Chapter 91: Morning Indulgence
The shock of cold glass against her fevered cheek was a sudden, grounding contrast to the heat flooding her from within. Olivia gasped, her breath fogging a small circle on the balustrade as the world tilted, the panoramic sweep of Hyde Park swinging dizzyingly into view hundreds of feet below. The wrought-iron railing, etched with delicate florals, pressed a intricate pattern into her soft belly as Ethan leaned over her, his body a solid, encompassing weight.
He had carried her from the steamy bathroom on unsteady legs, their skin still glowing and damp, directly to the private balcony. The golden hour had descended, bathing London in a honeyed, dreamlike light. The city sprawled before them, a tapestry of sandstone and glass, with the emerald expanse of the park stretching out like a rumpled velvet blanket. The Serpentine was a slug of molten copper, dotted with tiny, oblivious ducks.
She had barely registered the chill of the evening air on her wet skin before his hands were on her hips, turning her, positioning her. He guided her forward until she was bent at the waist, her palms flat on the cool, rain-speckled metal of the railing. Her full breasts swung heavily beneath her, a thrilling vulnerability coursing through her as she heard the soft rustle of the sheer, golden silk curtains billowing around them.
She felt him behind her, the thick, blunt pressure of him nudging at her slick entrance. There was no preamble, no gentle seeking. He knew her readiness, a fact written in the tremble of her thighs and the soft, open sigh that escaped her lips. With one hand gripping the swell of her hip, the other splayed possessively on the small of her back, he pushed forward.
The invasion was slow, deliberate, and utterly consuming. A low, drawn-out moan tore from her throat, part strain, part profound relief. He filled her completely, a stretch so perfect it bordered on pain before melting into a deep, radiating pleasure. He was embedded in her, a foundational part of her balance as she stared down at the ant-like people strolling along the paths far below.
“Christ, mother,” Ethan groaned into the nape of her neck, his breath warm against the damp tendrils of her hair. He didn’t move, just held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting them both adjust to the sheer audacity of the act—exposed to the skyline, connected in the most primitive way.
“Don’t you dare stop,” she whispered, the words carrying on the updraft. Her fingers tightened on the railing. “Don’t you dare.”
He began to move. A slow, testing withdrawal, then a smooth, powerful return. The rhythm was instantly deep, a piston-like cadence that sent shudders through her frame with every impact. Her eyes fluttered closed, then snapped open, determined to watch the world while her world narrowed to this single, shattering point of connection.
To her left, balanced precariously on the flat top of the railing, was her mimosa. The champagne flute, beaded with condensation, stood next to a small dish of olives. The pale orange liquid trembled with each of his thrusts, sending minute ripples across its surface.
“Look at that,” Ethan grunted, his pace steadying into a relentless, perfect tempo. His voice was rough, close to her ear. “You’ve got a steady hand.”
She laughed, the sound breathy and fractured. “It’s not… ah!… it’s not my hand doing the work, baby.” The view before her swam—the distant arch, the green trees, the tiny glowing headlights beginning to speckle the streets. His grip on her hip was iron, his other hand moving to tangle in the hair at the crown of her head, not pulling, just holding, grounding her in the storm he was creating.
The sensations built, a familiar, coiling heat in her core that spread outwards like a dropped stone sends ripples through a pond. Her moans grew less contained, rising in volume, punctuating the steady, wet slap of their joining. She was loud, unashamed, her cries swallowed by the vastness of the cityscape. Let them hear, she thought with a delirious spike of defiance. Let all of London hear.
“Close,” Ethan snarled, his control beginning to fray. His thrusts became harder, less measured, driven by a need that was pushing past the brink of restraint. “I’m right there, mum.”
Her own climax was a tidal wave gathering force, triggered by the raw, desperate edge in his voice. She knew what came next. It was always immense, a flood. An idea, absurd and perfect, cut through the haze of her pleasure.
With a trembling hand, she reached for the champagne flute. The crystal was cool and slippery. She clutched it, her knuckles white, as Ethan’s movements turned frenzied.
“Now!” he roared, his body locking against hers in a rigid arch.
It was her cue. She shifted her weight, angling her body just so, bringing the rim of the flute beneath her, between her legs, just as he pulled back one final, shuddering time.
