Deck the Palace (A Duched Series Holiday Novella), page 8
Wonderfully enough, Kristopher Kenningston, the future king of this country, has always understood the assignment.
Never missed a note.
Never failed a random pop quiz.
Which is rather outstanding after this many years together.
My husband’s tongue suddenly stiffens and savagely darts against the tight ring of freshly washed muscles causing my bent knees to buckle and another round of moans to reverberate around our palace bedroom.
“Yes,” I pant at the same time I lower my extended tongue to lap up the spit, pre-cum mixture cascading down his cock. “Have me.” Deep, guttural groans of approval rattle through him into me. “Have all of me, babe.” They increase in power alongside an arse pop. “Every little millimeter.”
More than up for the task, the only man I’ve ever loved – will ever love – curls the muscle.
Tilts it to one side.
The other.
Tilts it back.
Slaps me on the curve of my cheek once more and begins ferociously spinning his tongue in circles, barely giving the rarely stretched territory any sort of reprieve.
It’s not like I’m a prude or have anything against arse sex.
It is just simply not quite feasible when you have two very active children that take locked doors as challenges to get through rather than boundaries to respect.
I blame my brother-in-law.
I cannot prove it is his fault; however, he cannot prove that it isn’t.
Dragging the filthy mixture around his shaft so that it slickens every possible centimeter allows me to admire the way he noticeably gets harder and his bullocks seem to grow heavier and his thighs appear to flex tighter.
Lordsandladies, do I love being the reason he is barely holding on by a thread.
Harshening my hold is followed by my palm sloppily sliding up and down.
Up and down.
Steadily working faster and faster and faster until the pace of my hand matches that of the tongue fucking, I am receiving.
Arching my back into his brazenness simply makes the tan skinned, muscle bearing man, even more shameless in his pursuit of an orgasm.
He’s always been shameless.
Selfless.
His self-imposed “my lady has to come first policy” is not one he takes lightly.
I can count on one hand – and still have fingers left over – the number of times he has finished before I did.
And to “apologize” for “committing such a blunder”?
He doubled the climaxes, meaning I got four instead of the usual two.
Yes.
Two is my usual.
At least with him.
The man has a mouth modeled after a sex toy and a dick that would probably be in porn if it were not for the fact, it was already earmarked for producing royal heirs.
All of a sudden, one hand slides off of my behind to allow two fingers to glide themselves to the deepest drenched depths possible.
“Ohmyg-” isn’t granted a proper opportunity to escape due to them sliding out in order for a third to join them on the next thrust. “Kris!”
He happily hums and forcefully heaves them forward a second time, anxious to hear me scream even louder.
Talk about a luxury.
Most of our sessions now require me to screech into a pillow or have underwear jammed in my mouth.
Again.
Not that I am complaining.
I do like those things.
I just happen to like calling out his name as well.
Rather than gather a second load of spit, I simply let a steady stream dribble across his tip, teasing his swollen head, summoning more precum to join it.
To slip through the slit.
Skid down to his balls that are clenching up, begging to be bathed.
Unable to resist, I creep forward just enough to capture one in my mouth.
The instant it’s there, Kris’s mouth falls from my arse to cry out, “Fuckkkk, Soph.” Fierce shudders only push me to suck harder. “More.” His hips lift as his fingers dive deeper. “Both.”
Fulfilling the request isn’t denied.
Nor is it difficult.
I lower my jaw further, resting my face just enough on his leg to properly seize both nuts at once. Their smoothness – which is the man grooming he prefers – sashays across my tongue, slowly soaking in the pool of spit, determined to be drenched and drowned and irrefutably dilapidated before leaving the white-hot confines of my mouth.
“Bloodyhell, it must be close to Christmas,” he rumbles in ecstasy while levitating off the bed a second time. “Keep going, sweetheart.” The feeling of his bollocks clenching together threatens to have my own orgasm rushing to greet his fingertips. “I wanna see my load dripping off your fucking chin.”
The notion.
The action.
The filth.
All of it spurs more spit to emerge, and my fist to pump faster.
And faster.
And faster.
To abruptly execute a smooth whirl of my thumb around the slick tip of his cock that yet again threatens to be his undoing.
“You want that load, sweetheart?” my husband delivers a swift, sopping, swipe to my arsehole. “You come on my face, and I will come on yours.”
Dirty dealings.
These are the only types of those I actually like.
Whimpers morph into headier moans when he resumes his gluttonous gorging. Licks transition into twists, twists transpose into twirls, twirls transform into untamed thrusts that have me incessantly bucking back into them, desperate for the pressure.
The friction.
Obsessed with being split and filled in multiple holes all at once.
Mirroring his devotion stroke for stroke and suck for suck keeps shudders shooting through his system, doing the pleasure-filled shouting his mouth cannot.
Each tremble tells me to work my tongue faster.
Curl.
Roll.
Waggle.
And every one of those actions leads to him becoming more unhinged.
