Disclaimer: This story is a Harbinger96 original and is not to shared, posted, downloaded or distributed without my permission or credit given to me. This content is for mature audiences only. All characters are fictional and over the age of 18.
Dua and I had been fucking like rabbits since we decided we wanted to go for it. Since we agreed we wanted to have a child.
And I mean rabbits. Twice a day most days. Dua threw her birth control in the trash the night I tied her down and we didn’t look back.
Nothing had taken hold yet, which brought us to where we were at that moment. Me, sitting on the edge of the bed while Dua was in the bathroom, taking another test.
As I sat there in my just boxer-briefs, my mind couldn’t help but trace the cord back to the wall. To the night I called Dua’s father. The night I proposed. The night we both said, “I do.”
—
I had just gotten back to my studio flat after work. The secret that cost me days of salary was burning a hole in a suit coat pocket.
I hung up my coat carefully on the hook by the front door. “Fuck,” I cursed to myself, running my hands through my short, dark hair. “I can’t believe I bought the ring before talking to her dad. Am I fucking crazy?” I hissed at myself. “What if she hates the ring? What if it’s not good enough for Dua Lipa? She might not want to let the press know. Will we have to hide?”
I’d done some impulsive shit before. But this wasn’t one of those things. This wasn’t spur of the moment. I’d thought about this for a long time, in fact. Making it happen right now was the impulsive part. Not letting those worries and insecurities rule my life was something I needed to start working on right then.
But I did it. I went out and bought a ring. I love her. I’ve loved Dua Lipa for years. It felt crazy knowing how out of my league she was. But it didn’t matter to my heart. It didn’t matter to her. My head was the one screaming “don’t do this.” My heart shouted, “fucking go, man! Go!”
My head was a coward, and I was done listening to it.
With a heart threatening to eject itself like a crash test dummy through a car windshield, I dug my phone out of my pocket and selected Dua’s dad’s contact. If he was with Dua right then, things could be a little awkward.
I couldn’t wait. I had to call. I needed his answer. He picked up on the third ring.
“Fynn? Is everything okay?”
That was a fair question. I wasn’t someone to just make a cold call, let alone to Mr. Lipa. I think Dua’s dad hated phone calls as much as I did.
I cut through the bullshit and went straight to it. My throat felt like it was closing. I was on limited time to be able to speak.
“Sir, I want to marry your daughter. I know I can’t offer much to the mountain she’s already built. But we don’t care about that. I know I just have a little desk job and a flat, and your daughter deserves the world. She’s building the world she deserves, and I want to be there. I don’t want to be there for her world, but because I want her to be my world, even if the one she’s building doesn’t turn out as she wants. If that happens, I’ll be there. No matter what happens, I won’t leave her alone. She will never have to go through anything alone while I’m here.”
“Fynn.” Her dad cut me off. “Dua’s right next to me.”
Oh.
“And you’re on speaker phone. In case you needed help.”
I stayed silent. Like I had just been shot in my chest. I waited for the impact. For laughter. For teasing comments from whoever else might have been around.
“For what it’s worth, my answer is yes. I think you’re a good man, Fynn. Dua has never looked at you, never talked about you with anything short of all-encompassing love. She’s never cared about what’s in your bank account. But what my answer is may not be worth much.”
“What do you mean?” I asked warily, my heart in my throat. “Dua?” I asked. She hadn’t said anything this whole time.
“She left, Fynn. She didn’t say anything; not where she was going. She just got up and bolted.”
My heart stopped. “Oh.” That was all I could manage.
“I’m sure she needs air. I’ll let you know when she comes back.” After an awkward three seconds of neither of us saying anything, Mr. Lipa hung up.
I stood there in my apartment, wondering if I had just royally fucked up everything.
I should have asked if Dua was there. If it was a good time to talk. Instead of checking those obvious things, I jumped.
Dua heard me ask her father for her hand. She heard everything. How many other members of her family had heard, too?
After spending far too long pacing the open floor, I finally flopped down onto my couch, staring at my feet. I couldn’t help but wonder if my anxious mouth had just ruined the best thing I’d ever had.
