Chapter 165: Giving
The slow, sun-drenched rhythm continued, a liquid pulse in the center of the quiet penthouse. Olivia’s hands, now resting lightly on the cool marble, were the only part of her that remained still. The rest of her was a study in gentle, perpetual motion, a ceaseless rocking of hips that kept Ethan buried deep within the hot, clutching tightness of her rear.
He nuzzled the sweet spot where her neck met her shoulder, breathing her in—lavender, mint, and the deeper, saltier scent of her skin and their mingled sweat. His hands smoothed over the slopes of her breasts, committing their weight and warmth to memory once more before, with clear reluctance, he withdrew them.
“Don’t you dare stop,” she whispered, the words a breathy command as she pushed back emphatically, ensuring he felt the full, velvety squeeze of her channel.
“Not a chance, mother,” he murmured against her skin. His eyes lifted to the array of bottles and jars lining the vanity’s lit shelf. His gaze, usually so fixed on lines of code or the curve of her body, scanned the elegant labels. He knew her routine. It was a liturgy of care he loved to participate in, a way to worship the canvas of her.
His fingers closed around a sleek, frosted glass bottle. A hyaluronic acid serum, viscosity like silken water. He popped the dropper free with a soft click that seemed loud in the humid air.
“Tip your head back a little for me, mum,” he said, his voice soft.
She complied, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat. The motion caused a subtle, delicious shift inside her, and she hummed in approval. He leaned in, the hard plane of his chest pressing against her back, his cock a firm, unyielding anchor within her. With meticulous care, he placed a single, glistening drop of the serum onto the center of her forehead. Then another on the tip of her nose, one on each cheekbone, and a final one on the point of her chin.
The serum was cool, a startling contrast to the heat blooming across her skin. She sighed as he set the bottle down and brought both hands to her face. His touch was feather-light at first, using only his fingertips to dot the serum across her skin. Then, employing the practiced, upward strokes he’d learned from watching her a hundred times, he began to massage it in. His thumbs swept from the bridge of her nose out over her cheekbones. His index fingers traced her jawline. His palms cradled her face, applying gentle pressure.
All the while, she moved. That slow, hypnotic undulation of her hips never ceased. It was the baseline of their reality, the steady beat under his tender ministration. The obscenity of the act—his thick cock stretching her asshole wide—was woven seamlessly into an act of pure, adoring beauty.
“Your skin is so soft,” he whispered, his eyes intent on his work. He smoothed the last of the serum into her temples. “Like you’ve never seen a day of sun.”
“I haven’t,” she breathed, her eyes closed in bliss. “Not without SPF fifty, anyway. Your hands feel better than any facialist’s, baby.”
He smiled, a private curl of his lips she couldn’t see but could feel in the softening of his touch. He reached for the bottle again. “Neck and décolletage,” he stated, as if reading from a manual.
He dispensed more of the clear liquid, this time dabbing it along the column of her throat, in the hollow of her collarbones, and then generously over the magnificent, full swell of her breasts. He placed the bottle down and began to work.
This was different. His hands were no longer just precise; they were worshipful. He smoothed the serum over her throat with gentle sweeps, then moved lower. His palms covered her breasts completely, his fingers splaying to encompass their heavy curves. He worked the serum in with slow, circular motions, his thumbs paying special attention to the delicate skin just above her nipples, which hardened instantly into tight, pebbled points under his attention.
“Oh, God, Ethan…” she moaned, her head lolling back against his shoulder. Her rocking became less rhythmic, more a series of shallow, needy grinds. “That’s… that’s heavenly.”
“You’re heavenly,” he replied, his voice husky. He kneaded her flesh, not with sexual urgency, but with a deep, appreciative reverence. He felt the solid weight of her, the perfect give of her skin, the way her body yielded to his hands even as her body milked his cock. He spent long minutes on her chest, ensuring every inch was slick and glowing, the serum catching the morning light and making her skin gleam like pearl.
When he was finally satisfied, his hands slid down, over the rapid flutter of her heartbeat beneath her ribs, over the quivering muscles of her abdomen, to the rich, full curve of her hips. He squeezed there, loving the handful she gave him. “Turn around, mum,” he murmured, his lips at her ear. “Let me get your back.”
She made a sound of protest, a soft whimper at the thought of disconnection. “Do I have to?”
“Just for a minute. I’ll be right back where I belong. Promise.”
With a sigh of profound reluctance, she slowly, slowly lifted herself off him. The separation was a profound, empty coolness for both of them, a sudden void where there had been perfect, heated fullness. She turned, leaning back against the vanity, her eyes dark and wanting. He was magnificent, hard and glistening, standing before her. She reached for him instinctively, but he caught her wrist, bringing her fingers to his lips for a kiss.
“Patience,” he chided gently. “Let me take care of you.”
He guided her to turn fully, so she faced the mirror, her back to him. He nudged her feet apart with his own. “Bend over a little, love. Hold the edge.”