Devouring sloppily.
Smashing his face into my sensitive bits to the same steady speed he’s fucking me with his fingers.
Simultaneously, it’s all too much yet all too little.
At least until one finger slips out to feverishly brush my clit.
That caress…that singular…well-timed with his tongue and hand touch causes me to completely shatter.
Toe curling pulsations begin pumping around his fingers, steeping them in scorching hot stickiness as howls of his name crash against his spit-soaked bullocks. Despite my screeching and shaking and surrender, the man I married doesn’t surcease.
He becomes completely feral.
Flattens his tongue.
Laps and laps and laps.
Redirects his mouth to my pussy and laps at it.
And the edge of his fingers.
And then dives his wet muscle deep inside to finish his self-anointed task of licking them.
Being so crazily ravished encourages me to do the same by sucking his balls with more vigor.
I periodically pull back to spit, roll it around with my finger, my face, and then resume using my tongue, keeping no predictable pattern or plan, which winds every centimeter of him tighter and tighter and tighter until he violently combusts.
On a powerful grunt, his face finally separates from between my thighs in order for his words to be heard. “Fuck, Soph!”
Searing spurts rush from the tip, landing on my cheek, summoning me to reposition.
To extend my tongue out for the tasting and elongate my neck for the marking.
Thick, white glops savagely splatter themselves across my lips, preparing to deliver on the request Kris made just moments ago.
You know I understand that the depravity we dabble in isn’t everyone’s style; however, it is ours.
And in spite of the fact there are many, many things we do not agree upon, I am grateful to say our sex life has never once encountered such a thing.
Not even when I requested that he wear my panties for a day back in uni.
He wore a tiny, bright pink thong under his khakis, and I used my teeth to remove them during a house party that night.
Wild times.
Much wilder than now; although, occasionally equally as messy.
Without verbal warning, I’m thrown onto my Jessica Rabbit tattoo bearing back.
Straddled.
My open mouth isn’t granted permission to even consider moving courtesy of Kris’s tongue diving inside. He tangles his with mine and mine instantly submits, gifting him with the salty glory that’s still lingering in tandem with taking the one he’s delivering. Hungry groans escape each of us over our own flavors and accelerate the feverishness of our movements.
Movements like my fingers tugging at his dirty blonde hair and his toying with my pink nipple.
Movements we need to cease now before we are late to the afternoon festivities.
Gently nudging him back precedes a whisper, “We should stop.”
“Should we?” my husband devilishly retorts, tongue lowering to lick the white reward off my chin. “Dearlord, you look incredible in my cum.” Salacious twinges suddenly occur between my thighs. “And my spit.” He licks away the fresh amount he left behind while cleaning up the remains of his orgasm. “And the mixture of them together…”
I helplessly moan prior to taunting, “You say the sweetest things to your wife.”
“I do,” he lightly chuckles between nips at my neck.
Another whimper escapes alongside the lifting of my hips, a combination that I know we don’t have time to get into.
Especially considering there’s something I need to tell him.
“Kristopher…”
While the tone may be unsteady, his full name does the trick.
It always has.
Same goes for our son Keegan.
When he hears that instead of Little K, we are provided with his full, undivided attention.
“Oh,” his pouting looks remarkably identical to our daughter, Olivia’s, “you’re serious?”
“Yes.” Allowing my palms to lovingly glide down his firm chest precedes me adding, “We will need to rinse off – again – and I would actually like to finish my tea before we go downstairs where we will be inevitably forced to chug back whatever concoction FJ has whined his way into convincing Elliot to craft.”
“Last night it was Apple-Ginger Moscow Mules.” The man I am not certain I could live without carefully crawls off of me. “Mixed reviews all around.” When he’s completely removed from underneath the silk bedsheets of our palace bed, it’s practically impossible not to moan under my breath at the sight of his firm, muscular ass. “FJ swears mixology is his calling.”
“Last year he swore baking was calling and forced us to choke down burnt, vegetarian minced meat tarts, with the burnt portion actually being the only part of the creation that was edible.”
Light chortles escort him across the room to our ensuite bathroom.
“And the year before that he swore topiary was his calling forcing us all to take awkward photos near greenery that looked more like Santa’s nob than a candy cane.”
His laughter increases around the dampening of a washcloth.
“Oh, oh, and the year before that, he swore duck herding was his calling.” An eye roll filled with mirth is accompanied by a headshake. “I about lost it listening to your uncle repeatedly joke about him getting his ducks in a row.”
“Yes,” Kris continues snickering during his return, wet object in hand, “that was…odd…even by eccentric aristocracy standards.” He lowers himself onto the side of the bed and leans over to lovingly cleanse my skin. “Between you and I? I think he is a bit lost.”
“Like…marbles?”
“Like…no idea who he is…” the gentle cleaning persists, “or who he wants to be or even bloody hell where he wants to be.” Kris uses the edge of his index to delicately tip my chin to the ceiling. “I believe all of these are simply him searching for answers.”