Then I heard it. The slam of a car door. Nothing. Then footsteps. Fast and sharp. The sound of flats hitting the hardwood floor under thin carpet. The jingle of keys.
“No way,” I muttered to myself. But then I heard the turn of the bolt. My door flung open and Dua Lipa burst into my apartment like a pissed off spirit.
“Yes.”
I blinked, and in that time, she was in front of me.
“Yes.” She said it again and pushed me down onto my own couch. “I didn’t wait to hear what my father said. My answer is yes.” She straddled my hips and sifted her fingers through my hair. “God. Yes.”
I closed my eyes, and my brain felt like it exploded in my skull as the woman I adored, the one I was obsessed with, passionately kissed me.
“Where’s the ring? Do you have it yet?” she asked excitedly, her breath panting across my forehead.
I laughed and tried to move her. “It’s in my jacket pocket. I’ll go get–”
Dua pushed down on my chest and kissed my forehead. “Stay.” The leggy Albanian gracefully rose off me like it was a practiced stage move and sauntered to the coat hooks by the front door.
“This jacket?” She pointed a perfectly manicured nail at the one closest to the door; a navy-blue blazer I knew she liked.
I nodded and watched, frozen to the couch, as the woman I just accidentally proposed to dug through my pockets and pulled out a black satin box.
I expected her to make a cheeky joke. But there was no joke, no teasing smile or gravitas. She stood there, holding the precious little box in her hand. Her sharp brown eyes stared at it like it was a bomb that could go off if she handled it with the wrong force of pressure.
“Oh my God,” she whispered as she walked back towards me. When she raised her head a little, I saw she was crying. No sobs, no sounds, or sniffles. Just silent tears wetting her brown sugar cheeks.
“Dua,” I said as I slowly pushed off the couch and stood up. I took the box from her and fell to my knees in front of her. Not one knee, but both.
I popped open the box, letting her see the silver band, the twin green peridot gems in the center. Her hands went to her mouth, and she didn’t try to stop the excited tears.
“I know it’s not a diamond engagement ring. But you said diamonds are overrated. I took notes when you said you’d prefer a ring with your birthstone.”
Dua bit back a sobful giggle. “I said that to Rina and her ex when we were having coffee months ago.”
“I know,” I said, smiling up at her. “Rina told me.”
A fresh set of giggles left her mouth, and another tear streaked down her cheek.
“Dua, I know I’m in a studio flat. I know that you could have any man alive. But I feel like you’ve chosen me. And I choose you. I choose you so fucking hard. If you want a man with a lot of money, that isn’t me. But if you want someone who will go to bed with you every night and open his whole heart for you to crawl inside, I’m that man.”
“Yes! Fucking yes! Put the ring on my finger already!” Dua laughed through tears and damn near poked my eye out when she jabbed her hand in my face.
My own tears were warm and wet on my face as I pulled out the ring and slid it on her perfect finger. The silver of the band looked so good against her deep tanned skin, and the dazzling green peridots complimented the rich brown of her eyes.
It was a poor man’s ring, but it suited her tones, and our story, more than a gold and diamond ring could.
Dua didn’t let me stand. I never even got to speak the words, ‘will you marry me.’ She was so eager to be on this road that we skipped half the formalities. The idea of any more formalities were hit in the back of the head with a shovel and buried as my girlfri—fiancé, tackled me to the soft carpet.
Her perfect weight was on me, her lips pressing wet, hungry kisses all over my face as I laughed deeply.
“Stop laughing, Fynn!” She scolded me. “I’m trying to be sexy now.” Dua accomplished her mission by capturing my lips again while grabbing my shirt at the chest.
“Dua, please. I like this shirt.” I knew exactly what she was doing.
“I’ll buy you another one.” Yup. With a bit of effort that made it all the sexier, she tore the top buttons from my royal-blue button-up.
She growled in my ear and bit my soft lobe before whispering, “I love when you don’t wear t-shirts under these.” Her fingers ran through the light dusting of dark hair under the opening she’d just made. Rounded, emery board-filed fingernails grazed my nipples as our tongues danced between our mouths.
