Chapter 93: Fun
The closet was a world of whispered textures and muted light, a velvet-lined cocoon that held the essence of her. Perfume hung in the air, a complex bouquet of jasmine and skin, underpinned by a deeper, more intimate musk that clung to the silk of a discarded robe. Ethan’s hands were on her hips, his grip firm and possessive as he moved behind her with a slow, inexorable rhythm.
Olivia braced herself against the back wall of the closet, her forehead pressed to the cool mirror of the door, her breath fogging the glass with each soft, punched-out exhale. One hand was splayed against the mirror for balance; the other sorted absently through a rack of dresses, her fingers drifting over silk, chiffon, and crepe. The selection was a distraction, a focal point for the part of her mind not completely consumed by the deep, stretching fullness in her rear.
“This one,” she murmured, her voice strained but focused. She hooked a finger around the hanger of a sleeveless, emerald-green column dress. “For the Vogue fitting. Too severe?”
Ethan didn’t answer immediately. He was buried to the hilt inside her, seated deeply in that tight, clenching heat he loved more than any other. He paused there, letting them both feel the absolute connection, the way her body hugged him so perfectly it felt like a second skin, tailored just for him. He leaned forward, his chest pressing into her bare back, and nuzzled into the crook of her neck. He was rock-hard, throbbing, but his movements were patient, almost lazy.
“It’s… elegant,” he finally managed, his voice a low rumble against her ear. His hands slid from her hips up to her waist, then higher to cup the heavy, swaying weight of her breasts. He kneaded them softly, his thumbs circling her nipples until they pebbled into tight peaks. “But you’ll make it look like sin.”
She smiled, her eyes closing for a moment as he rolled her nipples between his fingers. A soft moan escaped her. “That’s the idea, baby.” She pushed back against him, a slight, inviting roll of her hips. “Keep going. Just… just like that. Slow.”
He obeyed, withdrawing almost completely before sinking back in with a smooth, practiced glide. The pace was agonizingly deliberate, a torturous build of sensation that had her thighs trembling. Each inward stroke was a claim, each withdrawal a sweet, empty promise of return.
It was then, suspended in this liquid slow-motion, that her phone began to vibrate on the velvet-padded bench beside them. The screen lit up, casting a blue glow over a spill of lace lingerie. Olivia glanced down, her gaze hazy.
“It’s… it’s mum,” she breathed, reading the caller ID. “Eleanor.”
A wicked, delighted spark lit in her eyes. She looked back at Ethan over her shoulder, her lips curved in a smile that was both devious and tender. “Answer it.”
Ethan paused mid-stroke, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before melting into amusement. He reached for the phone, his movements careful so as not to disrupt their connection. He swiped to answer and put it on speaker, setting it back on the bench so the camera faced them, capturing their lower halves and the intimate join of their bodies from a low, revealing angle.
“Darling!” Eleanor’s voice, crisp and cultured with its lingering Scottish lilt, filled the perfumed air. “Did you get my message about the— Oh. Goodness.”
Olivia bit her lip, a stifled giggle shaking her body, which in turn made Ethan groan as she tightened around him. He resumed his slow movement, in and out, a relentless tide.
“Hi, Gran,” Ethan said, his voice remarkably steady considering the circumstances. He kept one hand on Olivia’s hip, the other continuing its gentle assault on her breast.
“I… see I’ve interrupted something,” Eleanor said, and there was no disapproval in her tone, only a dry, knowing curiosity.
“Not at all,” Olivia replied, her voice hitching as Ethan chose that moment to sink particularly deep. “We’re… multi-tasking. What did you think of the video?”
There was a pause on the line. On the bench, the phone screen showed Eleanor’s face—elegant, lined with the grace of her seventy years, her silver hair impeccably coiffed. Her expression was one of thoughtful appraisal.
“The cinematography was a touch shaky,” she said finally, her tone that of a critic reviewing a short film. “But the content was… visceral. Very raw. The lighting from the balcony was quite dramatic on your skin, Olivia. And Ethan, dear, your… performance was commendably sustained.”
Ethan chuckled, the sound vibrating through Olivia’s back. He increased his pace slightly, a fraction more urgent, as if encouraged by the review. “Thanks, Gran. Mum makes it easy.”
“She does, doesn’t she?” Eleanor agreed warmly. “I always said she had a preternatural talent for presentation. Even as a girl. Though this is a rather… specialized application.”
Olivia’s head fell forward as Ethan’s other hand slipped down from her breast, over the flat plane of her belly, finding the aching nub of her clit. He began to circle it with a firm, rhythmic pressure. “Oh, god,” she whispered, then louder, forcing her voice into a semblance of conversational normalcy. “So… the green one? You think?”
“For the Vogue fitting?” Eleanor considered. “Too on-the-nose, darling. It screams ‘model’. You want to whisper it. Try the burgundy Vera Wang. The one with the keyhole back. It hints at mystery. Though from my current viewpoint, mystery seems rather thoroughly off the menu.”
