Chapter 79: Solar Devotion
The first peach-gold light of dawn found them still tangled on the velvet bedding, a mess of limbs and dried sweat. The city’s endless hum had shifted from a nightclub bass to a waking industrial purr. Ethan stirred first, the cool morning air raising goosebumps on his skin. Olivia was a warm, heavy weight against his side, her breathing deep and even, one hand possessively curled over his hip.
He watched the light paint the sharp angles of her face, the famous sweep of her cheekbone, the relaxed softness of her lips. Even in sleep, utterly wrecked, she was breathtaking. He felt himself stirring against her thigh, a low, persistent thrum of want that never really slept, only dozed. It was a constant undercurrent to his existence now, this pull towards her.
He shifted, and she murmured, nuzzling into his chest. Her eyes fluttered open, those vivid greens clouded with sleep, then clearing into immediate, warm awareness. A smile touched her lips, lazy and satisfied.
“Morning, baby,” she whispered, her voice raspy from the night’s use.
“Morning, Ma.”
Her hand drifted from his hip, trailing through the coarse hair there, until her fingers found what was already waiting for her. She wrapped her hand around him, still soft but thickening rapidly under her touch. She gave a slow, firm stroke, and he hardened completely in her grasp.
“Eager,” she noted, her smile turning wicked.
“Always for you.”
She pushed herself up on one elbow, the blanket sliding down to her waist. The dawn light gilded her breasts, casting long shadows in the valley between them. She looked down at his cock, standing proud from his body, and her expression was one of pure, covetous delight. “Mine,” she said, simply.
Then she slid down the bedding, her movements sinuous and deliberate, until she was kneeling between his legs. The cool air kissed her back, her ass, but she paid it no mind. Her world had narrowed to this: the scent of him, sleep and sex and musk, the heavy weight of him in her hand, the silky head already beading with a drop of clear fluid. She leaned forward, and before taking him in her mouth, she pressed a soft, closed-mouth kiss to the tip, catching that pearl on her lips.
He groaned, a low, rough sound that vibrated in the quiet morning. His hand came to rest on her head, not guiding, just connecting.
“You remember last night?” she asked, looking up at him, her cheek resting against his thigh. “Up here? The whisky?”
“Every second,” he said, his fingers threading through her hair. “Felt you all night in my dreams. Felt how tight you were.”
“I can still feel you,” she confessed, her breath hot on his skin. “A lovely, deep ache. A reminder.” Then she opened her mouth and took him in.
It was a slow, devotional act. She didn’t swallow him whole immediately. She worshipped the head with her tongue, tracing the ridge, flicking the slit, her lips forming a perfect, tight ‘O’ as she worked him with a gentle, sucking pressure. Her eyes stayed locked on his, watching his reactions, learning what each tiny movement did to him. She loved this power, the power to unravel him with her mouth.
“God, Mum,” he breathed, his head falling back against the pillow, his hips giving an involuntary little jerk.
She took that as encouragement and sank deeper, her jaw relaxing, her throat opening. She’d had years of practice, since his late teens, turning a mother’s comforting kiss into this. Now, she was a virtuoso. She took him to the root, her nose pressed into the tight curls at his base, and held him there, humming softly until he trembled. Then she pulled back, a long, slick slide, until just the head remained between her lips, swollen and wet.
“You taste like me,” she said, popping off with a soft sound. “Like us. From last night.”
“You taste like heaven,” he countered, tugging gently on her hair. “Come here. I want to kiss you.”
She crawled up his body, aligning herself over him, and lowered her mouth to his. The kiss was deep, languid, tasting of sleep and him. He could feel the hard points of her nipples brushing his chest, the heat of her core against his stomach. He broke the kiss, trailing his lips down her neck to her chest.
“My turn,” he murmured, and took a nipple into his mouth, suckling hard while his hand kneaded the other breast. She cried out, back arching, grinding herself against his abdomen. For long minutes, the rooftop was silent save for her sharp gasps and his wet, hungry mouth on her flesh.
But her need was elsewhere. She pushed at his shoulders gently. “Later,” she panted. “Right now, I’m greedy. I need this.”
She slid back down, resuming her position on her knees. This time, there was less ceremony. She took him in hand, angled him towards her face, and leaned in. But instead of taking him in her mouth, she pressed his cock between her breasts. They were more than ample, soft and heavy, and she squeezed them together, creating a slick, warm channel of flesh. She looked up at him, her expression one of playful sin.
“You like that, son? Your mother’s tits around your cock?”
He could only nod, words stolen by the sensation. She began to move, sliding him through that heavenly vise. The view was obscene and beautiful: his thick, ruddy length glistening as it emerged from the pale, generous cleavage of a world-famous supermodel. She watched it too, fascinated, her tongue darting out to lick the head each time it appeared.