She did, presenting herself to him, to their reflection. The sight was breathtakingly lewd. Her ass, full and high, was still visibly relaxed, the pink furl of her anus slightly distended and glistening from their long union. He took the serum bottle once more and dripped a liberal amount down the length of her spine. The cool liquid made her gasp and shiver. He followed its path with his palms, spreading it over her shoulder blades, down the elegant groove of her spine.
His hands were strong, kneading the tension from her muscles with a firm, knowing pressure. He worked over her lower back, his thumbs digging into the dimples at the base of her spine. She groaned, a sound of pure, physical relief. “Right there, son… yes.”
He hummed in acknowledgment, his focus absolute. He smoothed serum over the magnificent swell of her buttocks, his hands sculpting each globe, massaging the potent, yielding flesh. He took his time, his touch thorough and possessive. He traced the crease where her ass met her thigh, and finally, with a touch so light it was almost a whisper, he spread a tiny drop of serum around her tender, used opening. She jerked at the intimacy of it, a sharp, pleasurable shock that made her clench around nothing.
“Ethan…”
“Shhh,” he soothed. “Almost done.”
He set the serum bottle down with a final, definitive click. He stepped close, his body aligning with hers once more. Without hesitation, he guided himself back to her entrance. They both let out a shuddering, synchronized sigh as he pushed forward, sinking into that sublime, welcoming heat in one slow, inexorable stroke until he was fully seated, his hips flush against the backs of her thighs. The feeling of re-completion was so intense it bordered on spiritual.
“Oh, fuck… yes,” she breathed, her eyes rolling back for a second before she refocused on their reflection. Him, behind her, inside her, his hands on her hips. Her, bent over, utterly taken, utterly cherished.
He began to move, not with the frantic pace of earlier, but with the same slow, deep rolls she had set before. It was his rhythm now, but it was a mirror of hers—a languid, endless claiming. He kept one hand splayed on the small of her back, holding her in place, while the other reached for the next product: a rich, creamy moisturizer in a heavy ceramic jar.
He dipped two fingers into the unguent, scooping out a generous dollop. He started again at her face, now slightly tacky from the serum. The cream was richer, warmer. He dabbed it on the same points and began to work it in, his movements even slower now, more luxurious. The scent of shea butter and vanilla filled the air, mixing with their own musk.
“You treat me like a goddess,” she whispered, watching his focused face in the mirror. Her voice was thick with emotion. “No one… no one has ever taken care of me like this.”
“You are my goddess,” he said simply, his gaze meeting hers in the glass as he smoothed cream over her eyelids. “This is my worship.”
He moved to her neck, then her chest. Applying the moisturizer was a more sensuous affair than the serum. It required more pressure, more lingering contact. He massaged it into the tops of her breasts, then took their full weight in his hands, working the cream in with slow, circular presses of his thumbs, coating every inch, making her skin glow with a supple, dewy sheen. Her breaths came in short, sharp hitches, her hips pushing back against his steady, penetrating thrusts.
“Thank you,” she moaned, the words barely audible. “Thank you for loving me like this. For wanting me like this.”
“Always,” he vowed, his own breath starting to shorten. The combination of sensations was overwhelming: the visual feast of her body under his hands, the incredible tight, wet heat gripping him, the smell of her and the cream, the soft, slutty sounds of her pleasure. “Always, mother.”
His cream-slicked hands journeyed down her body again, over her stomach, leaving shiny trails. He applied more cream to the elegant wings of her hip bones, massaging it into the soft flesh of her lower belly. He took another scoop and devoted himself to her ass, his hands sliding and gliding over the generous curves, his fingers digging in to work the cream deep into the muscle. Every stroke of his hands was mirrored by a stroke of his cock, a dual penetration of care and possession.
He was hardening further, if that were possible, thickening inside her. She could feel it, the gradual, insistent swell that promised the massive, filling release she craved. But this wasn’t about that climax. Not yet. This was the long, sweet road to it.
Finally, his hands empty, he placed them back on her hips, his grip firm. He leaned over her, pressing his chest to her slick, creamy back, his mouth finding her ear. His thrusts remained deep and slow, each one a perfect, full-stroke caress of her deepest places.
“You are so perfect,” he gritted out, the control in his voice fraying at the edges. “This ass… this perfect, filthy, beautiful ass was made for me. My cock. My loads.”
“Yours,” she gasped, meeting his every movement. “Always yours, son. Only yours. It’s… it’s all for you.”
The confession shattered something in her. The last vestige of pretense, the ghost of any other identity—the model, the widow, the mother—melted away under the golden morning light and the relentless, tender fullness of him. There was only this. Only the feeling of being meticulously, exquisitely cared for, while being thoroughly, shamelessly fucked. It was the ultimate contradiction and the ultimate truth of her life.
She gave in.