Chapter 98: London Lullabies
The champagne bubbles had settled into a pleasant hum in her veins, and the sweetness of strawberries lingered on her tongue. Olivia lay sprawled across Ethan’s chest, tracing idle patterns through the soft hair there, listening to the steady, post-prandial rhythm of his heart. The cart of demolished breakfast sat by the window, a testament to their indulgences. Sunlight, now high and clear, painted warm rectangles on the rumpled bedding.
His hand stroked her bare back, a slow, soothing motion.
“Think they’ll need the cart back soon?” she murmured, her voice drowsy.
“They can wait.” His fingers traced the line of her spine, down to the swell of her ass, and gave a gentle, possessive squeeze. “We’re busy.”
She giggled, nuzzling into his neck. “Doing what? Recovering from a waffle overdose?”
“Recovering,” he agreed, his hand stilling on her backside. “Stockpiling energy.”
“For?”
He didn’t answer with words. Instead, his other hand, which had been resting on her hip, slid around to the front, his fingers brushing through the neat, shaven triangle of hair before dipping lower. He found her entrance, not the one he most frequently used, but the other. It was already slick, hot, welcoming. A low, appreciative rumble echoed in his chest under her ear.
“You’re always ready,” he whispered, his voice thick with a lazy kind of wonder. He circled her clit with a feather-light touch, making her gasp and arch against him.
“For you? Always.” She shifted, pushing herself up onto her elbows so she could look down at him. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with a desire that never seemed to fully bank. “What’s on your mind, baby?”
A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. “That second wind you mentioned. And a certain… continuation of earlier themes.”
Her brows furrowed playfully. “Themes? We’re writing a thesis now?”
“An experiential one.” His finger slipped inside her, just to the first knuckle, and she moaned, her head dropping forward. “About capacity. And warmth.” He withdrew his finger, bringing it to his lips to taste. “About shared spaces.”
Understanding dawned, warm and liquid in her gut. The memory of the dawn, the shocking, giggling intimacy of it, flashed through her. Her breath hitched. “Oh.”
“You giggled so much,” he said, his smile softening into something unbearably fond. “You snorted. I felt it. Felt you shake around me.”
“It was ridiculous,” she breathed, but she was smiling too, a giddy anticipation starting to flutter in her chest.
“It was perfect.” He moved then, gently shifting her off his chest. He sat up, his back against the ornate headboard, and pulled her to him, guiding her to straddle his lap, facing him. Her knees sank into the soft mattress on either side of his hips. They were nose to nose, his hands on her waist. He was already hard, the thick, impressive length of him rising between them, pressing against her belly. “Let’s be ridiculous again.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He reached for the bottle of water on the nightstand, took a long swig, then offered it to her. She drank, the cool liquid a contrast to the heat building inside her. He took it back, drained the rest, and set the empty bottle aside with a soft clink.
“Come here,” he murmured, his voice a low command she felt in her marrow.
She knew what he wanted. She shifted back, her hands braced on his muscular thighs, and guided him. Not to her slick, ready entrance, but lower. To the other, tighter, more secret place. The place that felt more like his than her own. She positioned the broad, plum-shaped head against her backdoor, which was still loose, tender, and welcoming from the morning’s thorough use. With a sigh that was pure contentment, she sank down.
It was a slow, breathtaking descent. There was no resistance, only a deep, stretching fullness that unfolded within her inch by glorious inch. He was so big, and the feeling of being opened so completely, so familiarly, made her dizzy with pleasure. She took him all, until she was seated fully in his lap, his pelvis pressed against the curves of her ass, him buried to the root inside her. A full, deep breath shuddered out of her.
“God,” she whispered, her eyes closed, her head falling back.
“Home,” he corrected softly, his hands coming to rest on her hips, his thumbs making slow circles on her skin. He didn’t move. Just let her adjust, let them both feel the perfect, tight fit. After a moment, he began to rock her, just a subtle, tiny motion. A gentle seesaw of her hips that made his cock glide frictionless inside her. It was pure sensation, a deep internal caress.
Then he stilled again. His expression was one of intense, quiet concentration. His gaze was locked on hers, a soft, loving smile playing on his lips. Beneath her, within the hot, tight clutch of her body, she felt a change.
It started as a different kind of pressure at the very base of him, a gathering tension deep in his core that transmitted through his cock into hers. It wasn’t the rhythmic throbbing of impending orgasm. It was a steady, building fullness from within him, a pressure seeking release through a different pathway.
Her eyes widened. The flutter of anticipation became a flock of birds in her chest. He was going to do it again. Right now. While she was impaled on him, looking into his eyes.
A giggle escaped her, a burst of nervous, thrilled energy. “You’re not.”
“I am,” he said, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of controlling the flow. His hands tightened on her hips. “Just relax, ma. Let me love you.”
The pressure intensified. It became a distinct, liquid expansion at the root of his cock, a hot ballooning feeling deep inside her cavity. It was the most peculiar, intimate sensation—feeling him swell not with blood, but with something else, feeling that warmth begin to seep around the solid intrusion of him, filling the space he’d carved for himself.