Olivia laughed, a rich, gasping sound. She reached back with her free hand, grasping at Ethan’s thigh, her nails digging in. “Burgundy. Yes. Okay.” Her words were starting to fracture. Ethan’s fingers on her clit were a precise, devastating counterpoint to the deep, stretching fullness in her rear. Her knees felt weak.
“Is he treating you well, my dear?” Eleanor asked, her voice softening.
“So… so well, mum,” Olivia choked out. “He’s… he’s fucking me so slowly. It’s… it’s exquisite.”
“Language, Olivia,” Eleanor chided mildly, but there was laughter underneath. “But I’m glad. Ethan, are you taking care of her?”
“Always, Gran,” Ethan said, his breath coming quicker now. He was watching their joined bodies in the mirror, watching himself disappear into her, the sight made lewd and beautiful by the context of his grandmother’s voice discussing dress choices. “Making sure she… feels everything.”
“Good boy,” Eleanor said, and the approval in her voice was genuine. “A man should be thorough. Now, about the Cannes invitation next month. I need your measurements, Ethan, for the tuxedo fitting. I’m pulling some strings with Armani.”
“Mm. Can it… wait?” Ethan managed. He was beginning to lose his battle for steady, measured strokes. The twin sensations—the visual, the physical, the illicit auditory feed of his grandmother’s voice—were coiling a spring low in his belly. He drove into Olivia a little harder, earning a sharp, keening cry from her that she quickly muffled by biting her own wrist.
“I suppose it can wait a few minutes,” Eleanor replied, and the sound of a teacup being set on a saucer came clearly through the speaker. “Don’t let me rush you. These things require a certain… dedication to completion.”
The conversation, so bizarrely normal yet so profoundly twisted, continued. They discussed fabric choices for the Cannes gown (“Not white, Olivia, you’ll look like a wedding cake”), the weather in Nice (“Promise me you’ll wear sunscreen, you Scots-born heathen”), all while Ethan fucked Olivia’s ass with a relentless, building intensity. He talked to his grandmother about his work, about the new project he was coding, his sentences punctuated by the soft, wet sounds of their joining and Olivia’s increasingly desperate, muffled noises.
He kneaded her breasts, pinched her nipples, whispered filthy encouragements in her ear— “Take it, mother. Take all of me. You’re so tight, so perfect for me.”—all while discussing the merits of Italian wool versus British tweed with Eleanor.
Olivia was ascending, her body a live wire of conflicting sensations. The deep, full ache of penetration. The sharp, bright sparks from her clit. The surreal normality of the conversation. It was overwhelming. Her fingers scrabbled against the mirror.
“Ethan… I can’t… I’m going to…” she whimpered, the words meant only for him.
“Not yet, mum,” he growled softly into her ear, slowing his hips again to that maddening, glacial pace. He removed his hand from her clit, leaving her trembling on the precipice. “We’re not done. Gran’s still here.”
He was right. Eleanor was describing a new recipe for apricot tarts. Olivia focused on the sound of her mother’s voice, using it as an anchor to keep from splintering apart. She let it wash over her, the domestic cadence a surreal contrast to the blatant, pounding fact of her son buried inside her.
Ethan reached down and picked up the phone. He held it now, angling the camera up. It captured Olivia’s flushed, beautiful face, her lips parted, her eyes glazed with unshed tears of pleasure. It captured his own face over her shoulder, jaw tight with control.
“See?” he said to the screen, his voice thick with effort. “We’re good.”
Eleanor’s face filled the screen, her gaze sharp and perceptive. She looked at her daughter’s ecstatic, struggling expression, then at her grandson’s possessive, heated one. A slow, soft smile spread across her elegant features.
“You are,” she said simply, her voice warm with a deep, unshockable love. “You look after each other. That’s what matters.” She took a sip of what was undoubtedly Earl Grey. “Now, for heaven’s sake, put the phone down and finish what you started. I’ll email you the tux measurements form. Call me later, darling.”
She blew a kiss to the screen and ended the call.
The screen went black, leaving them in the sudden, profound quiet of the closet, broken only by their ragged breathing.
Ethan placed the phone slowly back on the bench. He looked at Olivia’s reflection in the mirror, her eyes now wide and fixed on his.
“Now,” he whispered, his hands returning to her hips with a new, fierce certainty. “Where were we?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He pulled her back onto him, hard, burying himself to the root in one swift, brutal stroke that knocked the air from her lungs in a sharp cry. The slow, gentle fuck was over. What followed was a deep, powerful, claiming rhythm that had her screaming into the mirror, her world dissolving into nothing but the feeling of him, the scent of them, and the sound of skin meeting skin in the velvet dark. The conversation was over. The performance was over. All that remained was the truth of it, raw and unmediated, and they lost themselves in the storm of it, the phone lying forgotten beside them, its screen dark and silent.