him.
The climax tore through her like lightning, a sharp, breathless cry strangling in her throat as she clenched around his length with a fierce, possessive finality, his final thrust a deep, shuddering punctuation. Calder jerked inside her, a strained groan ripping free as his own finish hit—it felt warmer than the memory of the hot tub, a pulsing flood inside her that made her weak against the vanity, silk mask damp with sweat and tears.
They stayed locked together, his damp chest plastered to her bowed back, his breath hot on her shoulder. "The desk," he murmured, his voice rough and spent, but already a hardness pressed back into the seam of her. He gently pulled the sodden tie from her eyes.
The foggy reflection in the vanity mirror showed her wrecked and beautiful, a vision she barely recognized. "I need a picture of that," she whispered, the sentence soft and slow compared to their earlier jagged dialogue. Calder just snorted, planting a soft kiss between her shoulder blades. "Only in my head, Whit. That one's mine." His words wrapped around her, giving her a soft place to settle.
He then turned her, cool marble pressing into her spine, and grinned. She felt the joyous fatigue in her limbs turn to liquid warmth again.
He stepped back. "I promised we'd try one more thing."
"God, Calder," she said, a shaky laugh escaping her. "You're going to kill me with one of your plays."
He just shook his head, eyes smoldering. Then his grip shifted from gentle to deliberate. He slipped his arms around her waist and shoulders, exerting the effortless strength of an athlete.
His hands were firm, his guidance simple. Then he bends her over. The plush upholstered bench of the sitting area is at his height, and he positions her, calves pressed against the cushions, torso angled deep across the top. The velvet felt obscene against her naked stomach. The submission flooded her not with shame but with a dizzying power as he mounted her, the intrusion immediate, her back arching sharply to take him all.
The sharp clap of his palm landing squarely on her ass resounded in the quiet suite, a stinging warmth that bloomed across her flesh, shocking her breath out. He hammered into her to the percussive rhythm of the spanks, each punishing thrust a violent answer to the growing, stinging heat on her skin. "Gonna come inside you," he grunted, losing all restraint, his balls slapping against her with a slick, wet sound, his breaths ragged torrents. "Gonna fill you so fucking deep," he promised, his voice shredded, cramming her hotter and harder and faster. "I'm gonna fucking get you pregnant, Whitney. Right now."
The filthy declaration and the relentless pistoning of his hips dismantled her; her answering wail was a wordless, throat-shredding prayer, and her climax shattered over her in brutal, irresistible spasms that milked his cock. He drove through it, two more slaps falling hard on her glowing skin before his own body seized, and he ground deep, giving a hoarse shout as he started to pump his seed into her in gushing pulses.