The giggle turned into a snort of pure, incredulous laughter. “Oh! Oh, you’re… you’re starting!” She could feel it now, a trickle of heat, a spreading wetness that was entirely internal. “You’re really doing it!”
His composure broke into a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Told you.” He let go a little more. The trickle became a stream. A steady, hot, endless stream flooding into her. It wasn’t a burst; it was a long, continuous pour, as if he’d been saving it all morning just for this. The heat was astounding, a scalding, liquid rush that filled her up from the inside out, surrounding his embedded cock with a bath of impossible intimacy.
She threw her head back and laughed, a full-throated, joyous sound that echoed in the sunlit room. Her body shook with it, her internal muscles fluttering and clenching around him in rhythm with her mirth, which only made the stream hitch and pulse, eliciting a groaned laugh from him in return.
“It’s so hot!” she squealed, giddy and overwhelmed. She rolled her hips, a slow, experimental grind, and the liquid inside her sloshed audibly, a warm, internal wave. The sound set them both off again. They were laughing together now, a tangled, connected mess of hilarity and heat. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes. “You’re peeing in my ass! Oh my God, Ethan! It’s still going!”
“I had… a lot… of champagne!” he got out between gritted teeth and chuckled breaths, his body trembling beneath her with the effort of sustained release and shared laughter. The flow was copious, unbelievable. She felt her insides distending, a warm, heavy fullness blooming low in her pelvis. She looked down between their bodies, and yes, there was a slight, firm swell to her lower abdomen. She placed a hand over it, feeling the warm, liquid-filled bulge.
“Look at me!” she cried, between giggles. “I’m puffing up! You’re filling me like a water balloon!”
“A beautiful balloon,” he gasped, his own laughter subsiding into breathless pants. The stream finally, mercifully, began to taper, ending with a few last hot spurts that made them both jump and then dissolve into fresh giggles. He was spent, empty, collapsed back against the headboard, his chest heaving. He was still inside her, now the central pillar in a warm, secret lake. “Christ, mum.”
She was breathless, wiping tears from her eyes, her body still humming with the aftershocks of laughter and the profound, weird fullness. She wiggled again. A distinct, warm slosh answered the movement. The sensation was surreal. “I can hear it,” she whispered, giggling anew. “If I move, it goes glug.”
“Prove it,” he challenged, his eyes bright.
She rocked her hips forward, then back. A distinct, liquid slosh-slosh accompanied the motion. They both cracked up again, their laughter easier now, saturated with a shared, secret delight. The smell, musky and organic and intimately theirs, rose between them. He didn’t seem to care. He just looked at her, his gaze so full of love and adoration it made her heart ache.
“My ridiculous, perfect girl,” he murmured, reaching up to cup her cheek. His thumb stroked away a remaining tear of laughter.
“Your ridiculous, full girl,” she corrected, shifting again. The slosh was louder this time. The warmth was spreading, a cozy, internal heat that seemed to radiate through her whole body. The stretch of him combined with the liquid pressure was an overload of sensation, dense and consuming. “So… what now?”
“Now,” he said, his hands settling on her hips with firm intention, “I believe I owe this ass a proper, slow fucking.”
He began to move her. Not with a frantic pace, but with an immense, deliberate slowness. He lifted her, an inch, two, the withdrawal dragging a wave of warm liquid with it, creating a incredible suction. Then he lowered her, guiding her back down onto him, her body accepting him slowly, the hot, liquid barrier parting for his girth before closing around him again.
Slosh-squelch.
The sound was obscene. Hilarious. Deeply erotic.
Olivia moaned, her laughter melting into a sigh of profound pleasure. She placed her hands on his shoulders for leverage and began to move with him, finding the rhythm. Up, a slow, dragging ascent, feeling the internal tide follow. Down, a gradual, sinking impalement, the warm liquid pushed ahead of his invasion, only to swirl back around him.
“Oh, fuck,” she breathed, her head lolling forward. The giggle was still in her voice, but it was underpinned now by a growing, dizzying pleasure. “It’s like… it’s like fucking in a hot spring.”
“A private spring,” he grunted, his eyes glued to where their bodies joined, to the slight swell of her belly. His hands guided her pace, keeping it a lazy, rolling undulation. “All mine.”
The heat was constant. The sloshing was a rhythmic, wet soundtrack. The stretch of him was a familiar, beloved burn. It was too much. It was everything.
She leaned down, capturing his mouth in a deep, messy kiss. She could taste the champagne, the strawberries, and underneath it, the unique, musky taste of him, of them. He kissed her back hungrily, his tongue delving as deep as his cock.
When she broke the kiss, she was panting. “I love you,” she blurted out, the words torn from her by the overwhelming singularity of the moment. “I love you so much it makes me crazy. It makes me let you do things like this.”