“Dua, if you don’t get off me, we’ll be fucking on the floor on our engagement night,” I warned her as my cock tried to break through the zipper of my slacks.
“No, silly man,” Dua teased me with a giggle. “It’s the first place you’ll fuck me on our engagement night.”
—–
The ensuite bathroom door opened, and my beautiful wife-queen stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the bright bathroom lights still throwing their eggshell-white glow behind and around her.
She left the lights on as she walked towards the bed, her face unreadable. I’m glad we didn’t play cards against one another because she would clean me out with her poker face.
Dua sat on the bed next to me, the pregnancy test on her leg, face-down. “Bebe,” she said softly. “Do you remember our wedding day?”
I wrapped my arm around Dua’s strong shoulders and pulled her into my side. “Of course I do, sweetheart. How could you even ask that?”
Dua chuckled and shook her head softly. The slender column of her neck was wonderfully exposed since she had her raven-black hair in a loose sleep braid. It would choke me out in our sleep otherwise. “I was just thinking about our wedding while I was waiting to see if we’d have a little peanut tonight, or if you’d have to throw me on the bed and fuck me again.”
This damned woman. She was so good at bringing me from squishy-soft to bricking me so hard I could almost hear it. “Can I throw you down and fuck you if it’s positive anyway?”
Dua giggled and turned to kiss my forehead. “Of course.” After a quick peck, she giggled again. “I just can’t stop thinking about our ‘wedding bee.’”
It was my turn to laugh. “I swear that bee was a paid actor.”
Ibiza was never a place I would have expected to get married, let alone go to, before I met Dua Lipa. It was a paradise, and after seeing it, I couldn’t imagine Dua having a wedding anywhere else.
It felt odd, helping to plan a wedding that my financial contributions would barely put a dent in the bill for.
Dua had gone practically blue in the face telling me that it was okay. She didn’t care that most of it was coming from her account, from her family. That wasn’t what mattered to her.
“What matters, darling, is that you’re who I’m marrying, and that this is our wedding. It’s the wedding we want, the one we’re planning,” she had told me on her bed one night before I had moved in with her.
She had been ecstatic with how hands-on I had been in the planning. What made her show me her dazzling smile wasn’t that I was paying for anything, but that she never had to make a decision alone. She was smiling because I wasn’t abandoning her until our wedding day for her to be a bridezilla.
We had decided right out of the gate that it was our wedding. We were paying for all of it so nobody could try to hold aspects of our wedding hostage. Nobody could tell us, “You’re going to do it this way because I’m paying for it.”
We didn’t even go with a wedding planner. We did it all; made the menu, booked the location, built the playlist together, selected our decoration theme, and drew up cake ideas. Every little decision, we drew up together.
The morning of the actual wedding was gorgeous and partly sunny. A perfect Spanish October day, except for some unwanted high winds. The winds made it a bit of a pain in the ass for me and the lads to do last-minute setup.
We had all met on location the night before to do decorations, and of course the forecast had predicted a fifty percent chance of rain. The beach house Dua and I rented was large enough that we could have the reception inside if the weather was horrendous, but we also had a nice pavilion even if it was casual rain.
Luckily, the rain fucked off, and we were blessed with a dry, albeit windy, beautiful day. It was a bit overcast, making us a little weary that it could turn sour quick, but the sun beams coming through the thin clouds over the sea made it look like some kind of religious movie.
Dua hadn’t arrived just yet, which was fine because we still had outdoor setups to do, and I wasn’t allowed to see her before the ceremony. I didn’t want to leave the lads fucked out here while I hid myself from the bride-to-be.
Her standing maids were in the pavilion, working with the caterers, already in their dresses. They all looked divine, and I noticed a few of them looking at my lads as well. I shook my head at the idea that Dua and I might not be the only ones in the wedding party going to bed together.
I didn’t need anyone to tell me when Dua had arrived because I heard the engine of her signature Porsche as she got closer. She had an early appointment to get her hair and makeup done, and she had to be in her dress already for the appointment.