“Used to feed you with these,” she mused, her voice a husky thrill. “Now look at them. Perfect for fucking. Isn’t that funny?”
“Not funny,” he grunted. “Perfect.”
She increased her pace, her breasts swaying with the motion. The friction was incredible, soft and firm all at once. He knew he wouldn’t last long like this, not with her looking at him with such unabashed lust. He reached down, thumb finding her clit as she worked him. She gasped, her rhythm faltering.
“Don’t stop,” he commanded gently. “Keep going. Come for me while you tit-fuck your son.”
The filthy words, said with such tender authority, pushed her over the edge. Her breasts clenched tighter around him as a sharp, sudden orgasm ripped through her. She cried out, a short, sharp sound that echoed off the rooftop glass, her body shaking, her nails digging into her own flesh. She rode the waves, her movements becoming erratic, milking him with the convulsions of her pleasure.
Feeling her come undid him. The tight, hot coil in his belly snapped.
“Ma, I’m gonna–”
She didn’t let him finish. In one fluid, desperate motion, she released her breasts, took his cock in her hand, and guided it back to her lips. She swallowed him down just as the first pulse hit the back of her throat.
It was, as always, a flood.
The first spurt was thick and sudden, painting the inside of her mouth with the familiar, musky tang of him. She swallowed eagerly, her throat working, but he was just getting started. The second volume was larger, a gush that filled her mouth to overflowing. She pulled back slightly, letting the excess spill from her lips, a white rivulet tracing her chin. The third, the fourth, they kept coming, a seemingly endless geyser. She opened her mouth wider, letting it splash over her tongue, her teeth, coating her chin and neck. She was laughing around him, a gurgling, joyful sound, her eyes sparkling with tears of happiness and effort.
Finally, the torrent subsided to a few last, weak pulses. She cleaned him with her tongue, soft and thorough, until he was soft and sensitive in her mouth. She sat back on her heels, a masterpiece of debauchery. His spend was smeared across her lips, her chin, dripping onto her chest and between her breasts. She looked utterly used, and utterly radiant.
She wiped a finger through the mess on her chin, brought it to her mouth, and sucked it clean. “Breakfast,” she declared, her voice hoarse.
He laughed, a breathless, spent sound, and reached for her, pulling her up to lie beside him. He kissed her, tasting himself on her tongue. They lay like that for a while, catching their breath as the sun climbed, turning the sky from peach to hard blue.
Her stomach growled, loudly.
“I’ll make pancakes,” she said, untangling herself.
“I have a ten o’clock stand-up with the Singapore team,” he reminded her, though his hand trailed down her back, reluctant to let her go.
“Plenty of time,” she said, standing and stretching, a long, naked line of flawless skin against the morning sky. She padded towards the rooftop door, her ass swaying. “Come keep me company.”
He followed her down into the penthouse, through the minimalist luxury of the living room, into the vast, professional-grade kitchen. She moved with a domestic grace that always struck him as surreal. Olivia Hayes, face of a dozen global campaigns, moved to pour coffee and crack eggs with the same effortless poise she used on a catwalk.
He sat on a stool at the island, watching her. She was still naked, splotches of his drying release on her skin. She didn’t wash it off. She wore it like a badge.
“So, the boardroom today,” he said, sipping the coffee she placed before him.
“Mmm,” she hummed, whisking batter. “I’ll be thinking of this. Of your taste. It’ll make the quarterly revenue forecasts much more interesting.”
“Think you’ll be sore?” he asked, a teasing note in his voice.
She turned, leaning back against the counter, fixing him with a look. “A little. In the best way. A secret I get to carry all day. A little ache, right…” she shifted, pressing a hand low on her belly, “…here. To remind me who I belong to.”
The way she said it, so matter-of-fact, so content, sent a fresh jolt of desire straight through him. He was hard again, just like that. She saw it, her eyes dropping to his lap, and a slow smile spread across her face.
“Insatiable boy,” she murmured, but it was pure praise.
She turned back to the griddle, poured circles of batter. The scent of vanilla and cooking butter filled the air. He came up behind her, pressing his renewed erection against the cleft of her ass. He wrapped his arms around her waist, his hands covering hers on the spatula.
“You’re distracting the chef,” she said, but she leaned back into him, grinding softly.
“I’m appreciating the chef.” He kissed her shoulder, her neck. “Let me help.”
They cooked the pancakes together, his hands guiding hers, his body a warm presence at her back. It was profoundly intimate, this simple act performed in the nude, him hard against her, both of them sticky from their earlier union. She flipped the pancakes with a practiced flick.
When they were done, she piled them onto two plates, drowned them in maple syrup, and led him to the breakfast nook by the floor-to-ceiling windows. They ate with their fingers, feeding each other messy, syrupy bites, laughing when it dripped. He leaned over and licked a drop of syrup from the valley between her breasts, then