The release was not a single event but a catastrophic series of them. She felt him convulse inside her, a deep, internal pulsing, and then the hot, liquid surge. It was too much, too fast. He withdrew completely, and with the loss of that internal pressure, the first thick, pearlescent rope jetted forth, not into her, but through the air, splashing with a startlingly loud plink into the mimosa. The second followed, and a third, a torrential, continuous stream that filled the glass with shocking speed, the clear champagne darkening, frothing, swirling with the intrusion.
She held the glass steady, her arm trembling not from effort but from the aftershocks of her own orgasm, which ripped through her in silent, wrenching waves, making her knees buckle. Ethan stayed behind her, one arm wrapped around her waist, holding her up as he continued to empty himself into the vessel she offered. It went on and on, the sound changing from liquid hits to a softer, frothing sizzle as the flute filled to the brim.
Finally, with a last, few weak spurts that landed on her thigh, it was over. He slumped against her, his forehead slick with sweat pressed between her shoulder blades, his breathing a ragged sawing in her ear.
For a moment, they remained frozen, a statue of debauchery against the sunset. Then, slowly, Olivia lifted the champagne flute. It was warm in her hand, the contents now a cloudy, ochre-tinged cocktail. She turned her head, looking at her son over her shoulder, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her face.
She stirred it with her index finger, making a slow, deliberate circle. Then, holding his gaze, she raised the glass to her lips.
She took a long, slow sip. Her throat worked as she swallowed, her eyes never leaving his. The taste was complex, acrid and salty, cut through with the bright, sweet tang of orange juice and the dry, celebratory fizz of champagne. It was them, distilled into a single, blasphemous drink.
She finished it, licking a stray drop from her lower lip with a deliberate swipe of her tongue. She winked.
“Delicious,” she pronounced, her voice hoarse. “A bit… robust for a mimosa, though. More of a Sunday brunch drink.”
Ethan stared, his expression a mixture of awe, revulsion, and utterly primal arousal. He let out a shaky laugh, his arms tightening around her. “You’re fucking insane.”
“I’m yours,” she corrected softly, leaning back into him. She set the empty flute back on the railing with a soft clink. The park below continued its serene existence, the lovers strolling, the ducks paddling, completely unaware of the depravity that had just been consecrated high above them.
The chill finally seeped into their sweat-slicked skin, prompting a retreat from the balcony’s edge. They moved as one entangled unit, stumbling through the billowing silk curtains back into the warm, lamp-lit embrace of the suite. The transition from the vast, public sky to the intimate, opulent room was jarring, like stepping out of a myth and into a decadent reality.
Olivia’s legs were unsteady. Ethan guided her to the deep, plush velvet couch that faced the wall of windows, the twilight view now a spectacle of glittering city lights. She sank into the cushions with a luxurious sigh, her body humming, every nerve alight and satisfied yet already whispering for more. The lazy, post-coital lethargy was a trap she never fell into; with him, it was merely a prelude.
“Fetch my tablet, baby?” she murmured, stretching her arms above her head, the movement making her breasts lift and sway. “My schedule for tomorrow. It’s on the nightstand.”
Ethan padded across the thick rug, naked and unselfconscious, his body a masterpiece of lean muscle in the low light. He returned with the sleek device, handing it to her before settling at the other end of the couch. He reached for the silver coffee pot that had been left on the low table, alongside the remnants of their earlier feast. He poured a cup, the rich, dark aroma joining the scents of sex and night-blooming jasmine from a hidden diffuser.
Olivia swiped the tablet awake, her brow furrowing in concentration. The soft blue glow illuminated her face, highlighting the elegant planes of her cheeks, the swollen redness of her lips. She was the picture of sophisticated focus, a businesswoman reviewing her agenda. Except she was also completely nude, her skin marked with the faint red imprints of his fingers on her hips, the sticky evidence of his passion drying on her inner thighs.
Ethan watched her, sipping his black coffee. The contrast was utterly intoxicating.
After a minute, she shifted, laying the tablet flat on the cushions beside her hip. “The car is coming at eight for the initial fitting,” she said, her voice all business. “Then a luncheon with the Vogue editors at The Ivy. Photoshoot at three in the studio in Shoreditch. It’s a long one. They want the ‘golden hour’ lighting, so we’ll run late.”
As she spoke, she slid down the couch, her body elongating until her head was in his lap. She didn’t look up at him, her eyes still scanning the screen she now held in one hand. With the other, her fingers drifted to his softness, resting heavily against his thigh before curling around him.
He stiffened under her touch, the response instantaneous.