I knew I was marrying a big deal when Dua huffed last night, saying the stylist and artists had to sign NDAs to ensure they didn’t leak photos.
“Get in the house, mate! Go!” My best man was shouting, my other standing men chasing me, herding me to the house like I was a gull trying to steal food at a picnic.
I ran up the back deck stairs to the second floor of the beach house. I could hear her voice, the sounds of her girls and my mates telling her how stunning she was.
My heart crawled into my throat and laid there. My best friends and hers were telling the woman who was about to be my wife that she was the most gorgeous woman alive. I couldn’t see her, but I knew she was.
I could barely speak as my mate, who was also our officiant, asked if I was ready. It felt like a silly question. Was I ready to swear my life to the most impossibly perfect being I had ever known? Was I ready to have her swear her life back to me?
I nodded, and he helped me walk down the stairs. Fainting wasn’t a fear, not really, but having jelly legs was. I wasn’t ashamed to admit that I was light-headed at the idea that I was currently walking towards the white wedding arch on the beach where I would marry Dua Lipa.
My mates and I lined up for the procession, and I could barely think. It felt like I wasn’t awake. Like my brain was sitting in my skull, but it no longer had control of my body. I was on autopilot as our small gathering of guests twisted in their seats or turned around fully to watch us gather.
I watched in what felt like slowed time as the groomsmen and maids of honor paired up and went down the aisle. My legs had never felt stiffer, heavier, full of sand than they did then. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t doubt. It was the sheer weight of this moment, and how much my life was about to change.
One foot after the other, I moved forward and saw blurry faces in my periphery. I didn’t make eye contact with anyone. If I didn’t look straight ahead, I feared I’d trip over my feet and ruin my tuxedo.
By the steady, guiding hand of somebody’s God, I made it to the altar, and I turned around. I was faced with the family I allowed to be here from my side, and the smiling, teary faces of Dua’s family.
After five breaths, the music stopped, changed, and then Pachelbel’s Canon started. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes before I even saw her. Because I knew she was coming. My wife.
She came from around a dune, her dad holding her hand. And because this was Dua, of course it wasn’t your basic white dress. No, this one was obsidian-black satin and lace, sleeveless with a long, flowing train leaving lightly disturbed sand in her glorious wake.
“Oh, my fucking God,” I muttered under my breath as I wiped my eyes. I could close my eyes and watch this moment any time I wanted for as long as I lived, because it was everything.
As Dua and her dad got closer, family and few selected friends snapped photos.
One of Dua’s industry friends she had done shoots with before was our photographer. We somehow knew everyone involved with the location, except for who we rented the sight from. We just knew she was a huge fan of Dua’s. We even invited her.
Halfway up the procession, I could see happy tears in her dad’s eyes. There wasn’t worry, no sign of regrets for giving me his blessing. He knew he was giving his daughter away to a pauper, but he knew he was giving her away to a man that would make sure she was the most cherished person in this world.
Dua didn’t need my money. She had her own. She wanted my heart, and she had every fiber, cell, and atom. Every beat it took was for her.
Then, Dua was standing before me, and her dad was going towards his seat.
“Hi,” Dua said through a watery giggle.
“Hi there,” I said back with my own teary smile. Her face was mostly obscured by the black veil, but I could tell she was crying, too. We hadn’t even made it to our vows.
We had planned for a short official ceremony, and planned for the party, the celebration, to last until people went home. Dua’s parents were Muslim, but she wasn’t religious herself. We were relieved when her parents promised not to freak out about it being a secular service.
Our friend and officiant welcomed our friends and family. He informed them why we were gathered. They all knew, but it was formal. My heart pounded so loudly I swore Dua could hear it when we were told to exchange vows.
The vows were handwritten and memorized. Dua was a lyricist, so hers were pretty, true, and well-memorized. And I was well, me; a secret poet, a softie when it came to Dua, and an ADHD soul.
Dua’s vows were first and made me smile. The last two were as funny and personal as they were sweet. Only people that knew us and our fairy-tale story would get them. Rina laughed too loudly at the last vow; Dua promising to protect me down to her last stuffed animal.
