I sense him shift his weight. There’s silence then a pop. I jump. "What the—?"
"Relax," he laughs. "Thought the occasion called for some bubbles, don’t you think?"
I worry my lower lip. Should I agree? I swallow and my throat protests. Cold, bubbly champagne. I hadn’t managed to nick a glass at the wedding— at my own wedding. I worry the ring on my left ring finger. The weight is already familiar. Damn, that’s not good. I won’t be wearing it for much longer, after all.
The sound of liquid hitting a glass reaches me. My tongue swells. I lick my lips.
"Want a sip, darlin’?"
It’s fine. It won’t hurt. Besides I could do with some Dutch courage about now. "Yes, please."
"You’re forgetting something."
Am I? What… Oh! "Yes, please, Sir!"
"That’s my girl."
I flush. Shit, why does that make me so happy? I’m not going to pander to the ego of this over-the-top, tyrannical, motherfucker of a guy who is…my husband. Bloody hell. "Can I get that champagne?" I whisper.
"Of course."
His footsteps grow closer. Something cool touches my lips. The cold liquid fills my mouth. Bubbles break on my tongue. Yum. I swallow it down, open my mouth again. More of the bubbles flow in, overflow my chin. Coldness hits my chest.
"Oops."
More liquid slides down my skin. I shiver.
"Sorry, babe."
"No, you’re not." I lick the remaining liquid from my lower lip.
"Do that again and I won’t be responsible for what happens next."
"Oh," I swallow.
"Not that either," he groans. "When you form your mouth into that shape, all I can think of is having it wrapped around my cock."
Wetness pools between my legs...and it’s not from the champagne. My nipples pebble and my sex clenches. I chafe my thighs, try to hold in the ache. Shit, this is crazy. Perhaps it’s the forced not-being-able-to-climax thing that has me wound so tightly. I am on the edge of the precipice. One more touch, one more caress of those fingers in the most intimate of my places, one more kiss, one more nip on my clit, a tug on my nipples and I’ll shatter.
"Saint," I whine.
"I know."
A wetness curls around my nipple. I gasp, "What are you doing?"
"What does it feel like?" He licks the cold champagne off the curve of my breast.
I whimper.
He swipes his way down the underside of my breast. His large palms descend on either side of my hips. He holds me down as I mentally follow the progress of his tongue, down my belly, to my navel. He dips his tongue inside my belly button. My pussy seems to fold in on itself.
"Damn you," I huff.
He nips on the sensitive skin above my pussy. I jump.
"You’re forgetting something again, babe."
Right.
He presses a kiss to the top of my aching, throbbing, trembling core.
"Say it. Go on."
"Damn you, Sir," I snarl.
"Good girl." He drags his chin across my clit. I shudder. Omigod. That was… That is… Oh! He rubs his whiskered skin straight down my lower lips. My thighs spasm and my scalp tingles. Goosebumps pop across my skin. "Please, Saint."
"You’ve got a choice now."
"I do?"
I sense him nod against my core. "You answer my questions correctly and I’ll let you come. Get them wrong and… Well… You’ll have to find out what happens then." He nips on my clit, I moan. Hell, this… This is torture. This is heaven. This, with his face between my thighs as he presses a soft kiss to my dripping cunt. As he licks up my cum from the inside of my thigh, then straightens to press his lips to mine. "Open."
I oblige, and he slides his tongue inside my mouth. The taste of me, of him, of the lingering tang of the champagne, goes straight to my head.
When he tears his mouth from mine, I sway toward him, seeking more, wanting more.
"Saint," I huff, "Please, Sir, please."
He laughs. "Do you hear yourself, little Gigi? You’re too greedy."
"I’m not."
"Yep, you are." The heat of his body recedes and a cry escapes my lips. I strain against my restrains. Reach out with my leg, feeling for him, searching for him.
"Now. Now." He clicks his tongue. "I promised to take care of you, didn’t I?"
I nod.
"I’ll give you what you’re aching for, but first you need to answer a few questions."
"What the fuck, Saint?" I cry out. "Another bloody riddle?"
"You know I can’t live without them."
"I thought you weren’t dependent on anything or anyone," I pout.
"Indulge me on this one."
"Like I have a choice?" I toss my head.
"You do. Of course, you do."
Not. He knows it. I know it. So why the bloody hell is he pretending otherwise?
"Ask your stupid questions," I mumble.
"You hungry?"
"Is that the question?"
"Yes."
I pause, tilt my head. "Is this a trick? So help me, Saint, if it is—"
He pops a cracker, topped with something savory, into my mouth. I crunch down. Flavors explode on my tongue. Yum. I crunch down the food. Then open my lips. "More."
"First tell me what that was."
"That’s what you want to know?"
I sense him nod.
Silence stretches. I run my tongue over my teeth, suck down the taste, "That was…hummus?"
"Well done, Gigi."
His footsteps thump on the carpet. Then another cracker is placed on my tongue. This one is slathered with something pungent, sharp, salty. The taste overwhelms me. I gulp it down, then scrunch up my face, "Ugh…" I grimace. "Was that…blue cheese?"
"You didn’t like it?"
"I hate aged cheese. It tastes like old shoe."
"You’ve tasted old shoe?" I hear the smirk in his voice.
"It smells like old socks. They’re similar in taste, right?"
"Don’t know," he chuckles. "I’ve never tasted it myself. Open," he commands.
I part my lips and he places another cracker in my mouth. "And this?"
Complex textures—buttery, soft, creamy… I crunch down on the cracker and fresh taste envelops my taste buds. I swallow, smack my lips. "Burrata," I exclaim.
"You weren't kidding. You do prefer fresh cheeses, hmm?"
"I never lie when food is concerned," I sniff.
"No, only when it’s real life."
My shoulders droop; my face
