ओह! यह छवि हमारे सामग्री दिशानिर्देशों का पालन नहीं करती है। प्रकाशन जारी रखने के लिए, कृपया इसे हटा दें या कोई भिन्न छवि अपलोड करें।
: : :
You just shut the dresser drawer. The cloud-like silk of your new panties pressed tight against your shower fresh skin. You were still a bit red from the hot water and the lotion buzzed the scent of vanilla. Ashton really didn't have to buy you all this the other day but-
"I need to treat my baby girl like the princess she is." Ashton had told you after the pink tissue paper hit the duvet and you tried to protest. His palms found your jawline, fingers keeping your lips from saying more. "My lips", as Ashton referred to them.
The high rise penthouse was quiet, as you were the only one home. It was Sunday night, close to 7:00, and pouring rain. Ashton was going to be home soon, driving back from the airport, a 2 week long business trip in Singapore.
And you hated that because those people in suits took your boyfriend's time. Took him away from you. They took his dirty blonde curls and saw them combed back and tamed. His body covered and wearing the Armani suit like it was made with his broad shoulders in mind. His strong hands that gave controlled and planned gestures to skillfully explain just how to get the deal done. Done perfectly, and in his way. And oh, his eyes, his burning hazel eyes that pierced them with the promise that they needed him. Said, straightforward and with no possible pretense: Success.
You missed him, so much it made your skin feel tight and itch with the necessity to be grabbed. Clutched and pulled. Those hands pinning those Saint Laurent cuff links that should be gripping your waist. Fitting like the pinks curved into sticky orange of the sunset hanging over Manhattan. The cold buckle of his belt that had to be rubbing into your spine as you bent over. Needed it. All of it. All of him.
It was torrential rain and....and Ashton was driving. You needed him home and safe and you hated this worry. He was gone for 2 weeks and he was their's but he is yours. You picked up your phone and dialed before falling onto the sheets. Sheets that smelled like Tom Ford and Dior, like his skin and that meant home. If you could crawl into his chest and never leave that could work.
It barely rang twice before he answered.
"Love," was his simple answer. His deep, calm voice sparked at the source to light up and travel across the cities as live wire, electrifying every nerve you had. And you felt him everywhere, toes and fingertips and chest and eyes, knees and hips and fuck, underneath the silk.
"Ash," you breathed into the phone, mouth wide open. No shame.
"My love," Ashton sighed. And you knew his knuckles were under his chin, driving one handed as he listened to your voice through the speakers of his Bentley. The charcoal one. The same one he fucked you with his fingers in on the night he told you he loved you. Just this phone call was getting you winded, thinking, thinking, thinking.