Then it was my turn.
“Dua Lipa. I vow to become a better person. Every day I will strive to be a better man, a healthier man, what a man should be for his wife, while staying the man you fell in love with. I vow to protect you. Not just your physical body, but the heart and soul inside of it; from myself, from anyone that would hurt you in any conceivable way. When I can’t chase off the clouds, I’ll hold you when the rain runs down the windows.”
I could hear Dua sniffling under her veil, and the soft “aw” from the seats.
“And finally, I vow to never take you for granted. Every day, I fall in love with you more, and I will never forget how special you are, how much better you make every breath I take. Every day I open my eyes, every night I close them, I will be so lucky to be married to you.”
Dua Lipa was a bad bitch, but we had spent the last years making each other ‘squishy’ as she called it. We were hopeless saps for each other, which meant Dua was close to balling, and my own voice barely got the last words out.
My best mate presented the rings as asked, and Dua and I were still wet-eyed.
And then it came in, fat and buzzing. The biggest honeybee any of us had ever seen floated in on the sea wind from a nearby flower and landed on the red velvet box.
Dua and I laughed, and a few of the guests that could see it did too. It took back to the air and kept flying around my face while we tried to say the “And with this ring” bit. The damned bee kept hovering, staying close to my well-trimmed stubble. It must have wanted the flower in my boutonniere.
When it made another pass in front of my face, I tried to blow it away. Unfortunately, the bumbling bee and my poor aim meant the fellow bumped into Dua’s veil, and the nit finally gave up, flying off towards a patch of marram grass.
“On my own wedding day! My husband assaults me with a bee!” Dua said haughtily before we all fell into laughter.
With rings successfully exchanged after the bee fiasco, it took me a good thirty seconds to stop staring at the ring I had slid onto Dua’s slender finger. A yellow gold ring with a black tear-drop diamond. It wasn’t a large stone, but it was the ring Dua had told the jeweler and I she wanted since she was a girl.
Dua didn’t believe in the “white purity wedding dress.” She didn’t care about socially expected white diamonds. She wanted a black dress. She wanted a black diamond. She was my dark angel with the purest heart, and I would swaddle her in blankets of pure midnight if that was what made her happy.
And in a dark, existential way, Dua’s choice for black on this day made sense. Black was known as the color of death. We were making a commitment that would last our whole lives. Until death do us part.
It was time to lift her veil. I had just been told to kiss the bride. I had kissed Dua before. A hundred times. A thousand? But as I lifted her veil, saw her dark, shining eyes and the tear streaks on her cheeks, I knew no kiss would feel like the one we were about to have.
“Hi bebe,” Dua said with a tearful giggle. “You look so good in a tux.”
I cupped her face in my hand, brushing away a drop of salty water with my thumb. “You are so beautiful, Dua.” I knew I was supposed to kiss her immediately, and the guests were waiting. But this was our wedding. If I wanted to take a moment to savor this moment, my bride, I would.
“Fynn, I love the way you look at me. I always will. But please kiss me already. I want to be your wife, damn it.”
Somehow, that request, that demand that was all Dua, was the permission I needed. Not the factory setting ‘I do.’ I leaned forward, her face in my hands, and I pressed my lips to hers.
It wasn’t a peck; it wasn’t a basic kiss. It was a promise, a sealing, and a vow that I would be happy every day she was my wife. The cheers, the clapping from our friends and family didn’t matter. The way Dua kissed me back mattered. The way she wrapped her arms around my neck and pressed her whole body into me mattered.
My wife kissed me like she was afraid to stop. Like the moment our lips separated would wake us from the dream.
—–
I laid down on our bed and pulled Dua into me. She laid her head on my chest; the test clutched in her hand against her breast.
“I love you so much,” she whispered, taking my arm and laying it over her shoulder like a blanket. “I loved our cute little wedding. No paparazzi, no ‘star-studded guest list’ because it was expected. Having just the people we wanted, and no one else made that night special.”