“I love you more,” he whispered, his thrusts deepening slightly, his hands sliding up to grip her breasts. He kneaded them, his thumbs scraping over her nipples. “I love you enough to want to be inside you in every way possible. To share everything with you. Even this.”
His words, raw and sincere, unraveled her completely. The last vestige of laughter transformed into a cresting wave of emotional and physical rapture. The slow, deep, sloshing rhythm of his fucking, the intense fullness, the smell, the feel of his hands on her—it coalesced into a peak that approached not from a point, but from everywhere at once.
It started in her full belly, a deep, rolling convulsion. It spread through her pelvis, clenching around his cock in powerful, gripping waves. It radiated down her thighs and up her spine, leaving her trembling and blind. She cried out, a sound that was half-sob, half-song, her body bowing as the orgasm swept through her with a slow, devastating force.
He held her through it, his movements becoming shallow, grinding pulses, helping her ride out the endless waves. “That’s it, ma… let it go… feel it all…”
As her contractions began to ebb, he took over. His hands clamped on her hips, and he began to fuck up into her with more purpose, but he maintained that same torturous slowness. The sloshing became churning. The warm liquid was now a heated maelstrom around his driving cock. His breath sawed in and out of his chest, his forehead pressed against her collarbone.
“Gonna come,” he warned, his voice a ragged scrape. “Gonna fill you up… on top of everything else… gonna pump you so full…”
“Yes!” she urged, her own voice weak, spent. She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on as he plunged deeper, faster, though still far from frantic. It was a slow, pounding inevitability. “Do it, son… give it to me… mix it all up inside me…”
With a guttural roar that was pure release, he slammed her down onto him and held her there, his body rigid. She felt the familiar, incredible swelling, the pulsing, thickening bulge at the root of his cock. Then came the hot, thick flood.
It was, as always, a torrent. A seemingly endless eruption of his essence, hotter and denser than the liquid already there, jetting deep into her core. She felt her insides being painted, filled, claimed anew. The pressure built exponentially. Her already-distended belly tightened further, swelling noticeably under his hands. He groaned with each pulse, a sound of profound relief and possession, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips.
It went on for what felt like minutes, a continuous, hot injection that left her feeling utterly and completely stuffed. When the last few spurts shivered through him, he collapsed back, pulling her with him, so she lay sprawled on his chest, both of them slick with sweat and other fluids, breathing in ragged, broken sync.
He was still hard inside her. Still full. She was beyond full. She felt like a vessel at capacity, a warm, weighty, liquid-heavy weight settled deep in her pelvis. She couldn’t move. Could only lie there, feeling the hot, mingled contents of her body shift minutely with each breath he took.
The room was quiet except for their panting. The city’s noise was a distant, unimportant murmur.
After a long while, he stirred. His hands, limp at her sides, came up to stroke her hair. “Okay?” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
She managed a weak nod against his chest. “Mmm. Waterlogged.”
He chuckled, the movement making the liquid inside her slosh gently. “Good.”
They lay in silence, letting the sun bake them, letting the extraordinary intimacy settle into a comfortable, sticky reality. The smell was strong now, pungent and animal, but it was their smell, the scent of their shared, secret world.
Eventually, the practicalities nudged at her. “We’re making a mess of the sheets. Again.”
“They’re paid to clean them.”
“Still.” She reluctantly pushed herself up. The movement triggered a warm gush that seeped out around him, onto his thighs and the bed beneath. She didn’t stop. She carefully lifted herself off him, a slow, slippery separation. A much more substantial flow followed, soaking the sheets in a wide, dark patch. She stood on shaky legs, feeling empty and wonderfully, deliciously sore.
He lay there, watching her, a look of sated wonder on his face. He was a mess, gloriously so.
“Shower?” she asked, though it was less a question and more a statement of inevitable necessity.
“In a minute.” He reached for her hand, pulling her back towards the bed. Not to the wet spot, but to the cleaner edge. He guided her down, onto her back, and then moved over her, caging her with his arms. He was still hard. Still eager.
He kissed her, a slow, deep, tasting kiss. “I’m not done,” he murmured against her lips.
“You’re insatiable.”
“For you? Yes.” He shifted, his hand guiding himself back to her, not to her slippery, spent front, but back to the well-used, tender, and now empty back door. He pushed the head against her. She was loose, open, utterly receptive. He slid in with one smooth, slow stroke that made them both sigh.
He didn’t move. Just rested there, buried inside her, looking down at her. The sun lit his hair like a halo, a stark contrast to the dark, devouring hunger in his eyes.
“My mother,” he said, the words a reverent prayer.
“Your son,” she answered, her hands coming up to frame his face.
He began to move then, a slow, deep, timeless rhythm. There was no sloshing now, just the wet, intimate sound of his cock gliding in her well-loved channel, the creak of the bed, their mingled breath. It was a fuck of reclamation, of gentle reaffirmation after the strange, watery intimacy that had preceded it. He kissed her as he moved, sweet, lingering kisses on her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids.
They didn’t speak much. Words had been spent. This was the