“Hmm,” she hummed, a distracted, approving sound. Her thumb stroked the sensitive skin, her gaze still on her schedule. “Good.”
She bent her head, and without ceremony, took him into her mouth.
Ethan’s breath hitched, his hand jerking slightly and sloshing coffee over the rim of his cup. He watched, mesmerized, as her lips, still puffy from his kisses, stretched around his girth. Her head began a slow, languid bob, her technique all deep, wet suction and gentle, swirling tongue. It was lazy, almost absent-minded, as if she were idly sucking on a candy while reading a particularly dense report.
He reached down with his free hand, his fingers threading gently into her silken hair. He didn’t push, didn’t guide. He simply rested his hand there, a point of connection, feeling the motion of her head, the pull of her mouth. He took another sip of coffee, the bitter heat a perfect counterpoint to the wet, silken heat engulfing him.
She read aloud, her voice slightly muffled. “Confirm hair and makeup team for shoot. Note: Damian wants the crimson Galliano gown for the final series. Check with logistics about transport for the archival pieces.” She punctuated the last word with a particularly deep swallow, taking him to the back of her throat and holding him there for a long, pulse-throbbing moment before releasing him with a soft pop.
“Fuck, mum,” he breathed, his head falling back against the cushions.
She ignored him, scrolling with her finger. “Evening is open,” she continued, her tongue tracing a vein along his underside. “Dinner reservations at Marcus Wareing’s at eight. Two-top by the window.” She took him in again, her pace increasing infinitesimally, a subtle building of rhythm. Her moans began then, soft, melodic vibrations that travelled straight through him. They were not cries of passion, but thoughtful, almost conversational hums of pleasure. “Mmm. That’s a late dinner. We’ll have time… mmm… to come back here first. Maybe a bath. Mmm-hmm. Oh, this lace they’re using is divine, but it’s scratchy. Note to ask for a lining.”
He was hardening fully now, thickening in her mouth until her jaw had to stretch wider. Her sounds grew more pronounced, little greedy noises of satisfaction that had nothing to do with the text on her screen and everything to do with the weight and taste of him on her tongue. She was multitasking in the most obscene way possible, and the sheer normalcy of it, the domesticity layered over the deviance, was unraveling him.
His coffee was forgotten, cooling on the table. His focus narrowed to the top of her head, the way her hair fanned out across his thighs, the slow, sensuous movement of her shoulders, the delicious, filthy sounds of her mouth on him. The pressure in his lower abdomen shifted, deepened. It wasn’t the urgent need for release, but another, more basic urge.
He kept his voice casual, a low rumble. “Thirsty?”
She made an affirmative sound around him, “Mmm-hmm,” and nodded slightly, her attention seemingly on a paragraph about fabric swatches.
He let his head loll back, closing his eyes for a second. Then, he let go.
It wasn’t a flood, but a strong, steady stream. The warm liquid hit the back of her throat without warning.
Olivia’s body stiffened for a fraction of a second, her eyes widening above the tablet screen. There was a pause, a millisecond of pure surprise. Then, instinct or habit or sheer, bottomless devotion took over. Her throat worked in a smooth, practiced swallow. Once. Twice.
She didn’t pull away. She didn’t gag. She simply accepted it, her moan turning into a different, deeper hum of acknowledgment. She kept sucking, gently, rhythmically, as he gave her what he had to give. It was an offering, not an assault. An intimacy more profound in its unspoken simplicity than any kiss. A sharing of his most basic self.
When the flow eased, she finally released him, pulling back with a soft, wet sound. She licked her lips, a thoughtful expression on her face, as if sampling a fine wine. She glanced up at him, her eyes clear and calm. She reached for her own abandoned water glass from the table, took a sip, swished it in her mouth discreetly, and swallowed.
“You could have warned me,” she said, her voice perfectly even, as she set the water glass back down.
“Would you have said no?” he asked, his voice rough.
She gave him a small, enigmatic smile, then looked back at her tablet. “The caviar blinis are a must at Marcus’s,” she said, as if the previous thirty seconds had not occurred. “And the pinot noir he pairs with them is supposed to be exquisite.”
She bent her head again, taking him back into her mouth with renewed, focused intent. The reading stopped. The pretence of distraction fell away. Now it was just her and him, her head in his lap, her mouth working with a purpose that was both loving and covetous. Her hands came up to cradle his sac, her fingers applying a gentle, rolling pressure