“Yeah,” I agreed softly before pressing my lips to her hair. “It was our wedding. Not for anyone else’s pictures or for magazines. Not announcing the date or location to the entire world was a good move. It kept it our wedding. The way we wanted it. I don’t know if that went against the nature of Dua Lipa the brand… but as Fynn, your husband, keeping it small meant the world to me.”
Dua turned her head up and kissed me, long but not deepening it. A kiss that said I have you. “It’s the way I wanted it, too. The world already gets so much of me. Our wedding was for us. Not them. I’m glad we kept them out and only let them have crumbs.”
A soft, knowing smile passed over her face. “Our wedding night, after everyone left. I loved that evening. The way we had our first dance again, but just us, looking out at the beach.”
I held Dua tighter in my arms. “You were so fucking beautiful that night.” I paused and sucked in a breath. “I mean, you’re always beautiful. It’s just-”
“I know what you mean, bebe. Don’t hurt yourself.” She giggled, patting my chest with the hand not hiding the fate of our family.
—–
“Bye! Thank you so much for coming!” Dua waved, a beaming but tired smile on her face as the last car left the driveway.
I draped my arm over my new wife’s shoulders, keeping my tuxedo jacket in place as it covered her back to keep her warm from the cooler sea breeze.
Just like that, Dua and I were left alone for the rest of our wedding night.
“What a day,” Dua groaned, leaning into my side. “Not a bad one, of course,” she rushed to say as if I’d take it the wrong way. In her defense, I was tragically good at that. Something I was constantly working on.
“Did my sweetheart have a good wedding day?” I asked, taking her hand and leading her towards our rented beach house. The warm, yellow light pulled us towards it.
If Dua knew I was thinking, ‘like mothmen towards a lighthouse’ she would have punched my shoulder.
I opened the door and ushered my wife in. It would feel weird to say that for a while.
We had been together for a few years and only engaged for eleven months before the wedding. I had barely gotten used to calling her my fiancé. Now she was my wife. A title I hoped she’d be keeping.
The door closed behind us, and I engaged the security code on the lock. I slowly turned around to see Dua, still in that stunning black dress of hers. Of course, Dua Lipa was smart enough to somehow get a dress maker to have a detachable train so she could dance better. This was a living, breathing pop goddess I was looking at.
“Hey babe?”
“Yeah?” Dua asked, coming closer, her voice low, like she was ready to forever hold on to what I was about to tell her.
“We’re married. You’re my wife.”
Her face broke into a big grin, almost cheesy. “Yeah!” she said excitedly. “And you’re my husband.” Her arms were around me, her lips on mine. “Bebe?”
“Hm?” I asked softly, almost snoozily. I was in no rush to break the hug.
“Can we have our first dance again? Just us?” Dua’s breath was warm on my lips, smelling faintly of champagne and strawberries.
“Of course we can,” I granted effortlessly, kissing her lips as I dug into my pants pocket for my phone. I connected to a Bluetooth speaker and pulled up our song, “I’m With You” by Vance Joy.
I placed my hands on Dua’s lower back and rested my cheek on her head. She smelled like vanilla, cinnamon, and sweat from dancing harder than anyone else that night. She smelled perfect to me.
After the last notes of the song faded, we stayed locked like that as the next song auto played. She moved her face from the crook of my neck and looked at me. Her soft brown eyes were just as full of tears as mine were. “I love you. So much,” she whispered, and our lips met.
My tuxedo jacket slipped from her shoulders, and neither of us cared to catch it. My bowtie followed the jacket, ending up on the floor.
Our kiss deepened as Dua made quick work of the little black buttons on my crisp, white shirt.
“These stupid little buttons,” she giggled when we came up for air. “It’s such a nice shirt. I want to just tear it off, but I won’t,” she said, the laughable conflict palpable in her voice.
She had them done soon enough, and then it was on the floor, too. I undid the little loop closures on the back of Dua’s wedding dress as we danced to the next slow song.
Gravity did the work for me; the dress slowly sliding from Dua’s tight, toned body as we danced. Bit by bit, her delicious, light-bronzed skin came more into view.