“Has he tried Google?”
Swallowing his snigger is barely done.
“That seems like a cheaper and less invasive option than gaslighting your relatives into supporting your whims of supposed self-discovery.”
“I have a sense that Father would like me to have a word with him about it.”
“Oh?” I wait until he’s wiping his own face to investigate further. “What gave you that impression?”
“He said it.”
“In those words?”
“In those exact words,” Kris warmly chortles and lowers the cloth to wipe his junk. “Thankfully, Elf was beginning and Little K needed assistance relocating his sleeping bag away from one of the twins who had bit him twice already.”
“Ki.” A sympathetic cringe is presented. “That lad is in his Jaws era for certain.”
“Remember when Little K went on a biting rampage?”
“Stopped when he bit a pepper.”
“Perhaps…?”
“I will pass along the suggestion to Brie.”
Kris smiles, winks, and wanders off to dispose of the towel in the laundry basket.
I am fortunate in the in-law department.
Kellan is that troublemaking mate you know you will always have a ball with – whether its pints or puzzles – Brie has this strange way of bringing out the woman hear me roar side of myself – that pushes me to challenge myself whenever possible – and Kenneth constantly reminds me that no person should be an island in spite of the fact he is.
That he has been since Hannah died decades ago.
She is who our daughter is named after.
The stories I have heard and still hear to this day are so incredible I often wonder would she have approved of me when we first got together?
When I was still in uni rapping Missy Elliot and rage singing Alanis Morissette karaoke at keggers and refusing to let her son pay for my tomato mozzarella pan bagnat when my money worked just as well?
Would it have bothered her that I am half-American?
Would it not even have played a factor?
Would she approve of me now?
As her daughter-in-law – who is unapologetic about the way she does not let people devalue her opinion on important topics like human rights and climate change and the importance of historical accuracy?
As the woman for her first born – whose name is tattooed along the back of her thighs so that he can admire the view whenever I’m bent over?
As the mother to her grandchildren – that she lets simply be kids by enrolling them in weird shite like book bonding classes and toddler t-ball rather than polo and tap classes?
You know, it is odd longing for the approval of someone who is deceased.
However, I do.
Perhaps because her presence is very much still felt.
Alive.
And as the next queen of Doctenn, I want to know I can measure up to what the world is literally expecting.
What our great country is loudly anticipating.
I do not want to stumble or sully her infamous name.
God, how is it being a princess has become increasingly more difficult with age?
“Your tea, sweetheart,” Kris lovingly offers the mug that the house staff slipped on the warmer while we were in the shower.
“Thank you,” quietly escapes prompting his brow to scrunch together.
“You have something on your mind,” he announces as he slides back into bed beside me. “Is it The Valentine’s Day Ball again?” Kris extends his arm around my shoulder so that I brace myself against him rather than cushioned headboard. “I swear to you I will submit our plans by the twenty seventh. There will be plenty of time to discuss the changes.”
Nervousness over the discussion that needs to be had increases despite me trying to bury it between sips of my beverage. “It’s not that.”
“Is it about the New Year, New Brunch event, Father is hosting at the restaurant to support vets in search of job opportunities?”
“No.”
“My birthday? Are you no longer interested in visiting Japan?”
“Relax, Kris.” Amusement appears in my espresso shaded gaze at the same time it finds his blue. “We are still booked for a trip to the Shin-Yokohama Ramen Museum.”
“I cannot wait to eat so much uninterrupted ramen,” he warmly chuckles.
“I prefer you slurp me; however, I am comfortable enough in this marriage to occasionally share you with a bowl when your brother is not around.”
“How does one individual just so happen to have that many blowjob jokes in their cue?”
“A younger brother’s job is never done,” teasingly escapes on a smirk.
I know mines aren’t.
I do miss them.
I enjoy when they are able to join us for the events but completely understand not everyone can put their lives on hold to put on what is starting to feel like an overdone Christmas play each year.
Except this one.
No.
Brie’s mastery of merging her traditions with what’s available here has managed to restore a bit of the actual connection that has been missing.
I plan to keep that torch lit next year when the responsibility – unfortunately – returns to us.
“Is it the year end paperwork for the charity?” my husband resumes guessing as opposed to waiting for an answer. “Or our interest in expanding cancer aid services? Or the latest clinical trial results?”
“No. I-”
“Are concerned with the uni students looking after all of the kids on their own? Because they are not completely on their own. While Lena took a shift to help last night, Georgia swapped out with her this morning.”
Georgia Woodward is the best bloody nanny a person could ever ask for.
And Lena?
Very, very close second.
They are both reliable.
Supportive.
Have this way of letting us raise our children the way we intend and insist on backing our rules rather than what they personally feel or would do in the same situations.
Advice is also offered; however, only when requested.
Neither feel like “mom understudies”, which is undeniably appreciated.
