Master Chef
Page 20
It felt as though I had an out-of-body experience. Falling away from myself and crashing back only to be overwhelmed with the sensation and fleeing once more. Through it all, Ethan thrust into me, his breath coming heavy, his hand reached down to press the plug deep into me as he continued to bury himself to the hilt.
When my orgasm finished he was nearing his end, his breath ragged, his thrusts coming with an almost halting rhythm. Just hearing him like that had me ready again, and I moaned as he bent to close his teeth over my nipple, rolling it between them, his tongue flicking out to tease me. He released me with a wet sucking sound and, voice raspy, asked, “Are you close again?”
I could barely form a thought, so caught up in the movement and the feel of everything—my hands and feet bound, both my holes filled, and the feel of his talented lips on my breast. I rolled my head so that I could look at him, “Yes, sir, yes, I’m close.”
“Come with me,” he demanded, his hands coming to my hips, pulling me close. “I’m almost there. Come with me.”
Our eyes held each other’s as his breath began to come in gasps. He lost control, his pelvis slamming into mine, and just as I felt the first edge of his orgasm, saw it in the lines of his face, I came undone once more. We came together, our cries echoing, the name of the other on our lips.
Ethan half-collapsed atop of me, breathing ragged. I wanted to run my hands down his back, but I was trapped. I started to giggle and he raised his head, his eyes finding mine. He smiled. “What is it?”
“I can’t move,” I gasped, his weight partly crushing me. “Get off.”
“Is that any way to talk to your man?” He asked, teasing, but he rose off me. He undid my restraints and eased the plug out of my ass, tossing it onto the sheets. He took me in his arms and I relaxed into him, my breath easing out in a contented sigh. He ran his hand over my hair, again and again, the motion soothing. I had never thought someone would like my hair. Ethan had proved me wrong.
After a good ten minutes had gone by in silence, I said, “I really do need that shower now.”
Ethan laughed and let me go, “Go ahead, my love. Do you want me to help you?”
“No,” I said, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, “I just need to figure out how to walk again, that’s all.”
He smiled at me, pleased, and eased back into the bed. “Have a good shower.”
I blew him a kiss and went to get cleaned up. I took my time under the hot spray. I heard Ethan moving around but knew he was just cleaning up. He was a stickler for cleanliness with bedroom activities, a trait that I admired and considered a necessity.
I dried myself and put on my crimson robe, the one that I had picked with half a mind toward him before we had even started sleeping together. It was one of Ethan’s favorite things to see me in, not just because of the easy accessibility but because he said the color went so well with my skin.
I opened the door to the bedroom and stopped dead.
Red rose petals were scattered over the floor, leading in a trail to the great room. I hesitated before stepping on them. What was this? Valentine’s Day was over long ago, not that we even celebrated with both of us recuperating from our injuries, but still...
I walked over the petals. They felt like silk against my bare feet.
When I opened the door to the great room, I was greeted with the warm glow of dozens of candles. They were set on the counter, on the mantle place, and every other flat surface in sight. The trail of rose petals ended at the faux mantelpiece, where Ethan stood.
His back was to me, a single rose held in his hand. He half turned when he heard my approach, and smiled when he saw what I wore. “I always love that color on you,” he said. “It’s the same color as the roses.”
I smiled, “Thank you.” I motioned to the flower in his hand, “What is all this?”
He faced me. He wore one of his softest pair of at-home pants and a well-fitted black shirt that hugged his muscular torso. He motioned to the couch, “Please, sit.”
I sat, crossing my legs and accepting the rose when he offered it to me before he sat on the opposite side. “What are you doing?” I asked, my voice a little breathier than I would have liked.
“I need to talk to you about something. Something very important.” He took a deep breath and reached across the couch toward me. I met his hand, lacing our fingers together. “I want to know if you would consent to be my wife.”
I choked, then let out a single bark of laughter, and shook my head. “You’re joking. You want me to be your wife? Have you met me? I’m a disaster magnet.”
“Not when it comes to me,” he argued. “Veronica, with you I’ve become my best self. I have friends, a life, a purpose to every day. I look forward to speaking to you, to telling you what happened. I want you to know my life. I want to know yours. We’re stronger in this world together. You are my perfect fit.”
My mouth fell open, and for a long moment I could think of nothing to say. And then, “Yes.” I licked my lips, and said a little louder, “Yes. I will be your wife, Ethan Craymore. It would by my honor.”
He smiled and took my left hand, sliding the ring onto my finger. It was an absurd center diamond flanked by two flawless deep red rubies. It fit. He rose and pulled me to him, kissing me.
“Good,” he said. “I was afraid I was going to have to hold you to your promise.”
I blinked at him, dizzy with what had just happened. I was going to spend the rest of my life with him. Of course. I had known that, hadn’t I? I had known it from the first moment we said, ‘I love you.’
“What promise?”
He leaned forward and whispered, “That you would do anything if I let you come.”
The End
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I’d like to thank my family for being so incredibly patient while I’ve undertaken this new endeavor. There isn’t enough alcohol in the world to scrub the mental images from your brains, but I promise to hold your hands through any future therapy sessions.
Thank you to my friends for their words of encouragement, and help with research. Sometimes I’d wondered if I’d lost my mind, but you helped steer me back on track. I won’t ever forget that.
Thanks you to my old writers group. While they weren’t here for this journey, they helped me become a better writer over the years, and I’m eternally thankful.
And lastly, thank you, dear reader, for taking a chance by reading this first book. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
About the Author
Danielle Berggren is a writer residing in Kansas City, Missouri. Born and mostly raised in the San Francisco Bay Area, California, Danielle has lived in three different states and moved more than thirty times in her life.
You can find her most active on Facebook, though she does have an Instagram and a Twitter account as well. Every week or two she also updates her blog, A Human in Progress, with short articles about politics, mental health awareness and, of course, writing.
Danielle lives with her husband, two dogs, and a cat. If you want to reach her, she would love to hear from you. Feel free to e-mail her at: daniellesberggren@gmail.com
Find more here:
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http://www.danielleberggren.com