By the end of the second song, her dress was at her hips, our tongues were dancing like we were, and her bare breasts were squashed against my chest.
“Fynn, I need you. I know we’re both tired, but please.” She was pleading when she didn’t have to.
I helped Dua’s dress meet the floor and then scooped her up in my arms. She kicked her feet like she was sitting on the edge of a dock until she was completely free of the black satin and intricate lace.
The music kept playing as I walked us towards the bedroom, her arms around my neck and her tongue tracing my collarbone.
The bedroom was dark, just a little plug-in nightlight, and the white glow of the moon through a window helping me get my wife safely on the bed. The way the shadows and the low light played across Dua’s perfect body made my mouth water.
“You’re looking at me like you want to devour me,” Dua noted, her voice a deep, heady purr.
“That’s because it’s exactly what I want to do,” I told her, picking up her leg at the ankle. I kissed each toe, the sole of her foot. She looked at me from hooded eyes, a pleased smile on her face.
This was our wedding day, and she knew I was going to worship her.
My lips traveled up her shins, to her knees. When I reached her toned thighs from years of dancing, I began to lick and graze with my teeth, making her inhale and shudder.
I reached the black silk of her panties, and I inhaled my wife’s scent through the already wet material. “I love my wife’s smell,” I murmured as I nuzzled her pussy through the thin layer.
She expected me to pull them off, to peel them to the side, maybe. But I wanted to drive her nuts, to watch her squirm at different sensations. So, I stuck my tongue out and pressed the fabric to her wet pussy and dragged it up. I could feel her intimate lines against the tight material, and her surprised but pleased moan filled my ears.
“Fuck, Fynn!”
On my second pass, she balled the bedsheets in her hands and held on as I swirled the tip of my tongue over her thinly protected clit. The hiss of desire that slipped between her veneers was the best musical chord I had heard all night.
“Fynn, I’m already soaked. You can just slide right in,” she breathed, her back arching.
“I understand that.” I chuckled. “But the arch of your back, the way it’s pushing you into my face. Your pussy wants this first.”
“Oh my God!” Dua moaned when I finally pulled her panty gusset to the side and spat on her glistening pussy lips.
The tip of my tongue went right to the clear saliva and moved it around, mixing with the heady, mild tang of her cunt. I couldn’t have cared less that we hadn’t showered yet, that I was stabbing my tongue at the lips of her musky, sweaty pussy.
She smelled like my wife. Tasted like my wife, and it made me fucking feral.
“Fynn! Shit! Holy Shit!” Dua fully rode my face. Her hand was pulling my short, dark hair as she ground her delicious, perfectly natural pussy into my face.
Her scent was bombarding my nose, and my chin was slick with her. It made me push my tongue further into her.
I didn’t stop until she had cum.
Then I slipped two fingers inside of her.
“Oh! Oh God!” Dua groaned and shot up the bed. Her free hand grabbed the iron bar rail of the headboard as I curled my fingers inside of her.
She was so fucking wet, we could hear every motion of my fingers in her. Dua screamed, and I was sure she saw stars when the broad, rough pad of my thumb brushed over her swollen clit.
As I switched speeds and depths of my fingers inside of her, I moved between clockwise and counterclockwise circles around her clit. Every fourth or fifth circle, I’d brush her clit before going back to my circles.
After her second, maybe third orgasm, her hand left my hand and grabbed my wrist. “Amber! Amber!” She gasped our safeword.
“Are you okay?” I asked worriedly, slowly sliding my fingers out of her, making her gasp. “Did I hurt you? Go too deep? Did I touch your clit too many times?” I was prepared to go through every scenario I could think of to make sure she was okay.
“Shh. Shh.” She shushed me as she pulled me up and then onto her. “Nothing like that. You’re so good at that. Too good. I was getting oversensitive.” She took a deep breath and kissed me, tasting herself on my lips. “I needed to make sure I could handle it when you fuck me.” Her hands slid between us to palm my crotch. “We need to get these off. Now,” she demanded.
I kissed her forehead and her nose. Little soft, fluttering pecks that made her giggle. It was a cute little way I gave her a few seconds to reset, to decide what she needed as I shucked my black slacks and briefs off.
“I want to ride you,” she whispered into my ear, her hands raking across my upper back.
“Okay,” I agreed easily as I got back on my knees. I watched her eyes, then her chest rise and fall as she regained her breath.
Ever so carefully, I touched the outside of her pussy again, gathering her slick to rub it on my cock. Dua-brand lube was my favorite.
“I’m watching my husband jack himself off with my own wetness. Jesus Christ,” she breathed as she sat up. Her hands found my shoulders as she maneuvered me–and I went easily—to the mattress.
She rose higher on one knee and easily moved the other over my hips to straddle me. I felt like I was watching a queen mount her royal steed. Maybe a weird thought to have in this moment, but she looked so fucking regal. I should have known, but I didn’t know just how powerful a woman could look as she prepped herself to take a cock.
I wouldn’t consider myself anywhere near being a submissive, but I laid there in awe under my freshly minted wifey as she held the base of my dick in one hand, her other hand bracing behind her on my thigh.
Dua nestled the tip of my cock between her wet lips while her chest stood out proudly. She looked like a champion rodeo queen about to ride a bull. I wanted to fuck her like one, but she had already used our safeword because she had gotten too close to being over stimmed.
My beautiful, sensual wife closed her dark eyes and focused on her breathing as she slowly sank down. I could feel her tight, hot, and slick walls conforming to my length as she went.
“God,” she moaned. “You feel a mile long when I’ve already cum five times,” Dua said with a tired giggle.
“Five,” she confirmed with a nod of her head as she started to push herself back up. “You underestimate yourself,” she giggled, but then gasped as she moved back down again. “I hope you don’t take too long to cum. I don’t think I can last long,” Dua warned.
“It’s okay. Set your own pace. Just use my cock, okay?”
Dua bit her lip and nodded. She looked down at me and cupped my jaw with her hand she wasn’t using to stabilize herself. “I love you. So much. I meant every word I said under that arch today.”
“I did, too.” It was hard to think, to be my sappy self when my wife was riding my cock with a black diamond ring freshly on her finger. “We can talk in aftercare, but brain is mush right now.”
My words were getting tight, lost in my throat as I felt my own orgasm churning up. “I’m close. Real close,” I warned as I massaged Dua’s perfect, brown-sugar ass in my hands.
She was biting her lip, groaning with every roll of her hips. Her bottom lip was snuggly between her teeth, and those beautiful eyes closed. Dua’s breaths were sharp yet ragged, and I knew she was right at the crest of the mountain.
My own back arched, and a strangled, guttural groan of her name tore out of my throat as my balls started to shoot into her.
Dua’s eyes burst open, and she fought to suck in air properly as her sixth orgasm punched into her. “Fuck! Fuck!” She sounded distressed as she clambered off my still-shooting cock to crumple on the bed next to me.
Her forehead was beaded with sweat, and her chest rose and fell deliciously as her hand pumped my cock, making sure I drained properly despite her cunt not being able to handle more.
“Jesus,” I groaned as I watched my cum spurt onto my lower belly and trickle down her hand.
Dua’s deep brown eyes were open again. Mine were closed, but I could feel her watching me. Tired, but still somehow intense, burning. “My husband,” she whispered and nuzzled her face into my sweaty neck.
—–
I held my wife tight in my arms, feeling every curve of her body fit perfectly against mine. “I haven’t regretted a single moment I’ve spent with you,” I whispered into her long, midnight-black hair.
“I haven’t either. I want to experience everything together. I want to spend my whole life with you. That hasn’t changed since your botched proposal.” She giggled.
“It wasn’t… maybe if you hadn’t…. Okay. I’ve got nothing. But yes, to all of that. I don’t want to have other firsts with anyone else. I want all of my firsts that I have left to be with you.”
“Good,” she crooned, twisting to look at me. “Because we’re going to have our first child.” She showed me the test; two pink lines looked back at me.